Page 81 of Wilder at Heart
He rolls.
The pressure is unbearable. The need for release. My only outlet is the moans I’m making, and they grow louder and louder, until that searing heat from Theo’s fingers and dick detonates into something transcendent that ripples, shimmers throughout my entire body, and I ride the wave, coasting through the intensity of my orgasm, crying out for him, and through my haze of ecstasy his eyes darken, and his jaw clenches under that sexy-as-fuck beard, and he shouts a strangled string of expletives as he goes rigid and shudders and explodes inside me.
And as I come down in a floating, swirling haze, I wring every drop I can out of him. Clenching around him as tight as possible, squeezing him greedily between my walls as his shudders soothe me from the inside before collapsing on top of him, my mouth finding his, our tongues entangling as he pulls me, exhausted and wrung out, into his arms.
CHAPTER 31
Theo
Nora Wilder has a lot to answer for.
Instead of being the razor-sharp, don’t-give-an-inch negotiator I usually am, I allow an artist we’re desperate to enlist to squeeze an extra five percent of commission out of me.
That’s five percent on top of the standard, sacred and totally non-negotiable split we offer everyone.
Reason: I’m too distracted by the memories of my sweet, sweet Nora last night.
Her body slack and pliable against the door as I stripped her naked.
Her beautiful, begging eyes as she asked me to fuck her.
And best of all, that red-hot image of her coming and coming as she rode me, her head thrown back, her tits heaving, and her gorgeous muscles shuddering around my cock so hard that I didn’t stand a chance.
I pulled her down and into my arms, craving her again.
Even though I’d come so hard, I’d seen stars.
Even though I’d been inside her God knows how many times since the previous morning.
Even though I shouldn’t be addicted, because this thing we have istemporary.
And I know that’s been fucking with Nora’s head as much as it has with mine. I know that’s what caused her wobble when we got in the door last night. Because we’d crossed so many lines, blurred so many boundaries, that neither of us knew which way was up.
Because the real part was so fucking real that the fake part felt totally irrelevant.
And it’s only getting worse.
Or better.
We showered together this morning, and she let me wash her hair. I pulled her in so she was leaning back against my chest and lathered up her shampoo as instructed, rubbing her temples, massaging the suds into her scalp with my thumbs while her head lolled back on my shoulder and her soft, contented moans mingled in the steam with the scent of botanicals.
‘I’m very into your hair,’ I told her afterwards as we sat on the edge of my bed together, the brush in my hand gliding through the damp, fragrant strands that hung down her bare back. I pressed my nose to it and inhaled. ‘And it’s pretty useful for keeping you close.’ I dropped the brush and wound her hair around my hand, twisting it into a sleek, damp rope.
A rope I could use to angle her head to the side.
Close enough that I could enjoy her smile.
See those lips part for me.
Seal my own to them.
And now, as I hurry home after my botched negotiation and several hours of ineffectual faffing around at the gallery, I’m self-aware enough to be amused by my eagerness.
This is the very behaviour I rip the shit out of my married friends for. That clingy bullshit. Declining the offer of drinks after work. Hurrying home to their missus. And it’s exactlywhat I’m doing now, except she’s not my missus. This is strictly temporary, so I’m totally justified in making the most of it, even if we’ve got nothing planned for this evening except takeaway and a session with our laptops.
Or do we?
Nora’s sitting at the island when I get in. Hair piled in a big, messy bun on top of her head. She’s wearing my blue fucking t-shirt, and she looks so sexy in it I can’t even… I drop my bag and make a beeline for her.
