“But I want to watch you come.”
He listened to her quiet moan and ground his hard groin against her ass.
“Okay,” she yielded softly.
In the catalogue of things he wanted to do to Elle, Prentice ticked off the selection of making (and watching) her come in the kitchen.
When he’d done this and her breathing had slowed, he cupped her sex but took his hand from her breast and put it to her jaw, twisting her beautiful face to his.
Then he kissed her.
Then he carried her to bed.
Then he took off her clothes and smoothed one of her short, sexy, silky nightgowns over her body (another item in his catalogue).
Then he disrobed and took her to bed.
Feeling the satin against his chest, her ass tucked tight in his lap, their legs cocked together and their fingers linked, he realized belatedly that tonight at the pub, Elle had been Elle.
His Elle.
All night.
And the heavy warmth that always hit his gut when he was reminded of his Elle hadn’t hit him.
It had already been there, all night.
And all day too.
His fingers tensed in hers.
“Pren?” she mumbled sleepily.
“Aye?”
“What about you?”
He liked it that she asked. And he liked it that, even sleepy and intoxicated, she asked it in a way that sounded like she cared.
“You can take care of me tomorrow.”
She snuggled her ass deeper into his lap and he reconsidered that decision.
“Okay,” she whispered.
Then almost immediately he felt her body shift into sleep.
He pulled her close, listened to her steady breathing and decided to stick with his decision.
* * * * *
Prentice woke when the bed bounced.
He knew what that bounce meant.
Elle woke as well.
She likely had no idea.