To be honest, I didn’t give a shit what time of day it was.
I was just happy to be here.
Staring down at her sleeping face, I wondered what it was about her that annihilated me.
She was pretty, sure. But there was something in her features that brought me to my knees.
Literally.
She was too slender, and I wanted her to eat some more shitty food before we left just to change that, and her form was ultra-slim. She was made to race. It was in her bones, in her limbs. Looking at her was like viewing the human version of a high performance machine.
She was a Porsche in comparison to every other woman’s Ford Focus.
She was a walking wet dream, one that had plagued me for half a decade, and one I hoped would plague me for decades more.
Her nose crinkled, and in her ears, the little rings she wore with the faint frill around the edges, the slightest Creole design, flopped to the side as she scrubbed a hand over her face.
When her forearm tensed and she pushed it into her eyes, she muttered, “How come I’m sleeping in the wet patch? It’s crusty. Gross.”
My lips curved because I’d half expected her to leap out of bed in horror—it wouldn’t be the first time she’d woken up like that. Disgust at her breach in self-control, flustered at what we’d done—like it was illegal. So, because I was relieved, I teased, “Woman’s prerogative.”
“No fair.”
“I’ll sleep in it next time. How about that?”
She mumbled, “Only right.”
“Equal rights,” I concurred with a smile, even as I dipped down and pressed a kiss to her temple.
She sighed, then twisted around and pushed herself into my body. Within seconds, she was wrapped up tightly in my arms, one leg over mine, and I wasn’t surprised when her hand grabbed my morning wood and she maneuvered it so that we were joined again.
I always wanted her.
Always.
That would never die.
But at the moment, I’d been happy just to lay with her.
That she wanted to connect made me angry even as my dick was singing with joy.
I knew why.
She was trying to eke out as much as she could from this vacation. Take as much of me as she could, absorb it all in preparation for the next drought.
But I was tired of feast or famine with her.
So I stilled her hips when she started to move, knowing full well that she couldn’t be ready to make love.
“There’s no rush,” I muttered against her cheek when I dotted a kiss there.
“I want you,” she said breathily, making my dick twitch because she was talking its language.
But I was more than just my dick.
Said appendage had had its fill of pussy that it didn’t particularly want, and was using only to slough off the need and desire that came when you were denied the one woman you—and your cock—truly wanted.
So, I hauled her higher up against me, and rolled us over so I was on top of her. When her toes dug into my calves, I almost purred. Fuck, that felt good.
I sighed as I pushed my forehead into hers and grumbled, “You trying to kill me?”
She tensed, and I cursed my stupid fucking brain for asking something so moronic when I had to figure that was a major concern of hers.
Fuck, how that was a concern at all was ridiculous. If I could have told her mother what I thought of her, I fucking would have.
Rather than apologize, I kissed her. Long and slow. But hard and wet. I had her begging for breath, begging for more.
Begging for me.
She rippled underneath me like she was water itself, flowing around me until I was absorbed by her. Her arms came to gather around my back, and she held me close, her legs gripping me tightly even as she burrowed into me, going as far as she could in her position.
I didn’t fuck her.
I loved her.
I gave her everything I had to give and more, all in the vain hope that she’d realize how right this was.
How pure and perfect.
I shuddered as she tightened around me, her orgasm spiking from out of nowhere, as it made me wonder if, for once, she’d read my mind. If she’d felt how wondrous this was for me, and it had triggered her climax.
I groaned into her mouth, still kissing her, refusing to let go, refusing to breathe air that wasn’t from her lungs.