“Thank you.” It was meant to come out condescendingly but it came out breathily.
“When I’m ready to give them back,” he finished, she opened her mouth to protest, which was a fool thing to do as his head had slanted and it was coming closer.
“Pren –” she got out before he kissed her.
This time it was hard, thorough, deep and long with the addition of being wet, hot and tasting deliciously of custard and sponge.
As she always did, always, always, always, she melted into him. Her hands glided into his soft hair and she held his head to hers as her body ignited.
He stopped kissing her but didn’t take his lips from hers.
“Let’s go to bed,” he whispered.
Lost and no longer thinking about her suitcases, her passport, getting away, saving him and his children from the misfortune that seemed to plague her or the fact that he had an enormous piece of sponge for dinner, she pressed into him and nodded.
* * * * *
Prentice
Elle spooned in front of him, the fingers of one of Prentice’s hands between her legs, the others curled around her breast, her sweet ass nestled in his groin, his c**k still imbedded inside her, her sex rippling against it in the aftermath of her orgasm, Prentice buried his face in her fragrant hair and tried to even his breathing as he listened to Elle doing the same.
Christ, she was magnificent when he f**ked her.
Testing this theory, he pressed his still-swollen c**k deeper, his thumb and forefinger rolling her taut nipple, his other fingers putting pressure between her legs; she emitted a sexy, lusty sigh and nuzzled her ass into his lap.
Welcoming his attention.
Inviting it.
Getting off on it.
Yes, he was correct.
Magnificent.
He could enthusiastically say that night and the one before, Prentice had sampled a variety of items in the catalogue of things he wanted to do to Elle and he was not disappointed.
When he wasn’t close to her, touching her, kissing her, f**king her and she wasn’t around his children, she was hesitant and unsure, aloof and cool or unapproachable and distant.
When she was with his children and when he was close to her, touching her, kissing her, f**king her, she was not hesitant, not remote, not unapproachable.
She was completely his.
His Elle.
The one he’d fallen in love with twenty years ago.
He just had to work on the rest of the time.
During those times, when she was with his kids or he was close, he had her back. Not exactly the same, not with her rabid energy and joy of life but instinctively he knew that would happen.
Or, more to the point, he intended to make it happen.
And to do it, he had to keep her off-balance or stay close or be touching her, kissing her or f**king her.
He looked forward to this challenge.
And Prentice Cameron hadn’t looked forward to anything for a very long time.