“Not now,” she whispers. “Just us right now.” Her lips press to mine.
Her tongue presses past my teeth, and when it touches mine, a whisper of a caress, I swear I feel that tease in the throb of my cock and the racing of my heart. I close my hand around her hair where it rests on her neck, kissing the hell out of her, and I admit that part of me is angry at her, not just myself. Why did she make me care this damn much? Why did she complicate my revenge? Another part of me thanks God that she did. I’m thinking too much, and I drive away any semblance of reality, savoring the sweetness of her on my tongue, the weight of her breasts in my hands. The sounds, those sexy sounds she makes, radiating along my nerve endings.
I dive into the here and now, and I barely remember lifting her and pressing inside her.
She slides down my cock, nice and slow, a soft moan escaping her now bruised lips, and that sound, that sound, is pure sex and fire. I thrust into her, dragging her down against me, my hand on her breast as I do, fingers pinching her nipple.
She gasps and covers my hand with hers. “Oh god,” she whispers.
Oh god, indeed.
I thrust again, and she grabs onto my shoulders, her sexy as hell body rocking against me, the sound of our pleasure and breathing echoing in the castle hallway. She wanted this to be about us, just us, and that’s what she gets. Us. Me. Her. Us. Dirty. Needy. Hungry for each other.
That’s what I am with her, and when she gasps and her sex locks down on my cock, her fingers twisting in my hair, I am the least in control that I have been in my entire life. I lift my hips, thrusting into her, pulling her against me. That does it for her; she’s spasms around me, milking my cock, and dragging me into release right along with her. I shudder, my body damn near quaking. I hold her against me, time fading in and out, and no matter how hard I try to cling to the moment, to the escape, reality returns. Like a blast of cold air, the room returns. The war returns. All the unspoken words return. Words that need to be spoken.
I stand up and take Emma with me, walking down the stairs. Once we’re on the main level, I cut left and walk into the guest bathroom. I flip on the light, set Emma on the counter, and then hand her a towel. I snatch up a larger one for me and wrap it around my waist.
“I’ll grab our clothes,” I say, but when I try to turn away, she catches my arm.
“I’m sorry. I trusted my father. I trusted York. I trusted my brother. They all burned me. I let that influence how I responded to you. I won’t do it again.”
I turn fully to her again and brush her hair behind her ear. “That is exactly why you reacted like you did. And that is a lifetime of conditioning you don’t just let go of. Don’t make a promise you can’t keep. You’ll have trust issues again and we’ll deal with it when it happens. Fair enough?”
“I’m going to try not to let it happen again, but yes. And Jax?” She drags fingers over my jawline, her featherlight touches that undo me like no one else can undo me. “That means a lot to me,” she adds.
I stroke her cheek. “I’m not going to make you a promise I can’t keep either. Which is why I will never promise that I won’t touch you again. Because we both know I will.”
She smiles, her hand settling on my chest. “I’m glad you can’t keep that promise.”
I take her hand and kiss it. “I’ll get our clothes. We have a lot to talk about.” I try to turn away again, and she catches my arm again.
“I wish we could forget it all. I don’t want our families to be at war.”
“So, we have to end the war. And that’s what we need to talk about.”
Fifteen minutes after our naked make-up session, Emma and I sit at the kitchen island side-by-side, freshly filled steaming mugs of coffee beside us. I run my hand over the wooden surface of the island, with pots and pans hanging from hooks attached to the decorative hood above us. “That’s one of my only memories of my mother—outside of the red dress. She was always in the kitchen, baking cookies and drinking coffee.”
Emma sips her coffee, her green eyes filled with confusion. “That’s confusing considering she left. Was she a good mom?”
My lips press together. “I don’t know. Kids tend to glorify their parents.”