When I’m shaking all over and can’t come any harder, can’t breathe and can’t stop trembling, I push him away and roll him to his back and wipe his face with my hands—his mouth and stubble and lips are gleaming with my essence. I laugh, wiping my now-smeared hand on the comforter, then leaning over him, and he doesn’t hesitate to kiss me. I take my time with this kiss, taking his breath for my own, because I’m still breathless, still shaking. He feels me shaking, and laughs through the kiss.
He stops laughing when I reach down and grasp his erection in my fist. “Ohh, fuck.”
I grin at him, my head resting on my propped-up hand. “My turn.”
His grin vanishes, turns to a frown of concentration. “God, Makayla. Feeling you touch me is…”
“What?” I prompt.
“Better than I’d dreamed it could feel.”
I stroke his length; roll my thumb over the weeping tip. “This is as beautiful as the rest of you.”
“I have a confession to make,” he mutters, teeth gritted as I slowly glide my hand up and down.
“What’s that?”
“I’ve fantasized about this too.” He closes his eyes. “Touched myself, wishing it was you.”
“I didn’t dare,” I say. “If I let myself do that, I’d have to admit I wanted you, and I was trying like hell he to keep that from happening.”
“I couldn’t stop it. I haven’t been with anyone in a long time. Not since before we met. Well before. I’d spent most of the spring and summer working pretty much nonstop to get that bill drafted so we could put it up for a vote as soon as we reconvene.” He’s talking as I caress him, watching my hand move over him, and there’s something bizarrely intimate about making conversation while doing something so sexual and arousing. “The party you cleaned up was to celebrate finishing the draft. Two of my colleagues who worked with me on it are Republicans, and the donkey was their way of teasing me over being a Democrat.”
I nod, head still propped up on my hand, elbow planted in the mattress. “So all those strippers and hookers?”
He shakes his head, annoyed. “My friends were nagging at me for working too hard and not taking any time to date or hook up, and they figured if they brought those women in, it’d help me loosen up. I was super tense over the whole thing.”
I add a twist to my hand’s movement—slide up slowly, twist around the head, plunge down. “I see.”
“Point is, I was…tense. It’s been a long time since I’ve… you know. With anyone. Months—an eternity for me. And then I met you, and I was hot for you. Then I saw you on the street—and I admit I’d been driving around looking for you, hoping to find you, which seemed like a futile, stupid idea, but then I got lucky.” A laugh. “And you were dressed for a workout, and I…” A sigh. “Oh god, that was it. I was gone for you.”
I frown at him. “Really? Then?”
He nods. “Wanted you so bad.” A pause, his hips flexing upward. “Feels fucking so good, Makayla. Don’t stop.”
I smile at him lazily. “Just try to stop me.”
He breathes out, relieved, but it’s shaky from arousal. “I fought my attraction to you. But then I visited you at your apartment, to ask you what I asked you, and you were in those pj's, and I got that quick little glimpse of your boob, and those shorts were so short and so tight and every time you turned around I couldn’t help staring at your ass.” His eyes meet mine. “The next time I was in the shower, I—I couldn’t help thinking about how you looked in those pj's, that little glimpse of your boob, and your ass, and I…I…”
I grin at him. “You what, Pax?”
“I jerked it, thinking about you,” he says, pausing to gasp and flex his hips. “Trying to imagine it was you touching me.”
I bite my lip. “Was it good?”
“Not as good as this.”
I laugh. “I hope not.”
I can’t take it anymore. I’ve been watching myself caress his huge hard length, stroking the silky, steel-hard thickness. Watching the essence weep out of the slit at the tip, watching the veins pulse, watching his monster arousal strain and slick through my fingers, and I need him. I want him. I want to taste him. I want to take him into my mouth and lick his salty essence away and make him snarl and groan and call out my name and make him need me and lose control—
I don’t give him any warning, I just pounce. His eyes are closed as he lets himself drown in my touch, and when I bend over him and take him into my mouth, he flinches, gasps in shock, and then groans, lifting his hips and burying his hands in my curls, knotting his fists in my hair.
“Ohhhhh fuck, Makayla, fuck fuck fuck—” He stops breathing as I swirl my tongue, back away, and plunge deep again, and then he catches his breath and lets out a snarl of pleasure. “Goddamn, Makayla.”
He flexes, drives his hips up, pushing into my mouth, pulling at my hair—not hard, just enough to show me how much he likes this and how much he wants it, needs it, and I like that hair pull. And then his movement grow shaky and uncontrolled, and I know he’s close, and I wonder if he’s going to let me take him all the way there.
I want to. I want to know his taste. I want to know what him losing control feels like, looks like.
But I want him inside me, too.
He answers the debate for me, via the expedient method of yanking me away at the last second and rolling to his knees with a low, primal growl. His erection is gleaming with my saliva and his essence, dripping, straining, heaving with his panting breaths. He’s on his knees, and every muscle in his body is tensed, straining, his jaw is clenched, and he’s breathing hoarsely.
Suddenly, playtime is over. He’s a predator, and I’m his prey.
I widen my eyes, and wait.
When he has control once again, he relaxes a little—and then prowls toward me on all fours, crawling across the bed to reach me. His mouth dances up my belly, between my breasts, and then his lips latch onto my breast and his tongue sears around my nipple and I’m gasping, suddenly wild and breathless with the unexpected but oh so welcome assault, and his hand is toying with my other breast, cupping and kneading, and he switches back and forth, his mouth dancing from breast to breast, switching hands, so he always has both of my breasts. I arch my back into him, moaning at the wet sucking heat of his mouth over my nipples, which are hard, standing on end and singing with blasting intensity. I cup his head with my hands and wrap my legs around his thighs, and I feel his erection stuttering against my thigh and then nudging against my core, and I need him inside me, need, need, need.
I gather him in my hands, bring the head of him to my opening, spear his springy hardness against my throbbing center, and he moans around a mouthful of my breast.
“Condom,” I gasp. “Pax, condom. Now. Please.”
He growls, shifting aside to rummage in a drawer of his bedside table. Digs out a brand-new box, rips it open, tosses it aside with a string in his hand. I take the string, tear a packet free, toss the string onto the table, rip the packet open with my teeth, toss the packet aside with the condom in my fingers. Pax watches this, and his grin is pleased and humorous and aroused and complicated and passionate and wild and fierce with need.
“That was hot as fuck,” he murmurs.
I grip his erection in one hand and roll the condom on with the other, and then haul him toward me, using his shaft as a handle. “Come here,” I say, my voice just above a whisper. “I need you, Pax. Please.”
He braces his hand beside my face, and I twist my head to the side, kiss his forearm—guide him to me. Splay my thighs open, heels digging into my buttocks to accept all of him between my legs. He’s huge, hovering over me, his shoulders blocking out the room beyond, so there’s only him, only us. I nestle him at my opening, and our eyes meet, a tense, fraught moment before he enters me.
“Makayla…” he whispers. “This feels like…like we’re crossing into something important.”
I caress his back, cup his cheek, palm his buttocks—hard, dusted with h
air. “We are.”
“It won’t be just sex.”
“It was never going to be,” I say. “Especially not now.”
“No, especially not now.” He hesitates, still, swallowing hard. “I’m falling for you, Makayla. I’ve already fallen for you. I’ll never want anyone but you, never want anything but this. It’s scary as fuck, but it’s true.”
“I know,” I whisper, and then grin up at him. “Are you about to tell me you love me as you go inside me?”
He grins back. “I might. How would you feel about that?”
I gasp as he flutters his hips, teasing little thrusts into me. “I…oh god, I don’t know. It’d be new. I might be okay with it, but you—oh god, Pax—you never know.”
He’s toying with me, and himself, drawing out the moment. I’m not having it. I curl a hand around his nape and slam my lips onto his and slash my tongue against his and hook my heels around his waist and push up against him, taking him inside me in a quick hard thrust, gasping a whimper into the kiss as I’m spread apart by his thick hard length. He spears into me, fills me, and it burns so beautifully, splitting me into quaking pieces.
“Oh fuck, Makayla,” he growls, “Jesus, woman!”
“Tell me, don’t tell me—whatever,” I snap. “I need you. I’m done fucking waiting.”
He buries his face in my breasts, one hand cupping them and playing with him, bringing one to his mouth and he groans. “Thank fuck, oh god, thank fuck—you feel…I can’t even describe how amazing you feel, Makayla.”
“Perfect,” I grit out. “It’s perfect.”
He takes over the rhythm, pushing into me, driving deep, mouthing my nipples, pinching, nipping, licking, gasping hoarsely as he moves into me. It’s slow, deliberate. Gentle, but fierce. I arch my back and lock my heels around his waist, clinging to him and writhing against him and meeting him thrust for thrust.
“Pax,” I moan, head thrown back, throat bared. “God, so fucking good.”
He moves, driving deep in slow rough thrusts, each one starting slow and gentle in a delicate slide through my nether lips, and then as he fills me he finishes with a rough upward flick of his hips, and every time he does this some part of him slams hard and beautiful against my throbbing clit and I scream out, cling harder to him, thrust harder against him, meet his movements with my own, taking all of him and demanding more.
“Pax!” I cry, nearly weeping now with blinding ecstasy, a climax unlike any other building inside me. “More, please, more! Harder!”
He obeys—harder. Faster. His hands brace in the mattress beside my face, and he focuses on thrusting now.
“Look at me, Makayla,” he snarls. “Eyes on mine.”
My eyes snap open, fix on his. He’s all lion, now, those big deep golden eyes primal and fierce, wild and hungry. “I’m looking, Pax.”
“You feel how perfect we are together?”
I nod, gripping his flexing buttocks. “I feel it.”
“You’re mine, Makayla.” He thrusts, eyes fixed, fierce. “Mine.”
I nod again, not letting go of him, pulling at his buttocks to urge him on. “Yes, Pax. I’m yours.” I move with him, shaky, trembling, teetering on the edge. “And you’re mine.”
He rests his forehead against mine, as if hearing that took a weight off him. “Yours. All yours. Only yours,” he whispers against my lips. “Never wanted that. Now I do. I want to be yours.”
“Good, because you are,” I murmur to him. “And I won’t share you.”
“You won’t have to.”
His lips caress mine, and then he sucks my nipple into his mouth and thrusts hard into me, and I feel him clenching, feel him shaking as he nears his edge, feel him start to lose the rhythm. I cradle his beautiful face between my breasts and wrap my thighs around his waist and hook my heels around his ass and meet him hard and fast, pumping recklessly against his hard crashing throbbing erection, and I’m crying with the wild fury of this, the emotions of it, the intensity of it, the earth-shaking, life-changing power of being joined with Paxton.
His voice is shaky, tremulous. “Makayla…” he gasps. “Mack…”
I sob. “Say my name, Pax, call me Mack again.” I bite his earlobe, grinding into him. “Call me Mack while you come inside me.”
I feel it. Feel him come. “Mack! Mack, oh god, Mack…” He lets go, and I hear the desperation in his growling, groaning.
His orgasm triggers mine. I come, and I come—clamping around his driving erection, spasming around him as he comes. “Pax!”
His eyes are on me. “With me, Makayla?” I’ve never seen such open vulnerability in a man’s expression before. He’s utterly shaken by this. Destroyed, as I am.
“I’m with you, Paxton,” I breathe, still orgasming so hard it’s difficult to form words.
He nuzzles the side of my throat, and I breathe in his scent, feel his shoulders moving, feel the slow rough desperate slide of him through my juddering, squeezing core, feel his hard hips slam again mine, feel his powerful arms around me, sheltering me, feel his breath on my skin, feel him give me all of him—heart, soul, body, giving himself to me in way I didn’t know was possible, in a way I never anticipated anyone giving himself to me.
He doesn’t say it—and I’m glad. It would have been too much. I couldn’t have handled that, not on top of the intensity of this.
I see it, though. It’s in his melting golden-brown eyes as they meet mine, in every line of his face, in the way he goes weak and limp as our mutual climax fades, leaving us shaken and shaking.
He collapses on me, and I hold him there, heels hooked around the back of his knees, fingers tracing lazy circles on his back as he gasps against my breasts.
“Makayla,” he whispers.
“Ssshhhh,” I whisper, stroking his hair. “Let it be.”
“Crushing you,” he mutters.
I can’t help but kiss his temple. “Yes. I love it.”
He’s buried inside me, still, and I won’t let him move. “I don’t want to fall asleep on you, but I just might, in about ten seconds.”
I brush his hair away from his temple, scratch his back. “You can. I’d like it if you did.”
He inhales deeply, breathing me in. “Never felt this way before. Not even close.”
“Me either.”
“Don’t hurt me, Makayla,” he whispers. “You’re getting a part of me I’ve never opened up for anyone before. Scares the shit out of me.”
I don’t quite sob, but it’s a near thing. “Same.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I say, laughing-sobbing-whispering.
I cradle him to me, and our breathing synchs, and his weight is a crushing burden I love more than anything, and I feel him fall asleep, and I drift off myself.
20
I wake alone in the big bed, naked, cold from dried sweat, on top of the blankets, sore between my thighs and aching with a renewed need.
A soft, mournful song is being played on the piano.
I lie, listening for a few moments, and then rise, not bothering with clothing. Follow the music to the piano.
Paxton—white basketball shorts, shirtless, muscles gleaming and moving in the dim light, eyes closed, fingers moving on the keys with effortless grace. He plays a simple song, sad and slow. He leans forward, head bowing, playing with deep emotion.
I stand behind him, listening as he plays.
After a few minutes, the song ends, and his fingers come to rest on the keys, stilling.
I settle my hands on his shoulders; move to stand flush against his bare spine. He rests his head against my belly, and my hands splay now on his chest.
“That was beautiful,” I whisper.
“Thanks.” He doesn’t move. “I composed it.”
“Really?”
A nod. “I discovered piano sophomore year of high school. Sort of by accident.”
“Tell me?” I ask.
He remains as he is, head against my belly, his hands covering mi
ne over his chest. “Told you I was a troubled kid, and a troublemaker. Well, at the boarding school, I was always cutting class. I was bored stupid, and just didn’t care. I was roaming the school one afternoon—I was supposed to be in math class. I came across an old grand piano in a corner of some old room. Mom had forced me to take lessons as a kid, like when I was eight or nine. I hated it then but, for some reason, I was drawn to that piano. It was dusty and out of tune, clearly forgotten. Sort of…a kindred spirits thing. I felt forgotten, you know? Sent off to live at a boarding school, no friends, no family. Like that piano.” A pause. “I sat down and starting plunking at it. Seeing if I could remember anything I’d learned as a kid. A teacher heard, and came to see who it was. The teacher was Mrs. Lewis. Old as dirt, half-blind, mostly senile, but so sweet. Taught music, which was the blow-off class. No one paid attention. Well, she listened, and instead of making me go back to class, she started teaching me. I cut math class twice more, and she showed up, taught me more. Eventually, she said she’d keep teaching me, but only if I went to math. Why, I don’t know, but I did. She was nice to me in a way most adults weren’t, and I guess that meant something to me. So I went to math, and met her after class. Those lessons with Mrs. Lewis were the only thing I took seriously. Piano became an escape for me.”
“I admit, it’s unexpected.”
He laughs. “No shit.” He touches the keys with one hand. “Mom doesn’t even know I play.”
“Really?”
A laugh. “It’s for me. You’re the only one who knows.”
“So you kept up with it after being sent to military school, too?”
A nod. “Yeah. I went to the dean, told him it was important to me, and that if he’d make room for me to take lessons, I’d cooperate. He had my record from the boarding school, and figured the best way to keep the peace was to go along with it. So he got me private lessons, paid for by my parents under the general expenses of the academy, and I didn’t make trouble.” A laugh. “I kept up with lessons through college, and graduate school. I still practice two or three times a week, sometimes more.”