Page 113 of Burn for You (Slow Burn 1)
He groaned like he was in agony. I gripped his face and kissed him so hard I tasted blood. I wrapped my legs around his back and held on as he started to buck wildly, thrashing the bed. We were both sweating, panting, moaning, and kissing sloppily, out of our minds and loving it.
He reared up on his hands, threw his head back, and roared my name at the ceiling.
So this is what all those stupid love songs are about, I thought, just before I went supernova and exploded in a white-hot ball of fire into space.
THIRTY-THREE
JACKSON
We lay stunned and speechless, tangled in each other’s arms on the demolished bed like victims of a bombing.
After a while, Bianca said in a tremulous voice, “Oh. My. That was . . .”
“Perfect.” I stared at her in awe. “Incredible. Mind-blowing. We should get a trophy.”
Blinking slowly, she smiled. It was a heartbreaking smile, a thing of such soul-lifting and astonishing beauty I felt like a man who’d just discovered religion.
She was my religion. My north and south, my heaven and earth, the axis of rightness around which everything had suddenly aligned. For the first time in my life, all my polarized parts worked as one, humming happily along in harmony with the universe, finally understanding their place.
I surrendered to the feeling completely and without hesitation, knowing that most people would never experience this. This blinding joy. This transcendent bliss. This seismic shift of focus from themselves to someone else that strangely and simultaneously gave birth to the freedom and bone-deep peace they’d been seeking all along.
I always thought love was a pair of shackles, but I was wrong. Love was the opened door of a cage.
“You certainly have a lot of energy, Mr. Boudreaux,” my love said, prim as a librarian. It made me laugh so heartily it shook the bed.
I threw my leg over her, pulled her to me, and sighed in happiness. She burrowed against me, making soft growly sounds of pleasure, her little hands pawing my chest.
“Sex fiend,” I whispered indulgently as she ran her hands all over my body.
“I can’t help it,” she protested. “You’re built like a skyscraper, and your skin is like a unicorn’s mane.”
I frowned. “A unicorn’s mane?”
“All silky and shiny and mystical.”
She said it like, Duh, what moron doesn’t know what a unicorn’s mane is like? I laughed again, helplessly charmed.
“You
’re awfully jolly after sex,” she said. “Me likey.”
Oh God. My fucking heart was going to split open like an overripe piece of fruit. “And you’re awfully chatty.” I captured her lips and kissed her to shut her up.
When we finally came up for air, she stretched against me like a cat, supple and satisfied, lazily licking her lips. “You’re a dish,” she declared. “If you were food, you’d be the filet from that cow on your father’s plane that was massaged and coddled into beefy, delicious perfection.”
“That’s disturbing,” I said, kissing the tip of her nose. “But thank you. I think.”
Her mood shifted like quicksilver, from gossamer light to guarded. She pursed her lips and contemplated my sternum. “Speaking of your father.”
“What?” I was instantly on high alert.
She glanced up at me. “You need to talk to him.”
There was something behind her eyes that worried me. “Why?”
She dropped her gaze to my chest and started toying with my chest hair. “Um. Well. I had a little chat with him last night after you passed out.” Her pause was infinitesimal. “With your mother, too.”
My blood pressure went from sleeping baby to day trader on the stock market on Black Monday. “About?”
