“Fiona,” he sang at my ear. “Are you going to let me eat your pussy the way I know you like?”
“Yes, please, please, please,” I cried, smiling when he let me go and dropped his head between my legs. My thighs pressed to his ears, my fingers dove into his hair, and then he was applying the perfect combination of pressure and speed right where I needed it.
“Oh, fuck… oh, Max…” I was wailing, head thrashing, as he gripped my hips and held me still. He slid one finger inside of me, stroked deep inside, and a tight, hot, wicked orgasm tore through my body so fast I could only scream. His palm came to my mouth, muffled my sounds—although that only intensified the aftershocks for me. I lay panting and sweating on the bed, but he wasn’t done with me yet. Tearing open a condom and working it down his cock, he moved toward me on the bed on his knees.
I knocked him to his back and gave him a long, long kiss. My hair fell in a waterfall all around us, his fingers caressed my cheeks.
“You are so beautiful,” he whispered.
I sat up, tossed my hair. Lowered myself down, down, down. Took every sweet, thick inch of him. My body stretched, gave in, sang with exquisite pleasure.
I crooked my finger and Max sat up. Wrapped his arms around my waist and thrust up. Together, we set a pace that was as languid and slow as it was intense. Working our bodies, fucking each other towards a shared euphoria. He dipped his head and took my breast into his mouth as I rode him, our skin slick with sweat. When he lifted his head, I kept our mouths together, kept us breathing together. I listened to him groan and sigh and lose total control. He wrapped an arm around my waist and thrust up so hard and so fast I assumed I’d begun levitating.
With a frustrated growl, Max flipped me onto my back and fucked me as the bed moved. We kept kissing, kept moaning together—no words able to be spoken, at least not coherently. Every other moment, Max had been a chatty dirty talker. Now, we could only kiss and stare at each other as we neared the same precipice, the same moment of erotic free fall. The burn between my legs was good, and every punch of his hips brought pressure against my clit. I was close, so close, so close to Max I found it impossible to be afraid of our future. Because if it was this incredible between us, then whatever obstacles we faced, we’d face together.
He reached between our bodies and circled my clit. “Oh, yes,” I sighed. “Just… like that.”
“Are you going to come with me?” he teased, kissing along my throat. “I need to watch you.”
I gasped. Closed my eyes. Reached behind me to hold onto the mattress. “… yes,” I cried. “Just… oh, Max… I need… I need…”
He applied the slightest increase to the pressure while taking me as deep as he could. I flew all the way apart—all the way apart—with an orgasm that shattered my body, shattered everything. My nails raked down his back, and he groaned loudly against my hair, shuddering, sighing, whispering my name.
He held me for what felt like a really long time. He placed his head directly over my heart, and I lazily stroked his hair. The very, very last song on the album was spinning on the record player, and we could hear the sounds of the city right outside my window.
Finally, I said, “Did you enjoy our second date?”
He laughed, and I laughed, and he rolled over onto his back and brought me with him. I half-sat up, amazed at the contentment I saw in his face.
“How would you rate this in your spreadsheet?” he asked.
“It doesn’t,” I admitted. Looked him right in the eye. “Because I’ve never felt it before.”
He stared up at me from the pillow, one arm behind his head. “Can I stay with you tonight?”
Warmth flooded my cheeks—even after everything we’d just done. “Of course. I’d like that.”
“My first, first sleepover,” he said. “Well, not entirely. I stay the night sometimes, but it’s more utilitarian, needing a bed to crash in if it’s too late for me to get home. But I guess I’d like to stay the night in a more romantic way.”
“What strange things do you do in your sleep?”
“You’ll have to find out, princess.”
I slowly untangled myself from his embrace. Tossed his shirt over my head. “Are you tired?”
He shook his head.
“Me neither.” I walked out and pulled a record at random from my collection. Flipped it over and smiled. “Thoughts on Electric Ladyland?”
“Have I mentioned you’re my dream girl?”
I laughed and dropped Jimi Hendrix’s third album onto my record player. His soft voice filled the room—and it was the perfect album for a late night after wild sex and before a little more wine. I picked up the wine and our glasses and shuffled back to bed.
And we didn’t sleep for hours—not until the bottle was finished and we’d listened to the album all the way through, talking and flirting along the way.
As second dates went, it was beyond comparison.
34
Max
Fiona’s bedroom filled with warm sunshine.
It was just after dawn. And I was waking up with a huge fucking grin on my face.
The reason? The brilliant woman curled against my chest like I was her protector.
I wanted to do that.
I really hadn’t ever stayed the night like this. Where both people slept next to each other on purpose—touching throughout the night. Kissing. Cuddling. I woke up alone five days out of a seven-day week usually. I’d gotten real used to it. I didn’t always mind it either. The independence was why I did it.
It was different waking up with Fiona, though.
I didn’t want to imagine not doing it.
I held her close, resting my lips in her hair. Her alarm went off a second later. Smiling, I silenced it as my favorite beauty groaned and cursed like a sailor.
She peeked one eye up at me—hair in her face, gaze bleary. “Oh my god, what time did we go to bed?”
“After two.” I gently pushed the strands back. “It was your idea to finish that wine, by the way.”
“Me?”
I hauled her up and kissed her—firmer and filthier than was probably called for at dawn. “Face it, Fiona. You’re a bad girl now. Staying up late. Drinking too much. Listening to rock music.”
She laughed before collapsing back on top of me. Until her phone went off, chirping, and she groaned again.
“I’ll get you coffee.”
“You’re my fucking hero.”
I winked at her as I tugged on my briefs. Scrubbed a hand down my face as I wandered back into her kitchen and prepped coffee. As the pot started gurgling, I roamed her sitting area. Smiled at the albums we’d left on the ground. The wall above her desk was a rainbow of perfectly straight notes and lists.
I saw what I thought was probably that contract she’d made.
I, Fiona Lennox Quinn hereby commit to finding my soul mate and being married to him within eighteen months of the signing date. I will not engage in any physical affection, including but not limited to kissing, hand-holding, and, of course, sex until I can guarantee his commitment.
Right above that was a list in slightly younger-looking handwriting. Meet your soul mate and get married by the age of 30.