Chapter 21
CAN’T GET ENOUGH
Margot
I’ve never been a prude about sex.
But I’ve also never had my entire world blown like that before.
We stay in the truck, me splayed across Rhys, him with his arms spread as far as they can go in the confines of his truck, both of us panting until we catch our breath a while later.
“Again?” I finally whisper as I realize how dark it is outside.
Rhys chuckles beneath me.
I’d give myself a high five for prompting a laugh from this grumpy mountain of a man if I had the energy.
“Good thing I’m trained to push my body past its limits,” he murmurs.
“Was that past its limits?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
“Still breathing, aren’t I?”
He is.
He’s breathing deep and steady, with his heart thumping solidly beneath my ear.
He’s still in his flannel, with his undershirt pushed as far up as it’ll stay, courtesy of me.
I smile and press a kiss to his chest, getting mostly white T-shirt under my lips.
“Two more minutes,” he murmurs, kissing the top of my head.
“And then?”
“And then I’ll carry you into the house and show you what I can still do.”
The truck smells like sex and leather, and I’m realizing how quickly the temperature is dropping.
Not that I mind.
It’s comfortable here.
As comfortable as it can be with both of us squished into the driver’s seat.
I start to giggle.
Yeah.
Giggle.
I laugh regularly.
Cackle sometimes too.
But I’ve never been a giggler.
“You doubt me?” Rhys asks through a yawn.
“Never. Just—just happy.”
I don’t elaborate on the realization that I haven’t been as happy as I want to be.
Don’t think I need to.
Rhys—he seems to be in the same spot.
Or worse.
He heaves a thick, heavy sigh, and then he shifts beneath me. “I’m keeping your panties.”
I smile until my eyes sting with it. “You break ’em, you buy ’em.”
He laughs.
And then he’s in motion, tucking my dress down, disposing of the condom in a tissue from a pack neatly stored in the console between the seats, and somehow buttoning his pants back up despite the lack of help I give him.
I kinda want to stay splayed here forever.
But he’s opening the truck door, illuminating us with the cab light. “Grab more condoms.”
A delicious shiver slinks through me. “Bossy.”
“As if you can talk.”
We unpretzel ourselves, and I drop the three condom strips I can see into the box while he slides out of the truck.
When I turn to get out too, he’s blocking my way.
“What—” I start, and then I understand as he tugs my legs around his waist and lifts me.
“Oh,” I murmur, looping my arms around him and hooking my ankles behind his back.
He shuts the truck door, and I make myself useful by pressing kisses to his neck.
“Fuck, Margot,” he whispers.
“Does your dick taste as good as your neck?”
His rough grunt is the only acknowledgment I get.
He’s parked next to the door again, so it’s a short walk in, though it takes him three tries to get the door code entered right.
I’m sure that has nothing to do with me licking him just beneath his ear or with me playing with his hair.
But then we’re inside, and he’s palming my ass with both hands, carrying me through the dimly lit house while kissing me hard and deep, his tongue tangling with mine, until he’s striding into the bedroom, laying me on the bed and following me down.
I left a single lamp on, and it’s causing shadows to fall across his face as he looks at me.
“Clothes off,” I order.
He pushes up long enough to shake off his flannel and strip out of his undershirt, and holy god.
I can’t keep my hands to myself.
Not when there’s that broad expanse of chest sprinkled with dark hair that swirls around his two perfect copper nipples to explore.
With my tongue.
“Margot,” he says again, that same warning tone he used in the truck when I know he was close to coming.
“What?”
“You’re still dressed.”
“I’m not wearing any panties. Or a bra.”
His pants tent like he didn’t just come in the truck, and I grin as I reach for the button on his jeans again.
He shucks his shoes as I push his pants and boxers out of the way, and I get a full view of the beauty that is Rhys O’Malley’s penis.
He really is large.
Thick, slightly curved, with a jagged purple vein looping just beneath the blunt tip of his head and heavy balls nestled in a bed of dark curls.
He catches my wrist as I reach for him. “You. Naked.”
I bat my lashes at him. “I forgot how to take my clothes off.”
He stares at me for a beat, and then that smile pops out again.
“Did you now?” he asks as he crawls onto the bed.
I nod. “Brain go poof.”
He peels my jean jacket back off my shoulders, pausing to press kisses to each of my shoulders, then trailing his tongue down each of my arms as he exposes them too. “You’re leaving these boots on.”
My vagina squeezes, pleasure pooling already between my legs again. “You like a woman to wear shoes to bed?”
“That’s a lot of words for someone who forgot how to take her own clothes off.”
I like this man.
I really, really do.
He’s funny and quick and everything about him screams I just want someone to love me as much as I’m capable of loving them.
Once he has my jacket off, pausing to linger with my hands, pressing kisses to my palms and my wrists in a way that makes me shiver from a place deep in my soul, the part of me that’s always taking care of things and never asking to be taken care of—not emotionally, anyway—he makes quick work of pulling my dress over my head.
He looks at me, hungry eyes scanning me from head to toe and back again while I lean on the bed in nothing but my cowboy boots.
But again—he makes slow work of sliding his hands down my body, kissing and licking and nipping at my neck, then my shoulder, my breasts, down to my belly, while we whisper nonsense mixed with arguments about me getting a turn to touch him and him reminding me that I’m a terrible apple slicer, which is so unrelated to everything that I laugh until he dips his tongue over my belly button.
And then nothing’s funny and everything’s hot and heavy and hurried.
The man settles between my thighs, hooks one of my legs over his shoulder, and eats my pussy like he’s been denied food for a month.
He’s rough and not shy about using his teeth on my inner thigh and my clit and knows when to tease me and when to finally let me come.
And after he’s made me scream his name with his tongue, he grabs a condom, rolls me onto my stomach, and grips my hips while he takes me from behind.
I have never—ever—in my entire life—been so thoroughly fucked.
“You’re going to break me,” he murmurs after he’s collapsed beside me on the bed, both of us spent from coming again.
Again.
The man’s given me four orgasms in an hour.
Good thing I’m off tomorrow.
I might not be able to walk.
“Who’s breaking who?” I murmur back.
He shifts, grunting as he moves. The room plunges into darkness, and then he’s pulling me against him.
“Rhys?” I whisper.
“Mm?”
“I’m still in my cowboy boots.”
“Are you trying to make me hard again?”
There I go, giggling once more. “And it’ll get cold in here.”
“You’ve been cold?”
“No. Not under the covers.”
More grunting.
Some swearing.
I start to move, but he sits up faster than I can, probably because he’s cheating.
It’s hard to want to move when he’s trailing his blunt, rough fingertips down my bare legs.
One of my feet comes out of a boot, which thumps to the floor, followed by the other.
“Socks?” he says.
I can take my own socks off. But I murmur a soft, “Off, please.”
He peels them off, kisses each of my big toes, grunts and grumbles a little more, and then he’s rolling me under the quilt. “Better?”
“Almost.”
The floorboards squeak under him as he leaves the room.
I sit up. “Rhys?”
“Condom.”
“Again?”
“Getting rid of it.”
He returns to the bedroom a minute later and pulls the quilt off me. “What—oh.”
He brought me a warm washcloth.
And he’s using it to clean me between my legs.
I grab his arm. “Rhys.”
“Yeah?”
Thank you isn’t enough, so I hook my arm around his neck and pull him close, kissing him softly.
He sighs against my lips, finishes wiping me, then tosses the washcloth on the floor and finally—finally—climbs into bed with me.
“You’re softer than I thought,” he murmurs between kisses while he strokes my back.
“Wasn’t always.”
“How do you balance it?”
“Therapy, meditation, and channeling my stubborn nature.”
He huffs out a soft laugh. “The way I could’ve guessed that…”
“I got oldest daughter syndrome in spades.”
Our legs are tangled, each with one arm wrapped around the other, and peace is creeping over me.
“Tell me about being in the Marines,” I murmur.
“Which part?”
“Where you lived. Did you ever spend time overseas? How long were you in? What was your favorite part? What do you miss?”
“Are you tired at all? Or do you ask this many questions in your sleep?”
“I’m tired.”
“You sure?”
I stifle a yawn. “Mm-hmm. Tell me your favorite part.”
“The people,” he says softly. “Always the people. Then the mission. Being part of something bigger than myself. With other people who believed in the same thing.”
“Mm.”
He cups his hand behind my head and kisses my forehead. “Go to sleep, Margot. Need your rest so I can fuck you senseless again tomorrow.”
I think I giggle.
Not entirely sure.
Because all of this peace—it’s taking over.
And I think I’m falling asleep.