40. FORTY
Do you have every intention of treating the girl right?
That’s what it came down to. If he stopped listening to the world, and all his fears, all those what-ifs, then it became clear. Of course he was going to treat her right. He wanted nothing else but the chance to. The world and its talk could go hang. What mattered was the two of them. And they weren’t going to hurt each other. They liked each other too much for that. Even in the middle of what was akin to an argument, they both still wanted to make the other smile. And that was fucking precious. This feeling, this endless curiosity, this infinite liking. One soul saying to another, I feel safe with you. That was rare. Priceless. And Jesus Christ, he didn’t know if he deserved it, he wasn’t used to getting the things he wanted, the true things, the desperate, soul-filling things…
“I can trust this?” He raised their clasped hands to his chest. “That it’s real, that you really mean…?”
“Of course it’s real.”
He closed his eyes for a moment.
“Then I… I want everything.” He looked at her, realising what that meant. No holding back, nothing from stopping him… “No half-and-half, but us…”
“Together.”
She met his eyes. Held his look. How was she so strong? Her blue eyes were steady, intent, while his thoughts were already unravelling as he realised, imagined them— He wanted her so badly. And now he could, they could finally—
His eyes dropped to her mouth, heat climbing his spine. He ought to say something meaningful, romantic. “I want…” Yes, that much was obvious. “I want to give you everything. And I want to take. Every smile and look and word and touch. I’m going to be greedy and desperate and selfish and take every single piece of you. Because you’re right. We can’t do this by halves…”
She was smiling. His stupid brain. But fuck, the words had come unbidden. It was only the truth.
“I want that, too,” she whispered.
Their hands were against his heart, and his pulse was wild, beating his ribs, his throat. He was hot everywhere, hard, aching, but he kissed her slowly, delicately. He kissed her closed eyes in turn as though he could turn the press of his lips into a promise that she wouldn’t ever cry again. Not over him. But just the action already made a lie of it, because she let out a shaky breath, half sob, half gasp, as he pulled her to him, and kissed her again, pushed his own tears down, drowned them in the heat of her mouth, the stroke of her tongue, lost all thoughts but the feel of her against him and the need he had for now, more.
His hands stroked down her sides to her waist, slipped under her top to the warmth of her skin. Then he froze. Because her hands were moving, too, down his chest, to the button of his jeans.
He was already painfully hard, but he throbbed harder still as she tugged at the buttons of his fly. She had paused for a half-second when he froze, breaking the kiss. Now her forehead was against his, their breaths mingling, his eyes closed, no room for anything else in his head but the feel of her fingers slipping down to reach him, wrap around him—
Oh fuck.
He made an embarrassing noise, a hiss, a groan. He swore again, out loud this time as she reached around further to take the full thickness of him in her hand. How had he denied himself this for months? The feel of her… Fuck. He’d be an old man and he’d still be kicking himself for these last months because God…
He felt her smile against his lips. She was kissing him, laughing slightly, and he came back to himself a little—only a little. Enough to undress her, pull the clothes from her body, clumsy and hasty and caring for nothing except skin and skin and skin against him. His cock brushed against her naked thigh as he kissed her, nudged the low curve of her belly, he rocked into her for friction, for touch, and she reached for him again, her whole palm warm and tight.
Now she moaned, a hungry little noise as she brushed her thumb over his tip. He felt the slight slickness it left behind, the drop of precum smoothing the glide of her thumb to the base of his shaft and his blurred thoughts spiralled, fractured.
Shit, he wasn’t going to last, not like this. They were still standing where they had kissed, clothes tangled on the floor all around them, her breast in his hand. He pulled back, met her eyes, saw the spark of amusement there because she knew. Of course she knew. He was incoherent, nothing but grunts and need, but he wasn’t about to let this be some woeful, inept fumbling, over in five minutes.
So he reached down, picked her up, and carried her to the bed.
Roscoe did nothing but smile as she protested feebly at being picked up without warning. But then she was on her back on the bed and Roscoe was kneeling over her, was lying at her side, kissing all thoughts of protest from her mind.
He kissed her gently at first, as though they were starting all over again, hadn’t yet touched at all. Then he ran his hand down from where it had been cupping her cheek, over her collarbone, her breast, down to her hip. He moved his hand between her thighs, the brush of his knuckles on the sensitive inner skin maddening. Slowly, he stroked his fingers up to where she was wet and aching. He teased her entrance, luxurious swirls of his thick, strong fingers against her folds, her clit.
It was bliss; it was agony. Because he was planning to torture her all night, she just knew it. And she needed him now, inside her, all the thickness of him, the hard, hot heat that had felt so good in her hand. She needed him in her, needed him to fuck her, stretch her, fill her, the weight of him over her, wrists pinned to the bed while he took her, slammed into her, made her see stars—
“Roscoe…”
He pushed a finger inside and she moaned, hips moving as he fingered her. His thumb was on her clit, his mouth was on her breast, he was hard against her hip, her thigh, the muscle of his arm against her cheek, the scent, the heat, the feel of him everywhere, but:
“Please.” She reached for him, closed her hand around him. His head dropped to her shoulder, and he let out a ragged breath as she stroked him hard. Then he was moving, was off the bed, reaching for his jeans. He came back to her, all muscle, eyes dark and far gone as he watched her while he rolled the condom on.
She remembered this Roscoe, the one from the lift, hungry and sure. He knelt on the bed, knelt between her legs, one large hand wrapped around her thigh and spread her wide. His eyes dipped down, taking in the sight of her. Then the hand on her thigh moved to her backside, his other one joining it, and he lifted her hips from the bed, angled her so he could lean down and taste her, nothing delicate now, but possessive and unapologetic.
Her head tipped back at the sweep of his tongue. She gasped, dizzy, then he sat back and lifted her a little higher, her pussy spread and waiting. He held himself at her entrance, watching his tip nudge her. His eyes met hers.
“You want this?”
She could hardly speak. Everything was trembling with anticipation. Her heart, her core, her thoughts. If she didn’t have him, she would die.
“Yes.”
Eyes on hers, he pushed inside her, the whole of his thick length pushing deep. He looked down, watched himself disappear inside her, pulled her to him until he was seated fully, his chest rising and falling, teeth gritted as though he, too, was reeling, only keeping hold of his mind by the thinnest thread because…fuck, this felt good, and he was so big, she was so full, sensation after sensation rippling through her and he hadn’t even moved.
“Poppy… Fuck… You feel so fucking good.”
He lifted her hips, rocked her back and forth, using her to fuck him, and she was limp, helpless in his grip, had given herself over completely to whatever he wanted to do with her. She didn’t care, so long as he kept doing it, kept filling her, kept those waves of beating pleasure building.
Slowly, he rocked her, moved her up and down his length, until he didn’t have the control even for that, or maybe they both just needed more at exactly the same moment, because he settled her back on the bed, came to lie over her, and for a second he was gone. But then he was filling her again, kissing her once, twice, before driving into her just the way she wanted. Roscoe fucking her hard and dirty, holding nothing back, as desperate and greedy as she was, his breath hoarse against her cheek.
He held her to him, a hand slipping under her backside, lifting her so her clit could grind against him, his fingers tightly gripping her soft flesh, fingers reaching to where she was slick with her own arousal, to that secret sensitive spot just beyond where he filled her. A cluster burst of new sensation, more pleasure than she could keep track of, her mind spilling open, dissolving, black velvet behind her eyes. The feel of him again, again, a building rhythm, the crests of a hundred waves. Nothing but him moving over her, inside her. Harder, so she was crying out with every thrust, until light was fracturing, until it hit and she was tumbling down, Roscoe still with her, her name against her throat, Roscoe still with her. Always with her.
He kissed her gasping breaths. Stayed buried inside her.
He said, “I love you.”