Chapter 17 Jane #2
He shakes his head almost imperceptibly, as though he doesn’t know how to answer, then grabs the sides of my head and takes my mouth in a soul-stealing kiss.
It isn’t fast or hurried, but is no less intense for it.
Without words, our bodies speak about things our heads won’t allow and our hearts will only half believe.
As our tongues thrust against one another, Chance’s hands grip the globes of my ass and guide my movements. Breaking the kiss, he encourages me. “That’s it, baby. Work yourself on my dick. This is all you. Take what you need from me.”
Slow and steady, I grind myself on him in fluid strokes. Back and forth, in mini circles, up and down, I do it all. He groans and cusses. His hands roam over my body, hefting the weight of my breasts, tweaking my nipples then sucking them into his mouth.
The sparks in my belly have turned into an all-out conflagration of desire, sending invisible waves of heat rippling under the surface of my skin as my climax grows nearer.
My motions pick up speed, and I’m racing toward the finish and the high I know awaits me at the end, yet still never wanting to stop, never wanting this amazing feeling to get away, in case I never get this opportunity again.
“You’re so sexy, Jane, you know that? And beautiful. So goddamn beautiful it hurts.”
“Oh God, Chance, I…I’m…”
“Fuck, you’re getting tighter. Don’t stop,” he grinds out, then reaches down to rub my swollen clit. “Keep going, baby. I want you squeezing my cock when I come.”
“Yessssss…” White light eclipses my vision, and I give a keening cry as my orgasm finally crests, atomizing into a million specks of pleasure that flood my body.
He pumps once, twice, and the third time he holds and shudders his release, roaring into the side of my neck as he spills himself inside me. I hold on to him tightly, and my limbs tremble as he rocks us through the last of the aftershocks.
I don’t know how long we sit like that, fused together, but the water is barely lukewarm when he finally lifts his head.
His cheeks are flushed, his lips swollen from our kisses.
Unable to resist, I run my fingers through his damp locks, pushing them back from his face and letting my nails lightly trail over his scalp.
I discovered how much he likes that a few days ago, and now I love doing it whenever I can.
I love watching his eyes close and his head drop back onto his shoulders as the shivers roll through him.
I love that I can do something so innocent that gives him just as visceral a reaction as when we’re doing much less innocent things.
I take advantage and lean in to dust kisses under his stubbly jawline, causing him to groan and press his forehead to mine. “Are you trying to kill me, woman?”
I smile coyly and draw designs through the trim hair on his muscular chest. “That depends,” I say. “Would another go-round kill you?”
His quiet laugh comes from deep in his chest, and I can feel the vibrations in my fingertips. “Definitely not. But even if it did,” he says as he traces my lower lip, “it’d be worth it.”
I still, taking in his words and the way his eyes are boring into mine, and tell myself not to look too much into them.
Sexually, we’re great together, neither of us has ever denied that, and that’s exactly what he probably meant.
He certainly couldn’t mean that making love to me was far more necessary than he’d thought possible.
Though, if I let myself reflect on things too closely, I might come to that conclusion myself and realize that I’d fallen fast and hard for my handyman stripper.
A chill races over my skin, and he immediately snaps out of Flirty Chance and back into caretaker mode. “Come on, sweetness, let’s get you warmed up and into bed. Round two can wait until you’ve had some rest.”
Tired and sated, I let him lift me from the tub and dry me off with a towel that had been hanging on a warming rack.
It’s like wrapping up in a blanket that just came out of a hot dryer and has now ruined me for all future post-bathing ventures, as did noticing his multi-showerhead marble shower stall with bench seat.
I seriously do want to move into Chance’s master bathroom.
When he picks me up, the independent feminist in me is ready with an “I can walk” protest. But as soon as I’m cradled against him, my arms instinctively go around his neck, and I press my cheek onto his shoulder, quickly shutting the bitch up. I can walk some other damn time.
He sets me in the middle of his luxuriously unmade bed—which makes me feel better about my own perpetually rumpled bed—and gets in as he pulls the covers around us.
Romeo hops up from wherever he was on the floor and, after several turns in place, curls into a little ball on the side we’re not using.
Chuckling, I give him a couple of scratches behind his ears, then sigh in contentment as I sink into the mattress that probably costs more than half a year’s rent at my apartment.
But it isn’t until Chance tunnels an arm under my head and wraps the other one around my middle to tuck me into his chest that I know what true contentment is.
I feel a tender kiss at my temple, and as my breathing evens out, and exhaustion finally tugs me into the shadows of my mind, I hear echoes of a whisper I can’t be sure came from reality and not the beginning of a dream.
“I more than like you, Jane. A lot more. And it’s scaring the hell out of me.”
That makes two of us…