Page 117 of Meet Your Match
“I don’t want to give up my job.”
He frowned. “Of course not. Why would you?”
“Well, I just didn’t want you to think I was going to quit and like… follow you around.”
I waved my hand with that, and he caught it before kissing my knuckles.
“That wouldn’t be my girl,” he said, holding my hand there at his chest. His brow furrowed. “But are you going to be okay not traveling with me? Do you trust me?”
I swallowed. “As much as it freaks me out… yes.”
“Good. I swear, I’ll keep it to two bunnies a trip. Maybe three. Just some good luck blowjobs before the game, you know? Nothing too—oof!”
I cut him off with a knee to the gut, and he laughed, wrapping me up in a straitjacket of arms and legs again.
“Don’t even joke like that,” I warned, but it was through a smile, because Iknewit was a joke. And that was the most beautiful relief, the most incredible feeling — to know he was mine and no one else was a threat.
“But I like to push your buttons.”
“Find more creative ways to push them.”
“Oh, I like the sound of that game,” he said, and then I was flipped onto my back, and he was pressing me into the sheets, opening my legs with his thighs.
He was still smiling against my lips as we kissed, as I sighed and opened for him. But that smile faded the more we tangled ourselves together, and he pressed his forehead against mine, shaking his head like he didn’t deserve to be there, with me, in my bed.
“I can’t believe what you’ve done to me.” His hands gripped me harder, and I gasped, writhing under his touch. “Everything before you was black and white, a monochromatic existence.”
“And now?”
“Now, it’s a kaleidoscope of color,” he said with a kiss. “Dizzying and maddening and beautiful.”
Words were gone after that, and once again, I found myself paying homage to his hands. His hands that undressed me, piece by piece, that splayed me out in the sheets beneath him as he rid himself of his own clothing next. His hands that pulled me into his lap, that palmed my ass and guided me until I was sinking down and he was filling me. His hands that fucked up my hair and my makeup and my very way of life.
Vince wrapped those hands around my shoulders and pulled me down onto him, flexing his hips like he couldn’t fill me enough. He rocked in and out, holding me to him, kissing and fucking me in an unrelenting rhythm of need. It was just like that night at the pottery wheel, but somehow even more.
He was claiming me, marking me, erasing any trace of anyone who came before him.
It was a sacred union of souls, a burning hot shotgun wedding.
“I love you,” I whispered against his lips.
Vince froze, his hands holding my hips and my weight suspended just above him. He locked his eyes on mine, searching, and then one hand snaked behind my neck to bring me into him.
“I love you,” he echoed.
His next kiss was bruising, and he pressed inside me deep and strong. He held me there, fucking me with small, precise little flexes of his hips as his lips took their time nipping and sucking and kissing mine.
I rocked against him, finding the friction I needed to release. My legs quaked, moans suffocated by his mouth as he devoured every single one.
As he devouredme.
The last of who I was before Vince Tanev vanished in a puff of smoke that night, and I emerged on the other side, a phoenix rising. The past couldn’t control me anymore, and the future couldn’t paralyze me with its claws.
I was free.
Free to choose, free to fall, free to love and tobeloved.
My assignment was over. The job was done.
