Page 77 of On the Line

“Stop torturing me.”

One thing I’m learning about her is that, after a certain point, she doesn’t like it slow.

“Tell me what you want.”

“I want you to make me come with your mouth before you fuck me senseless.”

“How could I say no to that?” I ghost over her clit lightly with one of my thumbs and her hips buck beneath my hands.

“Don’t even think about saying no.” She growls, head back with pleasure as I stroke her again, smoothing the wetness from her pussy up over her clit.

I chuckle and consider making her beg for it after that comment, but I don’t want to wait, either. I want to make her come, and then I want to come inside her. It’s been over twelve hours since I’ve held her in my arms and felt her from the inside, and that’s already too fucking long.

So I kneel down in front of the couch, push the ottoman that’s behind me back out of the way, and pull her up to a sitting position so she’s got her legs spread on either side of me. Then, pulling her hips forward to the edge of the couch cushion, I dip my head down to taste her again. As I stroke her clit with my tongue, I enter her with two fingers, curling them forward to stroke up into her. She rides my fingers with groaning pleasure as my tongue works to drive her over the edge, and when I glance up at her, she’s got both her breasts cupped in her hands.

“Yes.” I hiss, lifting my mouth from her but pushing my fingers into her harder and faster. “Touch yourself. I want to see you pinch those nipples as I bring you over the edge.”

She groans as she pushes her head farther back into the couch cushions and does what I ask, running her thumbs across her nipples and then pinching them between her thumb and the knuckle of her first finger. She lets out another moan of pleasure when I suck her clit into my mouth and run my tongue over it, and then she’s bucking wildly under me. I fuck her harder and faster with my fingers, because that’s how she seems to like it best, and in no time she’s arching her back and chantingyesover and over as she rides out her orgasm.

She collapses back against the couch but tells me, “I’m not done. I need you inside me.”

And so right there, still kneeling in front of her with her legs spread open, I push inside of her, watching myself enter her inch by inch—the way she stretches to accommodate me, how wet and tight she is against my cock, the way she sighs with pleasure when I’m fully seated inside her ... the experience is nothing short of a miracle, every single time.

She lifts her legs up, probably propping them on the ottoman behind me, and then shifts her hips as if to tell me to get going. But I feel like I’m frozen in this moment, taking in her naked body before me—the thin column of her neck, the way her breasts spread as she lies back, the fine stretch marks along the sides of her abdomen from carrying her children, and the pink skin stretched around my cock.

I want to see this sight every night for forever.

And that’s what I’m thinking about as our bodies meet, over and over. It’s what I’m thinking about when I drag one leg up and over my head, flipping her around so she’s kneeling before me, bent over the couch and I’m pushing back into her from behind. It’s what I’m thinking about when my hands smooth over her breasts and meet her clit, bringing her to orgasm again. And it’s definitely at the forefront of my mind as I grip her hips, tell her to hold on to the back of the couch, and watch myself slam into her until she’s squeezing me tight as she orgasms a third time, and I fall right over the edge with her. And when I pull out, watching my cum drip out of her as I bend to grab her underwear and wipe her up, the only thing I can think is: I want to behere, in this house, with her. Forever.

Afterward, I lift Lauren up and lay her down on the couch, then snuggle in beside her. She lifts her head, propping it up on her elbow, and uses her other hand to trace the column of Roman numerals along the side of my rib cage.

“What are they all?” she asks.

“Dates.”

“Tell me about them?”

I look down at the ink and trace my finger along the first date. “The year my mom left.” I move my finger down the next two rows, telling her, “When Audrey and Jules were born.” Then I trace the rest of the rows, reading them off from memory. “When I was drafted into the NHL. The year my stepmom died. The year my dad left. When I retired from the NHL.”

“There’s a lot of loss recorded here, Jameson.” Her voice is quiet and sad as she leans in and sweeps her lips across my skin over the ink.

That gentle touch is almost painful, because sheseesme. The part of me that I keep hidden from everyone else. And she understands. “I know. There’s a lot of good, too, though.”

She lays her head on my shoulder, snuggling in beside me. “Yeah, I guess that’s life.”

I turn so I’m lying on my side, facing her, where her head now rests on my arm. “You’ve had a lot of loss too. But I want you to know that I’m in this for the long haul. We’re going to get through all of this together.”

“I know,” she says, closing her eyes. She looks so content, lying here cuddled against my side.

“We’re going to regret it if we fall asleep on this couch,” I tell her.

“Why’s that?” she asks without opening her eyes.

“Because we’re two full-grown adults and we barely fit on here. Let’s go upstairs. Unless you don’t want me to stay, which is completely okay too.” It’s her house, and her kids are here, and if she’s not ready for me to spend the night, that’s understandable.

“I want you to stay. But also, it might be best if Ivy and Iris don’t wake up to you here in the morning.”

“My flight leaves at 7:30 a.m. and I still have to stop by my house and grab some stuff on my way to the airport. So I’ll probably be gone by five.”

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