Chapter 35
THIRTY-FIVE
Nova
I’m limp and exhaustion is pulling at my limbs, but I want him inside me.
I need him to fill me, need him to fuck me hard and fast.
He starts to pull away, crawling back up my body, giving no indication that he’s going to get undressed, that he’s going to take what’s freely on offer.
Butterflies in my belly again.
Because I’m learning that’s Lake.
He and his branch may have a reputation, he might be gruff and a bit of an asshole (all the better to keep people away from him), but he’s also nice and considerate and—
Has a supremely talented tongue.
A finger traces along the perimeter of my mouth, the edges of my smile. “What?” he asks.
“You’re a good guy.”
I feel him still, manage to peel open my eyes to see his face. “What?”
A shake of his head. “Why are you smiling?”
“Because I like your tongue,” I say lightly, sensing he needs the light, needing that lightness for myself.
Because of the squeeze in my heart, the butterflies in my belly.
Because of this man.
His mouth curves. “I think I got that.”
“And,” I say, bending my leg and rubbing it along his side, “I know that you promised me orgasms—as in plural—so you’re not about to go back to watching the movie.”
He dances his fingers along my side. “I’m not?”
“No.” I lean up, press my lips to the hinge of his jaw. “You’re not.”
His mouth curves into a wicked smile. “No,” he says, hand diving between my legs, a thick finger sliding deep without warning.
I gasp.
“I’m not.”
And then he’s fully on top of me, his mouth dropping to mine, his tongue in my mouth, his hand working me. I just came. My limbs are heavy and aftershocks of pleasure are coursing through my body.
But he has no mercy.
He plunders my mouth and fucks me with his fingers and just when I think I can’t go another second without breath, he breaks the kiss, contorts his body and uses his lips and teeth and tongue on one breast and then the other and—
“Fuck,” I gasp, pussy clamping around his fingers, the orgasm coming so quickly that I’m flying apart before I even realize I’ve ascended the peak.
Even then, though, he doesn’t give me a break.
He just spreads my legs, slowly pulls his fingers free, and then his hips are poised over mine and he’s notched the head of his cock in my pussy and—
I groan, dropping my head back as pleasure fires through me in tiny bursts of sensation as he strokes home—a long, persistent thrust this time, no mercy again as he impales me until he’s balls deep.
That sends a blip of something through my mind, a worry, some distant thought my brain says I should pay attention to.
But I’m in too deep.
The sensation is overwhelming, but in the best possible way.
“God, you feel good,” he rasps with a nip to my throat.
And it’s that little press of his teeth that pulls the pin.
Everything unfurls, explodes open, reality screeches to a halt and…
Then disappears as I break apart again.
I slide back to life with him fucking me hard and fast, his gold and green and brown eyes burning into mine, his muscles taut and standing out in sharp relief.
“Fuck,” he grunts, hips pistoning. “So fucking beautiful.”
And then I get to watch him come.
And it might be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
Butterflies take flight in my belly.
In my heart.
Because the most beautiful part is what comes next.
He collapses on top of me, his heavy weight almost too much, something I know he’s thinking about because he immediately rolls us to our sides.
And then he takes me in his arms.
And I think that perhaps rushing to move forward isn’t always best.
Because in this moment, with Lake’s arms around me, my body lax with pleasure, smelling his spicy scent, feeling warm and safe and…
Wanted.
I can’t imagine ever wanting anything else.
“What do you think of this one?” I ask, mischief coursing through me late the next day.
We didn’t do any online shopping the night before.
We fucked and saved Steve from his prison in the bathroom then watched crappy television until we both passed out. I slept clear through to the morning, helped by those multiple orgasms and the many honey rosemary mules I made.
The recipe for which, apparently, was going to be on Lake’s social media. And the vodka company’s.
Something that was Lake’s idea. He asked me and then mentioned it to his publicist and the marketing department for Lake Vodka.
Everyone loved it.
Now my drink was going to be Instagram—and TikTok, I suppose, since we also made a video of us creating a couple of the cocktails earlier today—famous.
Go me.
Nothing was posted yet, so my fame awaited, and aside from the making the video and drinking copious mules and alternating between Christmas movies and looking through the shots I took over the last few days, I spent the hours eating the delicious food Lake made in between fucking on the relatively few flat surfaces in this house.
A busy day.
But it also sort of feels like a vacation.
No fighting. No angst. No asshole.
Just me. My dog. And Lake.
Who glances up, already having lost any enthusiasm for shopping online after about five whole minutes.
The last couple of hours as we’ve trolled the interwebs for deals on barstools and a guest bedroom set and a couch (and a coffee table!), he’s alternated between focusing intently on the string of movies playing and looking out the windows, the snow still falling but much less steady than it had been even earlier in the day.
Snowmageddon winding down.
Soon we would be plowed out.
I would go back to my life.
Go back to looking forward.
Steve huffs out a sigh, leaning more heavily against Lake’s strong thigh.
“What the fuck is that?” he asks.
I start giggling.
I can’t help it.
His expression is just too good.
“It’s only the perfect piece of artwork for your family room,” I say, chortling at the portrait of a reality star sitting on a throne, a lion perched at his side. “It’s five feet by eight feet and—”
He plucks my computer out of my lap. “I see you can’t be trusted for any more furniture shopping, butterfly,” he says, disturbing Steve, who groans, as he sets the laptop on the nightstand, well out of my reach.
“Why do you really call me butterfly?”
He stills. “I told you,” he says edgily.
I still.
Then…forward.
“You spun some nonsense about the pushpins.”
“Considering I plucked them out of your body, I would say they made an impression.”
I shiver and he notices—something I’m realizing is normal for him. He pulls the blanket up over me, tucking me in, covering me in warmth. It’s a distraction and a good one, and if this was any other day, any other man, I would just let my question go.
But it’s Lake.
And…I want to know.
So, I take a breath—convince myself this is me moving forward—and I say, “That’s not the only reason.”