Page 133 of Ache for You (Slow Burn 3)
Then I can’t think anymore because
I’m riding a cresting wave, higher and higher, up into the bright endless blue of the sky. The roar of the wind blocks my ears. The sun burns my face, the smell of his skin sears my nose, and I’m flying.
The wave breaks over me. The roar of the wind becomes the sound of my name as he throws back his head and shouts it, his body tight and straining, surging against mine.
I fall and fall and fall, tumbling, twisting, turning, letting go of my last shred of resistance when he spills himself inside me and cries out something in his language that sounds like a prayer.
THIRTY-SEVEN
We sleep.
I wake with his hand on my breast, his hardness and heat against my back. We make love again, slowly, quietly, on our sides. I’m glad I’m not looking at his face because I’m so emotional I fight tears the entire time.
I never expected to feel so much. My chest aches from holding it all inside. I love you is on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t say it, even afterward when we’re lying entangled with our breath and pulses slowing, sweat cooling on our skin, and he’s tenderly smiling down at me with his heart in his eyes.
Love made such a willing fool of me before. I need to be 100 percent sure this time that I’m not being blind.
“You’re thinking.”
His voice is thick with sleep and satisfaction. He strokes a hand up my spine, burying it in my hair, and pulls me closer against him.
“How could you tell?”
“I smell something burning.”
“Ha.”
We’re quiet for a time, though it feels as if a thousand things are being said. His hands are spinning stories against my skin. His strong, steady heartbeat underneath my cheek is selling promises. His smile is a fairy tale I want nothing more than to believe.
“Tell me.”
I sigh, happy and melancholy, peaceful and scared shitless all at the same time. “This might be easier for me to deal with if you were poor and looked like Shrek.”
“I’ll sell the castle and give all the money to charity,” he says promptly. “I’ll gain two hundred pounds and paint myself green.”
“Good.” I hide my face in his chest.
He cradles me in his arms, kissing my temple, nuzzling my ear, chuckling a bit at my stupidity. “If it makes you feel any better, from now on I’ll only tell you all the things I find irritating about you.”
I jerk my head up and glare at him. “Like what?”
He presses his lips together to keep from laughing. “Your calm, even temper, for instance. Your sweet, loving tongue.”
I say tartly, “You thought my tongue was pretty sweet when it was wrapped around your dick.”
His eyes flare. He murmurs, “My kingdom for that mouth.”
My heart skips a beat. Suddenly breathless, I say, “You don’t have a kingdom, Count.”
“The hell I don’t.”
I roll my eyes when his smug smile makes an appearance. “Okay. Sure. You’re the king of the fashion world. The ruler of ready to wear. The liege of lederhosen—”
“You know I don’t make lederhosen,” he growls, rolling me onto my back so I’m pinned underneath him. “And call me Count one more time . . .” He lowers his head and nips my breast.
“Ow!”
Warm and soothing, his tongue slides over the place he just nipped.
