Chapter Eighteen
Legs splayed on either side, Rachel took a long moment to appreciate his growing arousal pressing against her clit. An almost imperceptible moan left his throat when she arched her hips, a greedy taunt to urge him to harden more. His cock, captured behind his jeans, thickened, and she allowed her ego to swell a little at the fact she was the cause of his response.
His fingers crept up her shirt, his eyes firing with a fierce determination. The way he looked at her—probably always had looked at her—made her feel like every man's fantasy. But she was his, and he was hers. A sense of belonging hit her with such power, her eyes pricked. She was terrified, overwhelmed, and oh, so, grateful for the recent turn of events. The truth really did set one free. His hand cradled her face as if understanding something had shifted at that moment. Now that she was free of her shirt, the fingers of his other hand skimmed her lower back and trailed up her spine in long lazy caresses.
“God, you're beautiful, Rachel.” His beautiful blue-gray eyes shone.
She felt beautiful. Her vision softened, and she let her legs melt over his muscular thighs as his fingers drifted down to possessively grasp her ass. She brushed her breasts against his chest, earning her a small sigh from his lips. In a dizzying rush, she gave in to all the sensation and love she felt for this man.
With one hand full of her ass cheek, the other slipped her bra down, baring her breasts. Her body already hummed with desire, so no argument came from her. He could rip her clothes to shreds, and she wouldn't care. When his hot mouth latched onto one nipple, a long groan left her throat. He suckled one breast and then moved to the other. God, what he could do with his tongue. She soon was so wet between her legs, she wondered if she'd slip off his lap. Her hips rocked with a mind of their own. Whimpering, her hands threaded his hair. As if urged by her moans, he pulled harder on her nipple, and she grew impossibly more turned on. She wanted nothing more than to impale herself on that thick ridge she felt under her pussy.
She pushed on his shoulders, wanting to reach down and unbutton his jeans, but he held her fast. When she thought she couldn't take anymore, her nipples feeling raw and sore, he flipped her off him so her back hit the mattress in a hard bounce.
“Oh, firm,” she said.
“You said you like it hard.” He chuckled as he knelt down and whisked her panties down to her ankles. He placed his hands under her knees and yanked her toward him. His face was between her thighs in seconds, and she keened loudly when his wet, hot mouth found its way home. His tongue traced in small circles until her back arched and her groans echoed in the near-empty room. Licking, sucking, lapping at her, he was readying her for his cock. Just imagining him inside her, deep, hard, and rough, called up her orgasm. It rolled through her so completely, she stopped breathing. Her body jerked and her mind spiraled through the pleasure until her diaphragm forced her to gulp in air.
His hands released their grip on her hips, and he eased up. “Higher,” he ordered.
On elbows, she inched herself backward, her thighs sticky and shaky. He split her legs with his knees and when he pitched into her, hard, the last little bit of tension in her heart released like a fist uncurling.
His hands were on either side of her face, his chest pressing against her aching nipples, and his lips moved over her mouth in a tongue-tangling kiss. The raw masculine scrape of his five o'clock shadow on her face called up more arousal, and her thighs grew slicker as a second orgasm built and teased her. She arched her hips trying to capture more of him, but he pressed her more into the mattress to keep her body from asking, to keep her in a position only available for taking.
For long minutes, he moved her body around the bed—their bed— and worked her over as if seeking to possess her, body and soul. She didn’t try to resist, as his need to reclaim her filled her with a power she’d thought lost forever. There he was, wanting her and needing her, openly and with no reservation.
Later, when they were both spent, they lay on their sides staring at one another like two teenagers who’d just discovered love. That’s when it occurred to her. She hadn’t visualized a stop sign in weeks. Somehow she knew, she might never need to call up again. Trick had been right—life could be better after tragedy.
“I love you, Trick.” She brushed a shock of hair from his forehead. “Thank you for not giving up.”
“Never.” He pulled her so she lay on top of him, and her body rose and fell with his breath. At some point, her mind drifted, and as she slipped from awake to asleep, she envisioned a dusty stop sign leaning against a concrete wall, nestled between a mechanical bull and a Chinese dragon. It didn’t cause a moment of pause.
Stop sign, meet Trick Masters, the man I love.
THE END