Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
Despite having woken up to a woman in bed with him less than a dozen times in his life, he knew exactly whose hand traced the lines of his chest through his T-shirt. Maybe because it had always ever been only the same woman.
“Helia,” he said, capturing her hand and pulling it to his lips. Her caresses were having a predictable effect. He’d never get back to sleep if he let her touches go any further.
She snuggled into his side, the smell of her hair surrounding him. He couldn’t place the scent, too earthy to be vanilla yet too sweet to be herbal.
“Sorry,” she said, her voice clearer than he expected in the pitch of night. “I slept so much today and now I’m wide-awake. I’ll try not to bug you.”
“You’re not bugging me,” he grumbled. He hadn’t found pleasure with a woman in nearly two decades, but his body had no problem remembering, and every nerve rippled awake in anticipation.
He didn’t have to wait long for Helia’s restlessness to take over, and her hand slipped under his shirt, splaying across his hip.
“Can I touch you?” she whispered. As if he’d say no now. He’d laid all his cards on the table already. So had she. If she still wanted to play—metaphorically and literally—who was he to tell her no? Not when he wanted the same. Desperately.
“Yes, remember who you’re with, though.”
He’d meant to remind her of his past and his lack of experience.
He’d meant it as a warning that he wasn’t entirely sure how much he’d be able to take before his body did what aroused bodies do.
But she chuckled and ran her hand up his chest, settling it over his heart. “I’m not likely to forget, Collin.”
He sat up, and she rolled to her back, cocking her head in curiosity.
The room was too dark to see her eyes, though, and he didn’t like that.
Rising from bed, he walked to the window and pulled the drapes open.
Between the privacy of Bacco and being on the third floor, he wasn’t concerned about anyone seeing him.
In the moonlight, he pulled his shirt off, tossing it on a nearby chair.
Helia sat up, crossing one leg in front of her. She’d fallen fast asleep when he’d carried her to bed earlier, but he’d managed to divest her of her socks and jeans. At some point, she must have taken her bra off. Now she sat watching him wearing nothing but a T-shirt and underwear.
“Take the rest off,” she said.
He complied, sliding his boxer briefs down and stepping out. In the filtered light of the room, her eyes took in every inch of his body. He swelled, a welcome pain, under her eager attention.
“Your tattoos, they mean something,” she said.
“They do.”
She studied him another minute, and he almost turned around to give her the full 360 view but froze when she tore her own shirt off and tossed it on the chair beside his.
Shadows fell across her body, tracing the lines and curves of her skin.
He ached to be touched, to feel her sliding over him, taking him inside her.
His heart pounded, heavy and thick against his ribs, in anticipation of feeling her close around him.
Of hearing the sounds she’d make. Of feeling her body bow, her muscles contract, and the vibration of her voice when she cried out.
He chose not to think about why he’d never been able to experience what he experienced with Helia with another woman. Or everything his father had done to him. None of that belonged in the room. None of it belonged between them.
“Take the rest off,” he said, repeating her words.
She scrambled on the bed and soon her little black panties landed on the floor beside his boxers. Again, she crossed one leg in front of her, opening her thighs and exposing all of her to him.
Need, heat, desire slammed into him, and he all but growled as he stalked back to the bed, intent on only one thing. Touching Helia. Every part of her.
Sliding a hand into her hair, he tipped her head up, slamming his mouth down on hers in a demanding, feral kiss. Her hands gripped his biceps and although he had the height advantage, she gave as much as she took.
They kissed for hours, minutes. Who knew how long they spent feeling the heat, the history, and the longing that had always existed between them roar and soar back to life.
Then abruptly, it wasn’t enough. He needed more. He needed more of her.
Taking a half step away, he sank to his knees, setting his hands on her knees as he lowered. Untangling her legs, he spread her thighs, tugged her to the edge of the bed, and set his mouth on her.
She jumped at the sudden contact, but a reverent moan followed as her nails dug into his hair. He took that as a green light to continue tasting her, devouring her. He wasn’t sure how long he’d last once inside her, but he could stay here on his knees for her for hours.
Her first orgasm hit, and she arched her back into his eager lips, calling his name and chasing away any lingering doubts. Freedom replaced the shackles of his history, and trust flowed between them as strong and as unstoppable as the tide.
Reveling in the power of it, he slid a finger, then two inside her. She panted and moaned and whispered his name. His body wept when she came again, squeezing him, reminding him of what it felt like—what it would feel like—to be buried inside her.
He eased her down from her second peak, then kissed his way up her belly, pausing to take one nipple in his mouth, then the other.
Her hands slid from his hair to his cheeks, and she tipped his head up and lowered her lips to his.
She had the height advantage now, and she teased and tasted him before urging him over her.
He rose slowly, unwilling to release contact with her, and kissed her as she scooted back on the bed, making room for him.
No words were spoken when he settled between her thighs, when he ran his hands down her sides, tracing the dip of her waist and the curve of her breast. When her hands stroked the line of his back and curled over his behind.
No words were spoken when she lifted her hips and pulled him into her body.
He closed his eyes as he moved, her heat and her body so familiar yet all so new.
“Collin.” Her fingers dug into the small of his back, her heels against his thighs.
He speared a hand through her hair and tipped her head up to his. Setting his lips to hers, he kissed her with a hunger that was all about her. No one and nothing but her.
“More,” she managed to say between pants as his lips trailed a hot path down her neck.
He’d never not give her what she wanted, not in this.
Sliding a hand down, he wrapped it around her hip, holding her still.
She whimpered at not being able to move with him, but it turned into a moan when he withdrew, teased her entrance with a series of short thrusts before sinking all the way in again.
A throaty, needy sound escaped her body, and she stiffened as he held her firm against the bed, thrusting into her.
When her nails dug into his flesh and her back arched, nothing had ever felt so good.
Liquid heat poured from her body, lighting him on fire.
Her muscles fluttered, then gripped him as if they never wanted to let him go.
In a haze, he heard Helia call his name one more time as he rode them through her orgasm, before finding his own with a blinding roar.
Temple to temple, they caught their breath as their bodies hummed and slowed with the memories. Slowly, she lifted a hand, the tips of her fingers tracing a line up his spine, over his neck, and to his jaw. On a gentle nudge, he raised his head and met her sated eyes.
There were no jokes, no words even. Just a rare certainty, both soft and strong, stretching between them. Binding them to each other.
She smiled quietly, her hazel eyes tender and wise. He leaned down and brushed his lips across hers before withdrawing and shifting to her side. Gathering her in his arms, he drifted off to sleep with a peace he hadn’t felt in nearly two decades.
Sunlight touched the edges of their window when they woke again. Through two floors of ancient stone and wood, he heard movement on the ground floor. Dim but unmistakable. At least one person was up.
“How’d you sleep?” Muffled through the thick comforter, he could barely make out Helia’s words.
“Better than I have in a long time,” he answered honestly. The sex was a part of that, but not the whole reason. Or even the main one.
The blankets shifted and Helia’s face emerged, her hair scattered across her cheek and forehead. He chuckled, rolled to face her, then gently swept the strands aside. He tipped his head to kiss her, but she set her fingers to his lips and held him in place.
“I have morning breath.”
He raised a brow. “I don’t care,” he replied, his lips dancing over the pads of her fingers.
“I do,” she replied, then wrinkled her nose. “I know. Not romantic, is it? But I don’t want to kill you with my dragon breath.”
“Want me to get a glass of water? Mouthwash? I think I saw some in the bathroom,” he offered, making a mental note to leave a bottle of water beside their bed. He could make mint iced tea and leave it in a water bottle. That would do the job.
“I have a different idea,” she said, rolling him onto his back and straddling him.
He had no idea what her idea was, but he was on board with it.
She ran a fingertip across his jaw, down his neck, then traced the line of pecs.
“Tell me about this tattoo?” she asked, running her fingers over a series of white lilies about the size of her palm.
“Saint Maria Goretti is always depicted with lilies,” he answered.
Her eyes lifted to his. “I didn’t know you’re religious.”
“I’m not. But she’s the patron saint of abused children—one of them, anyway. There’s Mater Matuta and Bastet on there, too. I’m good with anyone, or anything, that wants to protect children.”
“I know Bastet,” she said, bending her head as she found the Egyptian cat. “But who’s Mater Matuta?”