His mouth is surprisingly tender. Almost as if he noticed my brief hesitation in the kitchen and is searching out any lingering resistance, any hidden reluctance. But there is none. My body is exhausted, but not sated. Not even close.
I still want more. So much more.
There is a pulsing between my thighs, at my very core, that will not be satisfied until Lance is buried deep inside me. I want to be stretched wide by his thickness. I want his crown to kiss my womb. I want to watch his face as he succumbs to the grip of my pussy, the heat of the fire blazing inside of me.
I want to melt into him, and him into me.
Chapter 21
Lance
I made a volcano for a school project once. A hard cone with a latent, liquid center. It remained dormant until I added the very last ingredient, the reactant. Then, everything inside surged to the top, pouring over the sides in a smoky, bubbling mess.
Vivienne Radcliffe is my reactant. The additive that makes everything inside me expand until the hard shell of my body can no longer contain it all.
Literally and figuratively.
My dick is already hard again. For her. Because of her. The press of her breasts against my chest, the scrape of her fingernails over the back of my neck, and that low moan of hers that pools inside my ears like liquid honey.
Every inch of Vivienne is sweet. I cover her face with kisses. Her forehead and nose, the high swell of her cheekbones and the concave hollows beneath. The line of her jaw, the shell of her ear, the subtle jut of her chin. She releases a quiet sigh as I continue downward, along the pulsing vein that leads to her collarbone, and then the sensitive, fluttering valley between.
Her breasts are two perfect mounds capped by pale pink nipples, the color at the edge of her areolas barely darker than the skin surrounding it.
Groaning, I suck one into my mouth, cupping her other breast in my hand. Vivienne’s hips buck against me as I play with her swollen flesh, touching and pinching, biting and licking. Her back arches, her pelvis grinds, her feet kick helplessly against the smooth sheets.
I could feast on Vivienne’s body until the end of time and never get enough.
But there is something we both want. Vivienne is begging me for it with every gasp and whimper. An insistent demand in every breathless “Lance.”
Finally, I pull away from her long enough to grab a condom from my nightstand drawer. I tear the wrapper with my teeth, sheathing myself in latex as I take a moment to appreciate the woman spread out before me.
A riot of red is strewn across the pillow, surrounding Vivienne’s head like a fiery crown. Her gorgeous face, molten eyes, and swollen pout of a mouth. Creamy shoulders. Tiny waist. Generous breasts rising and falling with each shallow, wanton breath.
Vivienne’s thighs are spread open, knees falling apart in invitation. Her pussy is bare except for the faintest hint of a landing strip; short, silky curls, as red as the hair on her head. And her swollen clit peeks out from between glistening pink folds like a secret waiting to be discovered.
Fisting my cock, I drag the tip through her slit, watching Vivienne’s face as she feels me against her for the very first time. “Fuck Vivienne, I—” But I stop, because I don’t know what to say.
I can say she’s beautiful, but any mirror would do that.
I can ask if she still wants this, but the answer is written all over her face.
I can tell her I’m feeling things for her that I’ve never felt before with anyone, but that would bring the past into this bed.
She blinks up at me, a puzzled grin slowly curving her lips. “I know,” she says. “Now shut up and fuck me senseless.”
Shut up and fuck me senseless.
That, I can do.
The surprised gasp of pleasure Vivienne makes as I push the fat head of my cock into her entrance slams into the base of my spine, radiating tingles to every extremity. Slowly, so slowly, I sink into the sweet clutch of her pussy. Tight and hot and so very wet, it’s a heavenly embrace. There is something solemn in the rounding of her lips into an awed O. Something spiritual in the way our bodies are finding pleasure in each other.
It’s intense.
Exquisite.
Unexpected.
I’m halfway inside her when Vivienne gives a restless roll of her hips. “Patience, Red,” I say, pressing my hand over the flat slope of her belly to keep her still, the base of my palm just above her clit, my fingers nearly at her belly button.
She sinks her teeth into her plump lower lip, drawing it into her mouth, emerald eyes blazing with the same kind of heat that’s clutching my cock.
Finally, I bottom out inside her. Vivienne moans as her ankles lock behind me. “So tight, so perfect.” The words are just an audible rasp as I pull out, all the way to the tip.
Let the senseless fucking begin.
With a snap of my hips, I slam back into Vivienne, her flushed face and bouncing breasts a sight I want to see every night for . . .
I stop myself before I think too far into the future.
I want to fuck Vivienne, in every way, in every room, in every position, for the rest of the summer.
I move my hand lower until I’m pressing against her clit, the friction of each thrust making her thrash beneath me like a leaf trapped in a windstorm. Thrust by thrust by thrust, I torment her. Because I’m the storm. Vivienne is held captive by me.
But there’s a storm that originated inside Vivienne herself. A storm that has her quivering and clenching, has her fists clutching at me, at the sheets, at whatever is within reach.
She finally gives in to the sheer force of it, succumbing with a sharp cry and then a sweeter sigh. Her toes curl, her back bows off the bed, her thighs clamp down on my still pistoning hips.
But it’s the expression of satisfaction that comes over Vivienne’s face that sends me over the edge, my guttural shout filling the air as I spurt and jerk inside her.
The primal urges racing through my veins, ancient instincts to rut and conquer and breed, finally subside as the last of my seed leaves my body. I pull out of her slowly, get rid of the condom, and come back to bed, drawing Vivienne against me, her skin dewy from exertion.
Chapter 22
Vivienne
53 DAYS UNTIL LABOR DAY
It feels like Lance and I are playing house, living a magical, make-believe life. Since Sunday, I’ve spent every night in his bed. I fall asleep in his arms, with the hypnotic sound of waves crashing just beyond the windows and a swirling fan overhead.
In the morning, or sometimes in the middle of the night, Lance wakes me up with teasing kisses at my neck and a possessive caress at the curve of my hip. Sometimes it’s from his scruff dragging over the tender skin of my inner thighs before his mouth latches onto my already weeping sex. Twice, he was already rocking into me from behind before my eyes opened, the rhythm of his thick shaft between my legs mimicking the push and pull of the tide. But always, always, his gruff, still-raspy voice is in my ears, whispering deliciously, devilishly dirty things as he unravels me. I cling, I cry, and I come apart.
All before sunrise.
I’ve found heaven, and it’s right here in the Hamptons.
During the day, while Lance is mostly shut in his office, eyes glued to a computer screen, his phone on speaker, I putter around the house and the yard, occasionally taking his car to work, run errands, or check out local shops and artists.