Page 54 of Wrecked for Love
Elia passed me the remote, giving me a choice betweenFarmer Wants a WifeandYellowstone. Not exactly a tough decision. Kevin Costner? Yes, please. We sank deeper into the cushions, the bowl of popcorn balanced between us.
“You don’t mind me spending the night here?” I asked, glancing at him over the rim of my beer bottle.
“You kidding me, Chili?” he said, tousling the crown of my hair with that easy grin of his, though back when we were strangers, it hadn’t come so easily. “But…damn…I should’ve gotten a new mattress.”
I laughed, remembering vividly the right side of his mattress that was as lumpy as a sack of potatoes after a long day’s ride. “I guess we’ll just have to sleep closer together then.” I gave him a nudge.
The remark seemed to spark something in him, like a switch being flipped. He kissed me hard, all heat and hunger, and I matched his intensity, turning on my attack mode just as fiercely. Our movements were frenzied, as if we were trying to claim each other at that moment. His strong arms wrapped around me, lifting me effortlessly, and before I knew it, he was carrying me toward his room, my legs clamping him.
I reclined on the bed, our eyes locked in a relentless gaze as I pressed myself against him, practically begging for sex. His firm grip held the back of my hair, causing me to break the kiss.
“If you let me make love to you, promise it won’t be the last thing we do before you’re gone,” he pleaded.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I assured him.
I unbuttoned my shirt, and he eagerly spread it open, revealing my chest and belly. With a smooth motion, he unclasped my bra and removed my shirt. His lips found my breasts, his beard grazing my skin and awakening my senses like the chorus of birds at sunrise. Then, he sucked on my nipples, sending waves of intoxication through my entire being.
As I absorbed every second, I felt his fingers tracing the path of my scar. It began beneath my shoulder blade and curved under my armpit until his touch reached the front of my chest.
“I’m not perfect,” I confessed. The scar from my pneumonectomy had been with me for so long that it almost faded from my own awareness. Maybe it was overshadowed by the stab wound scar, not far from where the surgery scar began—almost blending with it over time. Maybe, just for tonight, Elia wouldn’t notice.
“I don’t want perfect,” he emphasized, as if he wanted me to believe it with all my heart.
Our lips met again as our hands fumbled to remove our bottoms hastily, clumsily. Finally, we were eye to eye, completely naked and glued together.
“I only want you, Claire,” he said.
“And you’re the only man I want,” I responded.
The kiss flared between us once more, and this time, every inch of us joined the riot. He rubbed his hard-on against my belly, making his intention clear. Then he reached for the drawer of the nightstand and sheathed himself with a quiet rustle.
I should expect his size to be this large. I had seen his bulge, but now that it was out and fully erect—well, I assumed it was fully erect—it looked insanely thick.
“What is it?” Maybe he caught the worry in my eyes.
I’d been craving this moment, and nothing was going to get in my way. Pain had always been a part of my life—why turn away from it now?
“Don’t make me wait,” I murmured, guiding his body to mine.
His fingers found their way first, moving around my opening. “I’ll make it feel good, Chilli,” he said as if knowing what was on my mind.
I had put my faith in him. But sensing the extent of my own arousal against his touch, he didn’t even need to convince me.
Then, he slipped himself inside me, his length stretching my core. Seamless as silk threads woven tight, I had no time to think—only to feel. And that feeling gripped me, driving me to clutch him as if pressing the unspoken into his skin. What he was giving me was searing. And I was a moth chasing fire, heedless of the burn.
My eyes stayed wide. Our first kiss in the dark had been amazing, and I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. But now, I let him see everything—my fear, my hope, and yes, my love for him.
“Claire…” He said it with the same love I felt for him as he gauged where I was, determined to match my pace—neither left behind nor even half a step ahead but right beside me.
As he pushed himself with increased force, the muscles in his arms and shoulders rippled and gleamed, but he never lost his poise or tenderness. Damn, I felt it—the kind of connection only someone who truly wanted you could create. If all the running and all the pain in my life led to this moment, I had no regrets.Fiction had its place in my world, but a reality like this? It didn’t come every day. Maybe not even once in a lifetime.
My hips heaved, eager to take him in more. In response, he leaned to one side, propping himself up with one arm while the other encircled my waist and lifted me slightly off the bed.
His skill left me with no thoughts about whether I could pull this off, especially after being without a man for so long. He didn’t only make it good; it was excruciatingly magnificent.
He pushed deeper, an unforgiving stretch that sent a raw ache pulsing through me. The pain teetered on the edge of too much, and he caught it. A slow retreat, the brush of his lips coaxing relief into the fire.
The rhythm built again, a relentless cycle of pleasure and control, and with it, the hint of orgasm came effortlessly to me. Almost too easily, with him.
