“By her own actions. She’s undeserving of happiness, Chloe. You are deserving.”
She shook her head in denial before he finished the sentence. “I fear I’ve lost the love of my life, too.”
Staring down at her bare feet, she wiggled her red-painted toes. Wanted more of that champagne. Hoped he left it behind once he was gone. She’d need it for Hell.
“Have I?”
She tilted her head toward him. “Have you what?”
Shifting, he crowded into her, pressing her back against the island. “Have I lost the love of my life?”
Her body tingled, and she wasn’t sure whether it was the champagne or him, and what he was insinuating.
“Could you rephrase the question, please?”
“Have I lost you, cupcake?”
She didn’t answer. Was she drunk and hearing things?
“Or are you still mine?” he added, since she needed further clarification.
Rubbing her lips against his, she gave him butterfly kisses, praying this conversation was real.
“Not sure I can love a man who wastes paper towels.”
“I’ll buy a fucking paper factory. And you never lost me. I’m yours.” Kissing her slowly but ever so deeply, it sank in.
This was really real.
She was whimpering by the time he lifted his mouth and spoke against her lips. “Each for the other. Two against the world.”
This was the Jameson she used to know.
Unafraid to feel his feelings and say them out loud. Unabashedly going from sweet and romantic to raw and erotic in a hot minute.
“Take your top off.” He was already pushing it up and over her head.
Her bra followed, and he cupped her in his large hands, molding her, his fingers plucking the sensitive tips before he tackled her shorts.
Naked in seconds, she yelped when he lifted her easily, dropping her down on the island. She gasped at the cold granite on her bare bottom, but then he was trailing his mouth down her throat, toward her aching breasts.
And nothing else mattered.
He kissed and nibbled around the outside of her nipple, his index finger tracing the circumference but not touching the center where she wanted it most. Whimpering, she clutched the back of his head and pulled his hair to guide him.
He resisted.
Instead, he blew softly on her nipple, chuckling when she groaned in frustration and grabbed his ears, all but popping the aching tip into his mouth herself. Having mercy, he obliged, giving her the strong suction she craved, first one then the other.
“Are we gonna do this in your mother’s kitchen?” she gasped. “On her island?”
Because Jesus, she hoped Lydia was busy with her angelic duties instead of watching Chloe bake gender-neutral cookies and cupcakes. Otherwise, she was about to get an X-rated show starring her son. Ew.
He lifted his head and nipped at her mouth. “This is your house, Chloe. Your kitchen. Your island. You can do what you want in here.”
“I guess I can.” Because the boxes were gone.
“And right now,” he added, his tone primal and demanding. “Right here on this island . . . you’re gonna let me eat you out.”
He dropped to his knees.
Romantic to raw in a split second.
“I don’t know who’s been here,” he said, his hot breath washing over her damp folds as he spread her legs. “And I don’t wanna know, either. But they’ll never be here again.”
He ran a teasing finger down her seam, and she responded with a flood. “This is mine only, cupcake. Always was, always will be.”
Bucking her hips, anticipation and pink champagne made her brazen. “Then, stake your claim, goodbye guy.”
Looking up at her from between her wide-open legs, his mouth an inch from her weeping pussy, his grin belonged to the devil. And then he lashed out, licking and teasing and darting.
Her head fell back on a long moan. She’d come quickly under his skilled and direct assault.
“You taste amazing.” His words vibrated against her clit. “Better than buttercream frosting made by the hottest baker ever. And you’re so wet.”
Cupping his dark head, she held him to her even as he buried his face in her heat.
“I’m wet because you’re good at this. I’m wet because you’re you.”
The compliment spurred him on. He kissed, and nibbled, and suckled at her. Circled her with his finger and his tongue. Ate at her like a starving man.
Far too quickly, she came, with a tidal wave of pleasure so intense her moans echoed off the walls.
“Holy . . .” she breathed, her body slack in the aftermath, her senses overwhelmed. “That was . . .”
Rising up, his handsome face filled her dotted vision, and he smiled. Wiped a hand across his glossy mouth. “Good?”
She giggled. Giggled, you guys. Like a cheerleader with a crush on the quarterback. If the quarterback had just gone down on her with a carnality usually reserved for hardcore porn stars.
“Um, yeah. Good,” she confirmed, reaching for the button on his jeans. The bulge was so prominent she was surprised his zipper could contain it.
Fully erect, he grew impossibly harder, longer, when she released him, giving him a firm stroke and getting a raw groan in response.
A bead of liquid formed at the tip, and when she swept her thumb over it and brought it to her mouth, tasting his essence, he cursed under his breath, pulled her to the edge of the counter, and nudged her entrance.
Facing only her body’s natural resistance, he slid inside easily, and she clutched at his back, her nails digging into his flesh.
The pleasure of taking his body inside hers transcended the physical.
This man was her mate. For life.
“I love you,” he said, his hips driving into her. “I love fucking you. I love how you taste on my tongue, and how you feel on my cock, and how you make me human again.”
A whimper was all she could manage.
“I love looking at you, and talking to you, and baking with you, and spending every single day until I die with you.”
Those beautiful words required a verbal response, and she dug deep for her voice even as he fucked her into losing all her faculties.
“Technically, you watch while I bake,” she said, gasping when he hit a particularly good spot deep inside. “And we’ve not been together every single day. But I love all those things, too.”
Wrapping him in her arms, she held him, inhaled him as he drove into her.
It was life-sustaining.
As was his kiss, his lips sealed over hers, connecting them above and below. And when he went over the edge, his big body going rigid as he gave one final thrust, she held him even tighter. Felt him go still before emptying himself—his life—into her.
If ever there was an opportunistic time for a failure in birth control, it was now.
Because she wanted nothing more in this world than to make machine-gun shaped sugar cookies. The mere idea made her internal muscles pulse around him, her body’s way of encouraging another fruitful union.
“Jesus,” he groaned in response to her inner grip, his forehead resting on her shoulder as he caught his breath. “You trying to kill me?”
She smiled, cupping his stubbled cheek. He hadn’t shaved today, or yesterday, or even the day before that, but it only made him hotter. Most men would look grizzled and unkempt. He looked like a model for a high-end men’s cologne.