Her nails dug into my back and I hissed, telling her “more” and “yes” and wanting her to mark me, to leave something that would still be there tomorrow.

She came once, and then again, and once more, and pulled at her hair, looking wild and untamed. I collapsed on her, incoherently stringing words together as I came, trying to tell her what we both already knew: that whatever happened outside of this room was irrelevant.

Sixteen

We slowly returned from orbit, and with limbs tangled in the sheets, talked for hours about our day, about the meeting with Gugliotti, about his dinner and my night out with friends. We talked about the broken desk, and that I only packed enough underwear for a week, so he couldn’t ruin any more.

We talked about everything except the havoc he was wreaking on my heart.

I ran a finger down his chest and he stilled it with his hand, bringing it to his lips and saying, “It’s nice to talk to you.”

I laughed, pushing his hair off his forehead. “You talk to me every day. And when I say talk, I mean yell. Shout. Slam doors. Pout—”

With his fingertips, he drew spirals over my bare stomach, distracting me. “You know what I mean.”

I did. I knew exactly what he meant, and I wanted to find a way to stretch this moment, right there, into eternity. “So tell me something.”

He raised his eyes to my face, smiling a little nervously. “What do you want to know?”

“Honestly? I think I want to know everything. But let’s start small. Give me the history of Bennett’s women.”

He ran a long finger across his eyebrow and repeated in a laugh, “Let’s start small. Riiiight.” He cleared his throat and then looked at me. “A few in high school, some in college, some in grad school. Some after grad school. And then, one long-term relationship when I lived in France.”

“Details?” I twisted a strand of his hair around my finger, hoping I wasn’t pushing him too much.

But to my surprise, he answered without hesitation. “Her name was Sylvie. She was an attorney at a small firm in Paris. We were together for three years and broke up a few months before I moved home.”

“Was that why you moved home?”

A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. “No.”

“Did she break your heart?”

The smile turned into a full-on smirk directed at me. “No, Chloe.”

“Did you break hers?” Why was I even asking this? Did I want him to say—yes? I knew he was capable of breaking hearts. I was actually fairly certain he would break mine.

He bent to kiss me then, sucking on my lower lip for a few moments before whispering, “No. We just didn’t work anymore. My romantic life was entirely without drama. Until you.”

I laughed. “Happy to change up the pattern.”

I could feel his laugh in the vibrations along my skin as he kissed up my neck. “And oh, you do.” Long fingers made their way down my stomach, to my hips, and finally, between my legs. “Your turn.”

“To have an orgasm? Yes, please.”

He circled a lazy finger around my clit before sliding it inside me. He knew my body better than I did. When did that happen?

“No,” he murmured. “Your turn to spill your history.”

“No way can I think about anything when you’re doing that.”

With a kiss to my shoulder, he moved his hand back to my stomach, drawing circles there once again.

I pouted but he missed it, watching his fingers on me instead. “God, there have been so many men, where will I ever begin?”

“Chloe,” he warned.

“A couple in high school, one in college.”

“You’ve only had sex with three men?”

I pulled back to look at him. “Hello, Einstein. I’ve had sex with four men.”

A cocky grin spread across his face. “Right. And am I the best by an embarrassingly wide margin?”

“Am I?”

His grin disappeared, and he blinked, surprised. “Yes.”

It was sincere. It made something inside me melt into a tiny, warm hum. I reached to kiss his chin, trying to hide what that information did to me. “Good.”

Kissing along his shoulder, I moaned happily. I loved his taste, loved to inhale that clean, sage smell of his. Digging my fingers into his hair, I tugged him down so I could nibble at his jaw, his neck, his shoulders. He held himself very still, propped over me, very clearly not kissing me back.

The hell?

He inhaled to speak and then closed his mouth again. Somehow I managed to drag my mouth away long enough to ask, “What?”

“I realize you think I’m just a filthy manwhore, but it does actually matter to me.”

“What matters to—?”

“I want to hear you to say it.”

I stared at him, and he stared back, irises growing a familiar shade of angry brown-green. Mentally rifling through the last few minutes, I tried to understand what he was talking about.

Oh. “Oh. Yes.”

His brows pulled together. “Yes, what, Miss Mills?”

Heat pulsed through me. His voice was different when he said that. Sharp. Commanding. Hot as hell. “Yes, you’re the best by a very embarrassing margin.”

“That’s better.”

“At least so far.”

He rolled on top of me, grabbing my wrists and pinning them above my head. “Don’t tease.”

“Don’t tease? Please,” I said, breathless. His cock pressed into my thigh. I wanted it higher. I wanted it pushing inside me. “Teasing is all we do.”

As if to prove me wrong, he reached down, grabbing his length and guiding himself into me, pulling my leg around his hip. Holding very still, he stared down at me. His upper lip twitched.

“Please move,” I whispered.

“You’d like that?”

“Yes.”

“And if I don’t?”

I bit my lip, tried to glare at him.

He smiled, growling, “This is teasing.”

“Please?” I tried to move my hips but he followed my movements so I couldn’t gain any friction.

“Chloe, I never tease you. I fuck the sense out of you.”

I laughed, and his eyes fell closed when I did, my body constricting him even more.

“Not that you have much sense to begin with,” he said, biting my neck. “Now tell me how good I make you feel.” Something in his voice, some vulnerability or dip in its strength as the sentence ended told me he wasn’t playing around.

“No one has ever made me come before. Not with hands or mouth or anything else.”

He’d been holding still before, though the telltale signs of strain had been apparent; his shoulders trembled and his breath came out in shallow pants, as if his entire body wanted to explode into a wild tangle in the sheets. But when I said this, he completely froze. “No one?”

“Only you.” I stretched to nibble his jaw. “I’d say that puts you a bit ahead of the field.”

He exhaled my name as his hips moved back and then forward. And again back and forward. The conversation was done; his mouth found mine, and then my chin, and my jaw, and my ears. His hand moved up my side, to my breast, and finally to my face.

And when I thought we were both lost to the rhythm and I could feel my climax just beyond me, but so close, and I dug both heels into his ass, needing more, and faster, and all of him, he whispered, “I wish I’d known that.”

“Why?” I managed, an exhale carrying the sound barely past my lips. Faster, my body screamed. More. “Would it have changed how big an asshole you were?”

He unwrapped my legs from around him, flipped me over and up onto my knees. “I don’t know. I just wish I’d known,” he grunted, pushing into me once again. “Jesus. So fucking deep like this.”

His movements were so fluid, like dancing, rippling water; like the sliding of the sunlight across a room. The mattress springs groaned beneath us, the force of his thrusts pushing me farther up the bed.

“Almost.” I clutched at the sheets, begged him to keep going. “Almost. Harder.”