Page 63 of The Art of Being Merry
Waves contentment wash over me, my body going slack in Dax’s arms. His assault on my vagina doesn’t let up as he chases his release. I’m so lost in the sensation of flying, I don’t notice the way he pounds into me.
Until he comes on a grunt and his body stills. “Fuck, Clementine. Fuck.”
I’m barely conscious of his words, of what they mean, because damn him for making this feel better than any other encounter. My body is sated in a completely foreign way, but my breathscome quickly as adrenaline floods every pore.
Dax Nicholas has ruined me for every other man who comes after him.
And yet, I don’t hate him for it. I can’t.
Because it wasthatgood, that worth it.
Dax holds me a little longer, as we both come down from the high of whatever the hell that was. Sex? I don’t think so.
An out-of-body experience seems more of an accurate description.
When we’re a little less restless and more settled, he pulls out, careful not to let the condom spill. As soon as he’s out from under me, my body slackens onto the bed.
“Don’t get too comfortable.” Dax’s hazy voice filters through my head.
“Too late.” A lazy smile finds my lips because damn was that good.
“Remember the whole ‘one isn’t enough’?” His question penetrates through the fog in my brain, the meaning also fuzzy.
“What of it?”
“I owe you at least one more.”
His comment has my eyes opening and me sitting up. “Now?” I squeak. “Right this minute?” I can’t fathom how or why I’d need another orgasm so soon. Does he not see how boneless I am?
“You never mentioned exactly how much time you had this morning.”
I blink my eyes, my brain trying to come up with an answer. Because he’s right. But he also never told me how long he could stay. So I go with that, making him the one who has to decide how long he’s staying.
“What time do you need to be at work?”
“When I get there.” His heady gaze stares at me.
Hmm. Very unhelpful answer.
“What time is it?”
“Phone’s in the other room. You got a clock in here?”
“Echo, what’s the time?” I call out.
“It’s nine forty-five a.m.,” the computerized voice supplies.
Taking a quick mental inventory of my day, I speak, “I haveuntil about eleven, eleven-thirty at the latest, before I must do something related to my personal or professional lives.”
“I didn’t have breakfast. Wanna break for some food before I make good on a second orgasm?”
Despite being thoroughly ravaged and pleased, my lady parts delight in his suggestion.
“Sounds like a plan to me.”
19
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