Page 119 of The Matchmaker
“Good?” He chokes on a laugh. “You feel perfect, Katie. You feel…God.”
I raise my hips, drawing him into me, and then we’re moving together, finding our rhythm, finding ourselves.
Every part of me feels sensitive and hot to the touch. I am aware of every point where our bodies meet, and as bit by glorious bit I open up to him, he starts to move faster, thrusting harder until I’m mindless with sensation, until I really hope he doesn’t ask me to talk again because I don’t think I’ll be able to.
He wraps a hand around my hip, each finger searing into me as he holds me steady, and when he drags my thigh up so he can go even deeper, I’m pretty sure I see stars. He stays right there, hitting that perfect spot over and over until I’m wrapping myself around him, tightening my muscles until he curses.
Any sense of rhythm flies out the window. I can’t touch enough of him or feel enough of him, even though I try, my hands grasping at slick skin as I plant messy kisses on his lips, cheeks, wherever I can reach. His breathing grows ragged in my ear, and I urge him closer, meeting each drive of his hips with one of my own and though I want to watch him, want to see him come apart, the man has other plans. Lips meet my temple as he slides his fingers between our bodies, caressing the most sensitive part of me until I’m hurtling toward the edge. I almost sob from the pleasure of it, pleasure made all the sweeter when I bring him shuddering along with me, and when he speaks again it’s my name I hear, repeated like a prayer as he brushes the hair from my face and presses a kiss to my lips before collapsing on the bed next to me.
He pulls me into him as though even that inch of space between us is intolerable and as he tugs my exhausted, sated body to sprawl over his, I rest my cheek against his chest, listening to his heart as I give him my own.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The electricity comes back on at some point during the night. I know this because when I open my eyes, blinking at the rising summer sun, the beaten-up digital clock on Callum’s nightstand tells me it’s sometime after three a.m. Now, I might not have been great at maths in school, but even I know that doesn’t add up.
I reach automatically for my phone and then for my charger when I see it’s completely out of juice, but I’m prevented from moving farther by a warm, heavy arm draping itself across my stomach.
“Don’t move,” Callum murmurs behind me. “You’ll wake me up.”
I smile, settling back into the bed. “Wake you up, huh? Did anyone ever tell you you talk in your sleep?”
He pulls me closer in response, and I shift carefully around to face him. He looks like he’s dead to the world.
“Callum.”
“It’s still dark.”
“It’s not still dark, your eyes are closed.” I peck his lips when he doesn’t answer, and when he still doesn’t move, I free one of my hands and push, turning him over onto his back so I can kiss my way across his chest.
“You know, I’m pretty sure I’ve had dreams where you did this,” he mumbles.
“Oh yeah? And do you always just lie there doing nothing?”
“I’m usually more awake in them,” he admits. “And you’re wearing clothes.”
“Clothes?”
“Lacy clothes.”
“Well, now I know what I’m getting you for your birthday,” I say, and lean up to gently bite his earlobe.
“Did you sleep at all?” he asks.
“A little.”
“And yet you’re wide awake.”
I pause at the accusation in his voice and pull back to find him peering up at me. “You’re not a morning person,” I say, delighted with this new fact.
“Whatever gave you that idea?”
“How are you not a morning person? Didn’t you usually get up at, like, five a.m.?”
“Just because I had to doesn’t mean I liked to,” he mutters. “And we’re going to have to rethink this whole relationship thing if you’re someone who doesn’t have lie-ins.”
“Why sleep when I can do this?” I whisper, finally doing what I’ve wanted to do since the moment I saw him in my garden. I settle back over him and, with frankly stunning attention to detail, trace his swirling tattoos with my fingers and my tongue, tasting every inch of inked skin.
“Do they have a story?” I ask, as I return to a beautiful interlocking Celtic pattern on his right bicep.
