Page 64 of An American in London

He takes his hand from my underwear, sucks in a breath and pulls off his shirt, then slips the rest of mine off, tossing both onto the floor beside us. As he kisses me, our tongues entwined, I splay my hands across his hot, hard back, trying to feel as much of him as I can. His pulse hammers against mine, like they’re competing against each other in a wild race both are guaranteed to win.

Now skin against skin, his weight on me, his heat all around me, I begin to melt underneath him. I wrap my legs around him and he groans.

I can’t help but smile. I want to collect all his sounds and put them in a jar that I can open when I need a little more of him. When I need to feel him raw.

“Fuck, Tuesday,” he hisses.

“I know,” I say.

“Will we survive?” he asks, and I laugh, even though I know he’s entirely serious. The same question has crossed my mind too.

“I think so,” I say. “And if not, so be it.”

His hand slides behind my ass, and he tilts me up, toward him, so I’m as close to him as I can get.

But it’s not enough.

I circle my hips, trying for more, but there’s too much fabric in the way still. I reach for the waistband of his jeans and try to push down.

“I need you,” I say and our eyes catch. “Now.”

In seconds our clothes are gone, discarded somewhere, and we’re finally where we need to be.

He has a condom from somewhere, and I watch him, my skin buzzing, my breathing shallow as he rolls it on.

Our eyes meet. It’s like he’s waiting for me to say no, to change my mind. Doesn’t he know that’s never going to happen? He nudges between my legs, and I splay my thighs wide, desperate for him. Our gazes are locked as he presses into me, and I’m full with his heat.

He pauses, his jaw tight. I watch the pulse in his neck, reach and press a finger against it, then pull him closer so I can feel it with my tongue.

He starts to move. I bring my hips up to meet his with every thrust so it goes deeper and harder andmorethan I ever thought possible. I see the understanding on his face, and it’s exactly how it feels in my chest—like this is exactly how we were meant to be. This is how it was always meant to be. His movements feel more desperate; he pushes harder and harder, and everything is black and white and bursts of light. I can’t think about anything but this and him and us.

I grip his shoulders, digging my nails into him because I don’t want him to be able to ever get away.

“Fuck!” he calls out and I know it’s not a complaint. I know he’s feeling what I’m feeling, and the thought makes me tighten.

He shifts, moving to sit back on his heels, bringing me with him so I’m sloped away from him. He pulls me deeper onto him, pushing his hips against mine, connecting over and over.

He reaches for me, pinching my nipples, pulling slightly, and I groan, throwing my hands over my head. He shifts again, pulling me up so I’m sitting astride him. My head tips back as he lifts and lowers my hips, each time sinking lower, feeling fuller.

“So deep,” I say—to myself, to him? I’ve lost control. All I can do is feel.

We’re face-to-face, our bodies pressed together, our lips connecting every few seconds in clumsy half kisses as our orgasms rattle in the distance, threatening to thunder after us and break this spell of sensation we’ve cast.

“Tuesday, Tuesday, Tuesday,” he whispers. My name on his lips breaks the last thread of control I hold.

I’m not sure what day it is, let alone what time. When my alarm goes off, at first I think it’s a fire alarm. Then I have to remind myself where I am.

In bed.

With Ben.

Our bodies are intertwined, and as I pull my limbs from his to reach for my phone, he grumbles in his sleep and pulls me closer. Eventually, I manage to grab the phone and silence the alarm.

And then I realize why it’s going off. It’s not morning. Not a decent hour anyway. I’m meant to go on a Daniel De Luca stalking mission at his hotel as arranged with Melanie. This is my one opportunity to see my previous obsession in the flesh.

“I have to go,” I whisper as I watch Ben, his expression no less stern because he’s sleeping.

He doesn’t say anything, just reaches for me and pulls me toward him so my back is against his front. We’re side by side, spooning. His hand skates up and down my thigh, and it’s only when it dips between my legs that I realize he must be conscious.

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