Page 46 of The Cold Ride

“Rory.”

She’d pushed the goggles onto the top of her head. And when she turned my way, I couldn’t stop myself from doing it. I lifted the small sponge and bopped her on the nose with it, leaving behind a small blue streak of paint on her nose.

Her mouth dropped open. Laughing, she sputtered, “James.”

I chuckled at the cute picture she made. And before she could retaliate, I slid my arms around her waist, pulling her in close until our bodies were pressed together, and kissed her. God, she tasted sweet. I wanted to kiss this woman forever. It never failed to amaze me how a simple kiss with Rory was more intimate than sex with other women. But then, our kisses had always been this way, chock full of lust with a side heaping of heart.

Because she kissed me back with such aching passion that no matter what happened, I was glad we had this slice of time together. But I would always want more of her. I couldn’t get enough. And my heart whispered that I never would.

She broke our kiss and drew back, only to bring her paint-covered hand up and caress the side of my face, leaving a wet trail of paint in her wake.

Paint dribbled off my cheek. “Oh, it’s going to be like that, huh?”

“You started it.” Her laughter bubbled out of her with a joy that lifted my soul up from hell. She tried dancing out of arm's reach, but I caught her and reeled her in. She playfully struggled.

“You’re going to pay for that.” I held her trapped against me with one arm, then I dipped two fingers in the paint and swiped them over her collarbone, tracing a thick streak of blue on her skin.

She squealed and smacked her hand against my chest, leaving her handprint in blue paint.

And then it was on. We were in a race to get the other and cover them in paint. We laughed like lunatics until we were both sporting blue paint fucking everywhere. It was on our clothes. It was in our hair and on our faces and hands.

And Rory had never looked so beautiful.

“That’s it,” I growled, trying to act menacing and failing because I couldn’t stop grinning. This woman made my soul feel light.

She retreated, stepping away from the paint. There was a look in her eyes like she planned to make a run for the stairs. She wasn’t fast enough. I stalked after her. “Just where do you think you’re going?”

“Now, James, be reasonable. We’re both a mess. We’re—”

“About to get even messier.” I caught her before she reached the bottom of the stairs. Tackling her onto the drop cloth, protecting her with my body, I fused our lips together. And fuck, but this woman kissed me back like I was special, like I was hers.

Growling and panting, we rolled haphazardly around the floor, tugging at clothing and removing it, paint smearing everywhere. But neither of us gave a damn. We were too hungry for each other. Our need was a drumbeat driving our actions. It left me panting and aching to be inside her.

Until we were naked on the floor, paint covering our bodies. But it didn’t matter what she wore. Rory would always be the most beautiful woman in any room, in any manner. And we didn’t need any foreplay. The paint war had been our foreplay. Because I found her drenched and aching for me.

It had been this way between us from the start.

Holding her gaze, I slid inside, and her pussy clenched around my shaft. Passion lit her gaze. And even through the lusty haze that had descended over us, she saw through every barrier into the very heart of me. She’d always seen through every shield I wore as battle armor to protect myself.

Because she saw me. She saw past my scars, both physical and soul- deep. She saw past my bullshit. And I saw her too. The beautiful light in her soul was a balm and a beacon, drawing me back to her again and again.

When I removed all the bullshit and the ego, when it was just us like this, everything clicked into place. This was where I was supposed to be. This was what mattered. She mattered. Fuck, she was imprinted on my damn soul.

And was the only woman I had ever loved.

And I knew, holding her close, our limbs intimately entwined, that I was still in love with her. I doubted I ever stopped loving her. Even when I tried to forget her, she etched herself on my heart and soul.

“What is it?” she asked, undulating beneath me and biting her bottom lip as pleasure stole over her features.

I wasn’t ready to discuss my feelings. I needed time to think before I confessed. Because I was still churned up inside over everything. Instead, I deflected and gave her a seductive smirk full of mirth. “Just thinking you sure do look cute with all the blue paint.”

She chuckled and then clenched her pussy around my dick. “Enough talking. Are you going to screw my brains out? Or do I need to go find someone else to—”

The sweet vixen would be the death of me. Growling, I reared back and thrust so hard our bodies scooted over the floor. She arched her back with a gasp. “You know that no one else will ever fuck you this way. That no one will ever understand the kinky woman you are but me. Don’t threaten me with other men. Ever. Especially not when I’m buried inside you.”

She cupped my face, unmindful of all the paint. “And what are you going to do to me if I do?”

Her challenge slid through me. I grunted and withdrew. She opened her mouth to argue. But I didn’t give her the chance to speak before I flipped her onto her hands and knees and nudged her thighs apart. I brought my hand down against her butt with enough force it left a red handprint on the milky globes.

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