Page 93 of The Love Destroyers

“And I’m going to help,” she insists.

“You’re going to sit here with me all night?” I ask, wrapping a hand around her hip. “It might get boring.”

“I think I’ll figure out something to do,” she says, moving her hips just the slightest bit—obviously in a bid to drive me crazy.

“You think you’re going to get out of touching yourself if you dry hump me?” I ask, tightening my grip on her slightly.

“No.” She meets my eyes and holds them. “I’m going to do that, too. I’ve been thinking about it all day.”

A groan escapes me, and this time it has nothing to do with physical discomfort. “God, Em. You drive me absolutely fucking crazy. You’ve driven me crazy since the first night we met.”

She rubs against me again, making my dick stand all the way to attention. “I can feel that, Seamus.” Then she lifts her hand to my face, her fingers rubbing softly along my cheekbone. They’re kissing my skin as she watches me, her mossy eyes hitched to mine in a way that feels tangible. I’m waiting for her to pass her prognosis—to let me know if I’m going to die right here, or if I’m going to be able to fuck her. “You know, Leap Year only comes once every four years.”

“I don’t care about Leap Year right now, Emma. There’s only one thing I want, and it’s separated from me by too many layers of clothing.” I slip my hand under her sweater, hissing at the feeling of her soft flesh under my touch as she writhes over me again.

Her eyes glimmer with the knowledge of what she’s doing to me. “Maybe we only get to touch each other on Leap Days.”

That’s news that might disappoint me in the future, because I have a feeling I’m not going to want to wait every four years to feel her come apart around me. Part of me is also panicking, thinking this is something I absolutely should not do. I’m no good at relationships, and my feelings for this woman are already so complicated. What happens if this thing between us explodes? I won’t be able to escape her, or she me. It’ll be anything but easy and clean.

But I’ve never been a man to overthink. Why start now?

“I can accept that,” I say, “as long as I get to touch you now. I'm going to die if I don’t.”

She grinds against me again. “Are you sure you’re not going to die if you do? You haven’t had the best luck over the last couple of days.”

I chuckle and move my hand over her back, lifting it up to her bra strap and unfastening it—freeing her for me. “I’m feeling pretty fucking lucky right now.” My hands both dip under her shirt, getting a couple of glorious handfuls, and I duck in to kiss her sweet neck as she arcs it back. I press my lips to her soft, fragrant skin and then graze it with my teeth. A gasp escapes her, and she lowers her head to me, her lips parted and ready to be claimed. I need them. I needher, in a way I haven’t let myself need a woman in a long time. Since Lia.

That thought pulses fresh panic into my blood, but the desire I feel for Emma’s lips, for her sweet body, is greater. It’s a need that has the rest of my body marching to its beat. Even the pains I’m carrying fall into the background—an ugly hum that I can mostly ignore as I relinquish one of her tits to reach back and grip her hair, bringing her mouth to me as she rocks her body closer.

Her lips part, her surrender a thing of absolute glory, but Emma’s no wilting flower. She wars her tongue with mine as she rolls on top of me—the promise of her so seductive that my whole body lifts in the uncomfortable chair. She’s careful to stay away from my bum rib, but her mouth is attacking mine with as much abandon as I’m attacking hers. A feeling of relief encompasses me, because it feels as if the whole year has led up to this once-in-every-four years blip of a day when she can be mine. I’ve thought about her for months. I’ve coveted her. I’ve stroked myself countless times thinking of that moment against the wall of Smith House. Wondering if it would have ended differently if I’d let her keep the damn flask and gone for something sweeter…

I’d taken the flask because I was discomposed over her effect on me, even then, when I didn’t realize how much I would come to like her. Want her. Covet her.

I reach for the hem of her shirt, urging it up, even as I refuse to break contact with her sweet mouth. She pulls back. I half-expect her to laugh, but her gaze is serious. Surprised. She doesn’t say anything as she pulls off her sweater and then her unclasped bra, leaving her topless in my lap—a lucky bastard, for sure, even though the rabbit gives a little kick inside his cage to remind us that we’re not alone, and the apartment is enough of a mess that it might give poor Chuck a heart attack. I’ll care about that at some point, but right now, I only care about her.

Emma’s dark hair spills around her face, her lips pink, her eyes aglow beneath her dark brows, her tits bared and pink-tipped. Lovely. Sculpted with the same artfulness as the rest of her. “You’re beautiful,” I say, feeling a thrum of wonder and warm emotion inside my chest. “You’re an absolute fucking knockout. A wonder.”

“For a little rich girl?” she asks with her usual teasing look.

“For anyone. I could look at you for the rest of my life. It could be the only thing I ever did, and I’d never get bored.”

I don’t know where the hell that came from, but at the moment, it feels true.

“I like looking at you, too,” she says softly, leaning in to kiss my jaw.

“I know,” I say wryly before claiming her mouth again, sucking on the bottom lip because I don’t want to let it go.

She pulls back slightly, giving me a sultry, almost sulky look. “I think we’d better keep your shirt on for now, though.”

A growl escapes me, even though I know she’s probably right. I don’t know how the hell I’d get it off right now, and if I did, I’d probably just reveal a huge black-and-blue spot, not to mention the healed stab wound she questioned me about earlier. I don’t want this moment to be dragged down by heavy shit like that.

“I can live with that,” I say, then lower my head and bury it between her tits—which would be a fine place to die, if you ask me. I claim her nipple in my mouth as I weave my hand into her dark, thick hair. I savor the sounds she makes for me as her hips continue to buck—each movement a delight and a torment.

She pulls back slightly, watching me, something in her eyes…

Voice uncharacteristically gentle, she says, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Hurt me,” I say. “Injure me. Bruise me. But, for God’s sake, let me get into your pants.”

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