Enough to make my hips thrust against the bed, searching for relief.
I move my mouth to Olivia’s clit, sucking hard while two fingers thrust, then pump, inside her. Oh, she’s tight. And hot. And so wet it may drive me mad.
But she’s so snug, I’m really going to need to take care with her.
The thought is chased from my mind when Olivia’s back curves, her neck arches, and her mouth opens to whimper my name. And she comes. Stunningly. Fantastically. On my tongue, against my mouth, writhing with the sheer bliss of it.
When Olivia goes limp against the bed, I practically pounce on her. She doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, after just a few minutes of kissing and humping, she pushes me back, rolling us over, to kiss her way down my chest.
She makes quick work of my trousers, tossing them on the floor. And she stares at me, with a secret smile on her lips—long enough for me to ask, “What?”
Olivia gives a tiny shrug. “The Internet was wrong. They said you wear Calvin Klein underwear.”
They were very wrong—I don’t wear underwear at all.
“Don’t believe everything you read.”
When she wraps her hand around my aching cock, it feels so damn good, I have no words—my eyes roll closed and my head digs into the pillow behind me. Olivia strokes me skillfully—once, twice—but that’s all I allow.
It’s all I can stand. If she keeps going, I’ll fucking embarrass myself.
I jerk up, wrapping my arms around her, rolling her back under me and taking her mouth like a dying man takes his last meal. Blindly, my hand gropes for the night table drawer, for the condoms David put there. But when Olivia arches up—almost rubbing the tip of my cock against her slick entrance, I pull back fully. Quickly.
“Just a sec, love.”
I rip open the condom with my teeth and Olivia’s hands mix with mine, fumbling to roll it on as quickly as possible.
And then I’m there, over her, staring into those stunning dark blue eyes that caught me from the first moment. I breathe deep, silently begging for control, and then I press the head of my cock inside her. Gently and just the tip.
Olivia’s mouth opens with the pleasure of it. And my heart pounds so fast and hard, I think I might be dying.
What a perfect bloody way to go.
She presses her palm to my cheek, reaching up for a kiss, drawing me in. Slowly, I slide inside her—the beautiful muscles fitting so snug and wet around me—stretching to make room. When our pelvises meet, when my heavy balls rest against Olivia’s arse, I wait. Swallowing hard against a sandpaper throat.
Her eyes are closed, her lashes fanning out like tiny threads of black silk.
“Are you all right?” I pant.
Please, please say yes. Please let me move. Let me thrust and pump and fuck.
And then she does the simplest, most miraculous thing. She opens her eyes—and it feels like she’s ripping my heart out—taking it for her own.
Definitely my favorite word.
I feel her squeeze around me—her hips pulsing upward, testing the feel.
“Oh God,” she moans. “Move, Nicholas. I want to feel you. All of you. Now.”
And those words are now my second favorite.
Keeping my weight on my arms, I pull back and thrust in slowly, with a guttural groan. Because it feels just that fucking fantastic. Indescribable. Olivia’s arms wind around my neck and my hands slide beneath her shoulder blades, cradling her head as I ride her in even, steady strokes. Our panting breaths mingle, we kiss and taste, and the pleasure rises, tightens with every movement.
Until it peaks.
My hips move without thought, grinding and pounding hard now, rushing to catch the orgasm that’s barreling down on us both. And then my mind goes white, blank—suspended in that perfect moment of deep, carnal pleasure. Olivia’s there with me. She bites my shoulder but I don’t feel it. All I feel is where we’re connected, where I’m powerfully pulsing inside her, giving everything I have, over and over again.
Olivia lies in the crook of my arm, pretty and perfect, gazing at me as her hand runs down my chest, tracing the tic-tac-toe of my abdomen with her fingertips, then sliding back up to start all over again.
“You’re beautiful when you come.” I brush my knuckle against the rosy apple of her smooth cheek. “And after.”
She bats her lashes up at me. “I try.”
As my hand retreats, she catches my wrist, eyeing the bracelets that chronically encircle it. “You wore these the other night, too. Do they have any special meaning?”
I slip off the teakwood circle and pass it to her for a closer look. Her finger traces the etchings. “This was my father’s,” I tell her. “He built houses in Africa one summer when he was a teenager. One of the village women gave it to him—a blessing, she called it—for protection. He wore it almost all the time.” My throat narrows. “After the funeral, our butler, Fergus, gave it to me. He said he found it on my father’s dresser—didn’t know why he hadn’t taken it with him when they left for New York. I don’t wear it because of superstition…I just like having something close to me that was close to him.”
Olivia snuggles tighter against me and slips the bracelet back over my hand.
“And this one?” She fingers the platinum links circling the same wrist.
“It’s Henry’s.” An easy smile comes to my lips. “Our mother had it made for him when he was eight and she was sure ID bracelets were coming back into style.” I chuckle at the memory and Olivia lets out a small laugh. “He hated it, but he pretended to like it for her sake.” And then I’m blinking against the burning in my eyes. “After they were gone, Henry never took it off. He had the links added when he outgrew it. He couldn’t bring it with him to training, so he asked me to keep it for him until he came home.”