Chapter 6 Sloane #3
The bedroom is cast in shadows, illuminated only by moonlight filtering through large windows and the faint glow from the fireplace in the main room. He lays me on the king-sized bed with surprising gentleness given the desire evident in his eyes.
"You're overdressed," I observe, propping myself up on my elbows as he stands at the foot of the bed.
"A situation I intend to remedy immediately." He shrugs out of his partially unbuttoned shirt, revealing the toned chest I'd explored so thoroughly last night. His hands move to his belt, unfastening it with deliberate slowness that makes my mouth go dry.
I can’t look away. Every inch of skin he reveals feels like another blow to my self-control.
He strips off his shirt, then his dress pants, slow and unhurried like he knows I’m watching, like he wants me watching.
When he’s down to just tight black boxer briefs clinging to him, straining with the proof of how badly he wants this, wants me, I can’t breathe.
He climbs back onto the bed with a quiet, predatory grace, body sleek and hard as he covers mine. One knee between my thighs, his weight pressing me into the mattress inch by inch, making me feel small, delicate, his.
“You’re unreal,” he murmurs, voice low, one hand trailing up from my hip to the curve beneath my bra. “Every inch of you. All mine tonight.”
I nod, breath shaky. “Yes,” I whisper. “I’m right here.”
His mouth crashes into mine, deeper this time, a kiss that’s pure command.
His thigh shifts between mine, pressing up in just the right way and I gasp, hips jerking without permission.
I dig my hands into his back, nails dragging over the hard muscle as he grinds against me, the friction cruel and perfect.
His fingers reach behind me, unclasping my bra in one deft movement. He tosses it aside without a glance. Then he pulls back just enough to look down at me, bare to him. His stare is electric, heat pulsing in his eyes as they roam over my chest.
“Fucking perfect,” he growls.
His hand cups my breast, thumb circling, teasing until I’m squirming beneath him.
Then his mouth lowers, tongue flicking over the peak before sucking it deep, and I cry out, my back arching.
He takes his time. Moves to the other, giving equal attention, tongue and teeth and lips turning my nerves to fire.
By the time he starts moving lower, I’m a mess. Writhing. Whimpering. My body is begging for more.
He kisses down my ribs, my stomach, a slow torturous path until he reaches the edge of black lace between my thighs. He hooks two fingers into the waistband and pauses, gaze lifting.
“Say it,” he orders.
“Yes,” I breathe. “Please.”
He pulls my panties down slowly, leaving the thigh-high stockings in place. His fingers skim the tops, appreciating the contrast.
“These stay,” he decides. “You look too fucking good in them.”
Then he parts my legs, spreading me wide.
His breath ghosts over my skin and then his mouth is on me.
Hot. Devouring. I cry out, hips lifting as pleasure slams through me.
His hands hold me firm, mouth working with the same ruthless precision I’ve seen him use in meetings, only now every calculated move is about me.
He tastes, learns, listens to every sound I make. When he adds his fingers, sliding two inside me and curling just right, I shatter. A scream of his name rips from my throat as I come hard, thighs clenching around his shoulders, entire body trembling.
Before I’ve even caught my breath, he’s moving up my body, kissing me hard, deep. I taste myself on his tongue and moan into his mouth. My hand slides down, finding him thick and hard beneath the cotton. He thrusts into my palm with a choked groan.
“Sloane,” he grits out, every muscle tight with restraint.
“I want you,” I whisper, shoving his boxers down. “Now.”
He doesn’t hesitate. He kicks them off, grabs protection from the drawer, but I take it from him with a shake of my head. “Let me.”
I roll the condom on slowly, watching his jaw tighten, his eyes darken. He nearly growls when I finish. Then he grabs my thighs, positions himself between them, and pushes forward.
“Eyes on me,” he says, voice low and absolute.
I look at him as he sinks in, thick and unrelenting. My lips part on a soft cry as he fills me completely, inch after perfect inch until we’re joined fully, nothing between us now but breath and want and heat.
“Fuck,” he groans against my cheek. “You feel like heaven.”
He doesn’t rush. He starts to move with purpose, a rhythm that leaves me gasping, clawing at his back, hips rising to meet every thrust. The tension builds fast, too fast, spiraling higher with every snap of his hips and the filthy praise he murmurs against my throat.
“So good for me,” he breathes. “Taking it so well. You’re gonna come again, aren’t you”
“Close,” I pant. “So close”
His hand slides between us, fingers circling exactly where I need them. “Let go,” he says. “Now. I’ve got you.”
The orgasm hits like a freight train. I cry out, body convulsing around him as I fall apart in his arms. He groans my name, slamming into me one last time before he stills, pulsing inside me with a broken moan.
We stay like that, tangled, chests heaving. His weight is a comforting pressure, his lips brushing my temple as the world slows back down.
“You’re mine,” he whispers, and the way he says it doesn’t sound like a question. It sounds like a vow. "Was it worth enduring dinner with my mother?" he asks finally, humor lacing his voice.
I laugh, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. "Definitely. Though I think she likes me more than you let on."
"She does." His arms tighten around me. "She sees what you are to me."
"And what's that?" I ask, lifting my head to meet his gaze.
In the silver moonlight filtering through the windows, his expression is more vulnerable than I've ever seen it. "The best thing that's ever happened to me."
The simple declaration steals my breath. "Atticus..."
"Too much emotion for post-coital conversation?" A small smile plays at his lips, but I can see the genuine question in his eyes.
"No," I assure him, pressing a soft kiss to his mouth. "Perfect amount. I'm just not used to hearing you so... open."
"I'm not used to feeling this way." His honesty is disarming. "Like I don't need to calculate every word, weigh every potential outcome. With you, I can just... be."
"That's how you've always made me feel," I admit. "Like I don't have to be anything other than exactly who I am."
His smile deepens, reaching his eyes. "And who are you, Sloane Parker?"
"Right now?" I stretch languidly against him, feeling his body respond immediately to the friction. "I'm a woman who's not nearly done with you yet."
His laugh rumbles through his chest beneath my ear. "Is that so?"
"Mmm-hmm." I press a kiss to his jaw, then his neck, working my way down his chest with deliberate slowness. "I believe the term is 'making up for lost time.'"
"Far be it from me to argue with such sound logic." His voice catches as my exploration continues downward. "Though perhaps we should discuss the finer points of this strategy."
"Less talking," I suggest, my hands and mouth making my intentions clear. "More action."
For once in his life, Atticus Morgan follows orders without question.
Later, much later, we lie spent and satisfied, a tangle of limbs and sheets in the darkness. Outside, snow continues to fall, cocooning the cabin in pristine white that turns the moonlight into something magical.
"I could get used to this," I murmur, hovering on the edge of sleep in the circle of his arms.
"Good," he replies, pressing a kiss to my hair. "Because I have no intention of letting you go."
As I drift off to sleep, warm and secure in his embrace, I believe him. Whatever challenges await us, the gala, the Winter Division launch, the inevitable complications of mixing business with pleasure, we'll face them together.
And for now, that's enough.