Chapter Thirty-Seven
I choked down the rest of my sandwich, not tasting a damn thing.
My body was vibrating with need.
He played with my hair, he ate his sandwich, and he fucked with my equilibrium.
His thigh against mine, his arm around my shoulders, his inked washboard abs on full display, his long legs stretched before him, ankles crossed as he rested his feet on the coffee table and ate his sandwich.
And, Jesus, his cock. Long and thick and giant, just out of reach under his board shorts, it taunted me.
I wanted my mouth on him.
I’d never wanted to suck a man so badly.
But oh God, I wanted to suck him. I wanted to make him fall apart with my mouth. I wanted to make him shake with need, and I wanted him to grip my hair tight when I did it.
Aching, irritable, I shifted my thighs.
As if knowing my wayward thoughts, his hand tightened in my hair and he pulled.
My head fell back.
Before I could gasp, his lips were on mine and his tongue was driving into my mouth.
Oh God.
Dominating, consuming, he took possession of every inch of my body as he kissed me. But calling his expert thrust as he swirled his tongue and claimed mine in an intricate dance merely a kiss was like calling a hurricane a summer breeze.
Preston Vos didn’t kiss.
He committed.
But as abruptly as he took possession of my mouth, he pulled back.
His lips wet, his eyes hooded, he gripped my hair tighter. “Set your plate down, go upstairs and wait.”
I opened my mouth to protest.
“He’s asleep.” His grip on my hair released, and the warmth of his hand left.
Drunk with desire, I still had the wherewithal to glance at my son. His little body prone, his eyes closed, his chest rose and fell with sleep.
Taking his plate off his lap, Preston set it on the coffee table before carefully picking Nash up. My son’s head lolled, but Preston cradled him to his chest and glanced down at me. “Upstairs,” he quietly ordered.
Nervous, so fucking nervous, but excited and humming with anticipation, I set my plate next to Nash’s and stood. “Where are you taking him?”
“His room.” His eyes dark, Preston raked his gaze over my body before he tipped his chin toward the stairs. “Go.”
My stomach fluttering, my heart racing, I went.
And Preston followed.
At the top of the stairs, he turned in the opposite direction of the master bedroom, and I couldn’t help it, I stopped to stare. Wide shoulders, ink covering his whole back, his muscles flexing and bunching as he walked, he carried my son to a bedroom that was altogether different from his. Bright colors on the bedding and wall prints, a bookshelf with books, a game console next to the TV.
It hit me.
He’d set a room up specifically for my son.
My hand went to my heart as Preston pulled the covers back and laid my son down. Nash never woke up as Preston tucked him in, then closed the blinds. Walking out of the room, he pulled the door almost all the way shut, but then he paused and looked back.
For a long moment, he stood there watching my son. Then he turned and strode with purpose toward his bedroom. He was halfway down the hall when he looked up and his eyes hit mine.
Midstep, he stilled.
His arms at his sides, his feet bare, his shoulders kissed from the sun, he stared, taking in every inch of me with an intensity I’d never experienced. His chest rose with an inhale, and he closed the distance between us.
No words, his eyes on mine, his hands landed on my waist.
Walking me backward into his bedroom, closing the door behind him, he locked it. Then he went to the wall of sliders and opened them all the way. Ocean breezes and salt air drifted lazily into the room, bringing Florida heat and afternoon sun with them.
The open doors, my son, I momentarily panicked. “Nash—”
“Will knock on the door if he wakes up.” Closing the distance between us, his eyes on mine, Preston strode toward me.
Inhaling, I reasoned. Nash would knock. He’d also sleep for a couple hours. He hadn’t swum that long in forever. There were palm trees just outside the balcony of the room, partially obscuring a direct line of sight in to us. Oh God.
“Our time,” Preston whispered, leaning down to my ear and kissing my neck once.
Suddenly, I was too nervous. Uncomfortable nervous. “I have to tell you something.”
Sweeping my hair aside, he kissed below where my bikini top was tied around my neck. “All right.” He fingered the tie.
“I haven’t done this in a long time,” I blurted.
Gentle, slow, he pulled the string. “You did this last night.”
“Before that,” I clarified.
Still holding the ties at my neck, he moved behind me, and his lips touched the top of my shoulder with the softest of kisses. “How long?”
“Seven years,” I admitted in a whisper.
His hand on my arm stilled. I heard his inhale before his exhale whispered across my skin. Even though there was no change in his tone, his voice came out rougher. “Why?”
Because I was a new, single mother, because I was exhausted, because I couldn’t fathom another man in my life… because every week that I laid eyes on Preston, I knew I didn’t want anyone else. “Maybe you weren’t the only one waiting.” As soon as I said it, I realized what I’d inadvertently implied. “Not that I meant you were, you know, waiting around for me and not… oh God.” Fuck. “Don’t reply to that. You know what I meant.”
He didn’t reply. Just as I’d asked. But then I wished like hell I’d kept my mouth shut because now I wanted to know. No, I didn’t want to know. I wanted to fantasize. I wanted it to mean more than what he’d told me yesterday. I didn’t only want to be the last woman he’d kissed. I wanted to be the last woman he’d touched, period.
But, fuck, that was unrealistic, and I needed to let it go.
I was here now with him.
“Stop.” His voice, quiet, commanding, filled my head.
I inhaled.
He released the top of my bikini.
The straps fell down my chest, and his fingers—large, warm, adept—pulled at the string around my back.
My top hit the floor.
His lips touched my shoulder blade, and he drew a finger down my spine all the way to my bikini bottom. Dragging his finger left, then right, he traced the top edge of the material where it met my back.
Chills of anticipation racing across my skin, desire surged between my legs, and I sucked in a sharp breath.
Hooking his fingers in my bikini bottom, he dropped to a squat behind me and slid my suit down my legs. His lips touched the back of one knee, then the other before he gently pushed my calf.
I stepped out of my bikini, and I was naked in his house of glass.
I didn’t even notice.
His hands sliding up the outside of my legs, he kissed his way up my thigh, over my ass and swirled his tongue across the two small indents on my lower back. A thief of insecurities, he stole all thoughts from my mind that weren’t of him and his touch.
Oh God. “Preston,” I whispered.
Standing to his full height, his mouth trailing kisses along my back and neck, he swept my hair over one shoulder. “Kyrie Eleison,” he whispered back, his huge, hard length pressing against me.
Seductive and so, so sexy, my name crossing his lips before his mouth found the spot under my ear made me shiver. Grasping my wrists, he lifted my arms and brought my hands back around his neck.
My body stretched, my fingers threaded into his soft, black hair, and I moaned as my back arched and I pressed against his erection.
His hands skimmed down my arms, and with a featherlight touch, the backs of his fingers caressed the sides of my breasts.
I sucked in a sharp breath, and my nipples pebbled as my pussy painfully pulsed. “Please,” I begged. “Touch me.”
Not touching my nipples, he circled my breasts and sucked the flesh of my neck. “I am touching you.”
Oh God. “More,” I pleaded.
With his heat and his strength at my back, the side of his hand skimmed between my breasts and down my stomach. He drew his fingers across my scar.
I began to tremble.
“Shh,” he breathed in my ear. “Shh.” His fingers brushed lower.
Needy, desperate, I gripped his hair and went on tiptoe.
He sank two fingers inside me.
Then he worshiped me.
My body, my heart, my soul.
He kissed every inch of my skin as he rhythmically drove his fingers in and out of me, awakening a desire that transcended the ache between my legs. I wasn’t standing in the middle of his bedroom waiting to be fucked. I was in his home, in his heart and in his life wanting everything he was willing to give me.