Our mouths collide, and I cup her backside, picking her up. Obediently her legs wrap my hips and regretfully her high heels fall away with one thud followed by another. We are now truly naked, nothing between us but her thigh highs, and a history I hope like hell she doesn’t understand. I carry her to an oversized chair with a connected ottoman, laying her down on her back, settling on top of her. There is no time lost now, no holding back. I’m driving into her, thrusting, pumping, my hand still cupping her backside, lifting her, arching her into me. This is fucking, wild and hot and without limitation, raw, real, primal.
She moans, these soft, desperate sounds sliding from her perfect mouth, thickening my cock, driving me wild. She drives me wild, she speaks to me. I understand her, I feel her. I don’t want to understand her. I don’t want to feel anything but pleasure, and so I drive harder, pump and pump again, trying to make the sex all that matters. I fill my hands with her breasts and suckle her nipples, licking, teasing. My teeth nip her earlobe, her shoulder, her nipple. She tangles fingers in my hair and pulls, murmuring something as she does that I don’t understand, outside of the desperation in her words. I’m right there with her and together we’re grinding and moving, damn near crawling under each other’s skins.
Her nails dig into my shoulders, and I press her knee to her chest and roll to the side, using that angle to pull her down hard, but it’s not enough. I roll her to her back again, pump into her, and then we’re there, burning alive. She cries out and her body tenses. Another second and her sex clenches around me, spasming, milking my cock. Dragging me into that sweet spot with her, and I am suddenly shuddering with the intensity of my release. Time fades in and out, and then it’s done, it’s over, and yet, nothing is done and over between me and this woman. I roll her to her side, we’re facing each other, easing her leg down. She buries her face in my shoulder, and this is where I would normally get up, but I don’t. I don’t get up and there is no doubt that Emma Knight has given the word bittersweet a whole new meaning.
I lay there with Jax still inside me, emotions welling in my chest. God no. I’m going to cry. Sex was supposed to be an escape from the perpetual emotional rollercoaster ride of the past month, not a trigger. I press against his chest. “I need to get up,” I whisper, but still my voice manages to crack.
“Hey,” Jax says, his leg between my legs, his hand sliding between my shoulder blades. “What’s up? Are you okay?”
I swallow the cotton in my throat. “I’m fine. Of course, I’m fine. How can I not be fine after that?”
“You’re not fine.” He strokes my hair, tilting my face to his and in this close proximity, there’s no escaping his inspection. “And I hate to tell you this, sweetheart, but you won’t be fine for a long time.”
He’s the only person that has been honest with me, who didn’t fluff up his words to make me feel better. “Thank you.”
“For what? The orgasm, or the orgasm?”
I surprise myself by laughing. He surprises me by making it happen. “Yes. The orgasm, but,” I sober quickly, “more so, the part where you didn’t coddle me and tell me this was all going to be better soon. I really want to jump off a bridge every time I hear that these days.”
He takes my hand and kisses it. “I know. Believe me, I know, which is why I suggest that you keep me close and fuck me every time you get stuck in your own head.” He pulls out of me. “Because I already want to be inside you again. I don’t want to leave, Emma. Not unless you want me to leave.”
“No,” I say easily. “You’ll be going back to Maine soon, I’m sure, back to the land of North Whiskey. I don’t want you to leave tonight.”
“Good,” he says, his voice a soft rasp, his eyes tender, and I swear there’s a flicker of something in his eyes that resembles relief, which is silly. We’re fucking. Nothing more. The man lives in another state. We’re just not ready to call this done yet.
He kisses me. “I need to go clean up.” He rolls away and I fight the urge to pull him back, not yet ready for reality to kick in, and when he’s touching me, that’s easier done. Instead, I sit up, holding myself up on my hands, comfortable in my own naked skin, the one good thing York did for me. Even if I wasn’t, I have a distraction right now. Jax straightens to what I guess to be his full, six-foot-two-inches of long, hard man. “Where’s the bathroom?” He snatches up his pants and steps into them, rippling abs and defined biceps working a number on my eyes. There’s this line of hair down his abs that I haven’t gotten to appreciate until this moment and—