Chapter 33
33
Davis
Sleeping next to Sloane all night—or not sleeping next to her while she slept—is torture.
I want to kiss her.
I want to lick every square inch of her body.
I want her to give me another chance to get it right with making love to her.
And when I realize I’m calling it making love and not screwing around , that’s when I realize it’s time to get going for the day.
To get some distance.
To focus on what I can and can’t give her.
To quit fantasizing that I can give her anything beyond a fake wedding ring and my friendship.
So I’m up before the sun, rolling out of bed with a new guilt sitting on my conscience, leaving Sloane sleeping because she needs it and I need to get a grip on my head and my emotions and my body.
I hit the weight room off Beck’s garage and punch the shit out of a bag for a while. Chuck’s still on duty. When I pass him on my way back to the pool house, he nods.
I nod back.
No other talking necessary.
Maybe he means love sucks .
Maybe he means you’re up early .
Don’t care.
Both are true.
The bedroom door’s still closed—good—so I grab a change of clothes and head into the bathroom.
I’ve just wrapped a towel around my waist after stepping out of the shower when the bathroom door bangs open fast enough to startle me.
Sloane’s wide-eyed, fully awake, with my computer in her hand, looking every bit as bright and cheery and excited as I’ve ever seen her. “Why did your cabin have two outhouses?”
“What?” I shift so she can’t see the effect her excitement is having on my biological weapon.
I see her, I get hard.
Every time.
“Two outhouses. Two bathrooms. It’s barely a two-room cabin, and it had two outhouses. That’s an outhouse, right? And there too? Or they were. That’s what all of the other closed but not discarded outhouses looked like on the old satellite imagery we got for the interactive part of the museum that hasn’t opened yet.”
She sets the computer on the sink and points to two small squares on the cabin property, as zoomed in as she can get the satellite imagery.
I lean over and peer at where she’s pointing, grateful that she definitely won’t notice the movement in my dick while I’m leaning like this.
Also grateful that she’s close enough that our arms are brushing, and the steam still in the bathroom is making her familiar cinnamon scent stronger.
I love the way she smells.
And I need to fucking focus.
I blink at the computer again, identifying the remnants of the outhouse I’m familiar with on the north side of the cabin.
I verified that it was an outhouse when I first arrived here, but she’s right.
There’s another square that could’ve been another outhouse tucked in among a thick layer of bushes.
I didn’t zoom in this close on the cabin with the maps and satellite views because I was on the ground. I could inspect every inch myself.
Except I didn’t go crawling into a big clump of bushes.
“Not unusual to have to dig a second outhouse for a building that old,” I say. “Maybe not common, but also not uncommon. Depends on how well the first was dug.”
“But is it actually a second outhouse? Or is it something else? Can you tell?”
“No idea from here.”
She slaps my ass. “Then get a move on. We might be digging up shit, or we might be digging up shit .”
Our eyes meet in the mirror, and she freezes.
Then turns pink in the cheeks.
Then looks down.
And not at my towel.
No, she’s looking down at her own bare legs under another one of my T-shirts.
“Sorry,” she stutters. “Moment. Mood. Called for—I’m going to go get dressed.”
Fuck it.
Just fuck it.
I straighten, turn, back her against the door, and kiss her.
I kiss the ever-loving shit out of her.
Like I wanted to all night.
All day yesterday.
Every moment since she asked me to be her fake groom.
Possibly every moment since she told me I ruined her life that night that we were playing darts.
Her hands settle on my chest as she opens her mouth for me, and she sighs.
I know that sigh.
It’s a happy, this is so right sigh.
She said she missed kissing.
I didn’t.
I don’t miss physical activity with people who don’t matter to me.
But I’ll miss kissing her when she’s gone.
When this is over.
If we don’t find the treasure, it doesn’t have to be over.
If we get married for real so that her grandmother and that dickweed can’t question it and I can take advantage of a few more legal protections for her, it doesn’t have to be over.
We can do that.
We can get married for real. I never intended to marry anyone else, and she’s never marrying anyone else either, so why not?
Convenient.
Benefits.
The thought of never having to let her go makes me harder.
The thought of being inside her again turns me into granite.
The way she’s kissing me back and scraping her fingernails down my neck and parting her legs and lifting one around my hips—exquisite heaven.
I shove her T-shirt up and find those rosy nipples that I want to feast on.
Sloane gasps as I suck on her nipple. “Oh my god, more.”
“Feels good?” I ask against her breast.
“I can feel it in my pussy when you do that.”
I suck again.
She gasps again.
I reach between her legs and find her panties soaked.
“Off,” she pants.
One quick motion, and they’re gone, and there it is.
My treasure.
My real treasure.
I drop to my knees, hook one of her legs over my shoulder, and lick her, and she grips my hair. “Can’t—fall—asleep—you—sneaky—bastard.”
I smile against her pussy, and then I devour it until she’s screaming my name.
I don’t want her to fall asleep.
I want her to feel good.
I want her to remember how my mouth feels between her legs.
I want her to think about me every single time she touches herself for the rest of her life.
And I don’t care how hard my dick is or how much my balls ache to be inside of her.
I just care that she’s coming hard in my mouth.
That she feels good.
That something about this will have been worthwhile for her.
“Oh my god, Davis,” she pants, her hands still tangled in my hair, her eyelids heavy.
She shakes her head.
Shakes it again. “I’m awake.”
I press a kiss to her lower belly. “Guess I did it wrong.”
She huffs out a laugh. “You did not . Come here. I want to kiss you.”
Fuck, this woman.
This woman and her gorgeous body and her sweet pussy and her eager mouth and her hands shoving my towel away and stroking my cock?—
My eyes cross before I can kiss her, and I drop my head to her shoulder.
“I want you inside me,” she whispers.
I slap at air until my hand connects with the sink, then reach lower for a drawer while she keeps stroking me.
My hand connects with another strip of condoms—thank fuck for Beck—and then everything’s in motion again.
Sloane taking the condoms from me.
Rolling one down me.
Hooking her leg around my hips again.
Whispering, “Do me against the door.”
I’m sliding into her sweet, swollen heat. Feeling her body wrap around me while she grips my hair and holds eye contact.
I pump once slowly.
Don’t come don’t come don’t come .
One more, faster.
Her eyes cross. “Oh god, there.”
I thrust again, and she bites her lower lip while her eyelids droop. “More.”
“You’re so fucking gorgeous.”
Don’t come don’t come don’t come .
Four thrusts, and she throws her head back.
“Don’t fake it.”
She almost smiles. “As if I’d— oh my god , more, please, right there .”
My hips jerk on their own as she squeezes her legs tighter around me, riding me while I plunge deeper and harder into her, my balls getting tight, my cock ready to blow, but I want?—
“ Davis ,” she gasps, and then she’s squeezing my cock harder with her inner walls, tight, hot spasms that finally push me over the edge, to the point of pain as I press as hard as I can, as deep as I can, wanting to float on this ecstasy forever.
She whimpers and writhes as she comes again, every motion spurring my own release thicker and heavier and bigger.
What am I going to do without her?
How the ever-loving fuck will I get over her?
Her body sags while I’m still coming inside her, and she drops her head to my shoulder.
I smell cinnamon and I can still taste her orgasm and I am so completely fucked that I will never be unfucked, nor will I ever be so fucked again, because you cannot get more fucked than I am right now.
In both the good and the bad ways.
The last of my climax fades away in a lingering shudder, and I drop my head to her shoulder too.
“Not—falling—asleep,” she whispers. “Holy hell, that was good.”
“You’re good.”
“You’re better.”
My arms are wrapped around her, one around her waist, one under her ass, and I don’t want to let go.
I don’t ever want to let go.
I want this moment—both of us catching our breath, our bodies still connected, the scent and taste of her surrounding me—I want to live in this moment forever.
This moment where I believe in love.
In peace.
In clarity.
In us.
Her fingers drift through my hair, still too short, still foreign, but I’m glad she was the one who cut it.
“Davis?” she whispers.
“Hmm?”
“Thank you for being the best part of this insane week.”
I hug her tighter.
She hasn’t been the best part of this week for me.
She’s been the best part of my whole life.