Page 129 of Melt for You (Slow Burn 2)
“So come.” He goes back to licking.
“Come with me.”
“Like this, or . . . ?”
I’m glad he asked, because suddenly I’m needing eye contact. This game is incredibly hot, but I’m craving more—I’m craving him. I want to go over the edge looking into his eyes.
Damn. I knew I was gonna regret this.
I climb off him, get another condom from the bedside table, and get him all wrapped up. Feeling satisfied with my technique, I smile at his erection.
Cam grabs my arms and flips me over so I’m on my back, looking up at him. Easing between my legs, he says gruffly, “Is this want you wanted?”
I nod, biting my lip against a moan. He slides inside me, and God, it’s good.
But he doesn’t go fast and hard again. He goes achingly slow, cupping my bottom in one hand, cradling my head in the other, propped up on an elbow and staring down into my eyes.
Swamped with emotion, I inhale a hitching breath. He smiles, but it’s achingly sad.
“Go ahead, luv,” he murmurs. “Tell me it doesn’t matter. Tell me it’s all a mistake.”
I have to turn my face away because I don’t want him to see the tears gathering in my eyes. When I finally do go over the edge, he’s right there with me, groaning my name and twitching inside me, carving his name into my heart the way Michael never did.
So this is love. Man, it’s even worse than Christmas.
THIRTY-FOUR
The mechanics of love go something like this:
Birdsong in the air and your heart in his kiss,
Eyes meet, breath catches, a sparkle of lust
A pulse of pure joy and an aching you must
Pursue against logic; that small voice in your mind
Warns of goblins and trapdoors and things you might find
Your beloved will do that will irk and grow boring
Like farting and lateness and that god-awful snoring.
But your heart insists on its impossible dream
Until one day you wake to find a terrible scream
Trapped in your throat with nowhere to go
And you think back on that time which seems so long ago
When your love was a bird, flying high on the wing
Not this dry little crust of a shriveled-up thing.
“Well, that’s one for the Romance Hall of Fame,” I say aloud, examining with alarm the poem I’ve just completed. It’s not even a proper sonnet, just a bunch of depressing rhyming verses that could be handed out as warnings to couples in premarriage counseling. Here, see what you have to look forward to? Do you really want to sign up for this?
I scratch a big X through the whole thing and slam my sonnet book closed.
