Page 88 of Pride and Privilege

“Yes.”

Eyes on hers, he pushed inside her, the whole of his thick length pushing deep. He looked down, watched himself disappear inside her, pulled her to him until he was seated fully, his chest rising and falling, teeth gritted as though he, too, was reeling, only keeping hold of his mind by the thinnest thread because…fuck, this felt good, and he was so big, she was so full, sensation after sensation rippling through her and he hadn’t even moved.

“Poppy… Fuck… You feel so fucking good.”

He lifted her hips, rocked her back and forth, using her to fuck him, and she was limp, helpless in his grip, had given herself over completely to whatever he wanted to do with her. She didn’t care, so long as he kept doing it, kept filling her, kept those waves of beating pleasure building.

Slowly, he rocked her, moved her up and down his length, until he didn’t have the control even for that, or maybe theyboth just needed more at exactly the same moment, because he settled her back on the bed, came to lie over her, and for a second he was gone. But then he was filling her again, kissing her once, twice, before driving into her just the way she wanted. Roscoe fucking her hard and dirty, holding nothing back, as desperate and greedy as she was, his breath hoarse against her cheek.

He held her to him, a hand slipping under her backside, lifting her so her clit could grind against him, his fingers tightly gripping her soft flesh, fingers reaching to where she was slick with her own arousal, to that secret sensitive spot just beyond where he filled her. A cluster burst of new sensation, more pleasure than she could keep track of, her mind spilling open, dissolving, black velvet behind her eyes. The feel of him again, again, a building rhythm, the crests of a hundred waves. Nothing but him moving over her, inside her. Harder, so she was crying out with every thrust, until light was fracturing, until it hit and she was tumbling down, Roscoe still with her, her name against her throat, Roscoe still with her. Always with her.

He kissed her gasping breaths. Stayed buried inside her.

He said, “I love you.”

FORTY-ONE

Perhaps Roscoe hadn’t meantto say it, but he didn’t regret it. Not now that he had realised it was true. And definitely not when Poppy looked at him the way she did, eyes shining all the way down to her soul.

She didn’t speak, but they moved apart, functioning on autopilot—or he was, anyway, his mind still gone, drunk on bliss and wonder. They used the bathroom in turn, moving around the room, around each other as though the moment was a brimming cup neither wanted to spill. She put on his t-shirt when she went to the bathroom, but he drew it slowly over her head and pulled her to him on the bed. They lay skin to skin, her head pillowed on the muscle of his arm, her breasts against his chest, her thigh over his. He ran his palm along it, back and forth, unable to stop touching her even now. He had been right to warn her he would be greedy. He would never get enough.

“You do?” she asked, as though there had been no pause at all.

The arm she lay on was curved around her shoulders. He tightened it, pulled her closer still, and kissed the top of her head. “Yes.”

“But…but how do you know?”

He smiled at that, because she sounded genuinely curious. “Aunt Mabel told me, so it must be true.”

She laughed, her breath warm on his skin. “She did?”

“Apparently it was obvious.”

“Was it?”

He frowned. “It should have been, but I haven’t… I haven’t been here before. Have you?”

She shook her head, hair tickling his arm.

“It was obvious,” he said. “If I hadn’t been so stupid. Itwillbe obvious. Every day.”

She said nothing for a moment, but he could tell she was thinking hard. Maybe he should have been panicking that she hadn’t said it back. But in that moment, he felt too happy for worry. And part of him seemed to believe she felt it, too. They were too similar, too in tune, for him to have arrived here without her being at least fairly close behind him.

“But how do you really know?” she said cautiously. “What does it feel like?”

He smiled again at that, because it was precisely how his brain would have approached the situation. Wanting evidence. Analysis. Trying to find some identifiable trend.

“It feels like…like I’ve never been as close to another person as I am to you. Like…like I could fall inside you and fall through every layer of you and like every single one of them and go on liking you more and more forever. It feels like the sun comes out when you walk into the room. And it feels like life without you in it would be unbearable. And… Well. I also now say and think things like, ‘The sun comes out when you walk into a room…’”

She breathed a laugh. “That’s fairly damning, yeah.”

“Isn’t it just?”

“Is that…? Is that really how you feel?”

He kissed her hair again, then moved so he could see her eyes. “Yes.” He touched her cheek. “I’m sorry if this is too much too soon.”

Her smile was a little crooked, half sweet, half mischief. “We already live together. I think we skipped a few steps.”

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