Luke wanted to tell Keltan he was wrong, that this was his woman and he’d handle it and he’d be level-headed and Rosie wouldn’t shoot him.
Thing was, he wasn’t sure about any of those things, apart from Rosie being his woman.
But it was a fuck of a lot more complicated than that.
“Deal,” he said.
Before, he knew it wasn’t the right time to walk up to her door and claim her.
But it wasn’t before anymore.
So he pushed out of Rosie’s car, slamming the door shut, and headed for her apartment.
To claim his woman.
Fucking finally.
Chapter Fifteen
Rosie
I was still standing with my back against the door when it started banging.
I jumped, turning to look at the offending wood.
It’s him, a little romantic voice inside me said. It’s him not putting up with any of your shit and finally getting you two where you need to be. Together.
No it wasn’t. I’d done enough. Pushed him away enough. Even I was sick of myself.
I expected it to be Polly, telling me about the epic breakup of the marriage. Or Gage, telling me he wanted to go blow things up. He’d learned a few things from me on that score.
Or my downstairs neighbor who I’d become fast friends with wanting to have a Supernatural marathon.
I expected all of those people.
I didn’t expect Luke.
But there he was, in all his glory, his kiss still echoing on my lips.
I expected words.
He was the good guy. When the good guy turned up on your doorstep, there were words. Proclamations. Declarations. Apologies. Accusations. Tears. Whispers.
But he wasn’t the good guy. Not anymore. And I was reminded in the most exquisite way.
“What are you—”
I didn’t finish my sentence because the words had nowhere to go but Luke’s mouth, which was plastered on my own. He didn’t hesitate in plunging his tongue inside, kissing me mercilessly, pushing me inside the apartment with so much force a vase shattered on the floor.
I barely heard it.
And the slam of him kicking the door shut.
The roar of my heartbeat almost drowned everything out.
Luke’s hands were not chaste, they were not hesitant, not tender, worrying about the demons they summoned with such a passionate touch. Not like before. Not like last time.
The last time was the striking of the match.
This was the unleashing of the entire fucking inferno.
I knew, as he ripped my tee off me, sucking at my nipple through the lace of my bra, that there would be nothing remaining of me amongst the ashes when this ended. And it would end. Infernos burned hot and quickly.
His hand went straight into my panties, landing on the perfect spot without needing to search.
I cried out in surprise and pleasure. He bit at my lip, drawing blood.
And then his fingers were inside me.
And I didn’t care what little would be left at the end.
Endings didn’t matter when you were at the midst of the most beautiful of beginnings. Or maybe this was just another in a long line of endings.
I didn’t give a fuck.
Not when Luke had me naked in front of him, his eyes burning with carnal desire. His gaze devoured me, saying everything he thought about my naked body without uttering a word, as if we knew words would ruin this, bring about reality, sever the connection.
Then he knelt like he was worshipping me, the most tender of gestures juxtaposed by the raw and brutal look in his eyes. He stayed like that for a moment, and then his mouth was on me, right there.
I screamed. I couldn’t help it. Maybe it was because he hit the perfect spot with the perfect amount of pressure and tongue. Maybe it was because I hadn’t realized I hadn’t had good, carnal, and brutal sex in… forever.
Or most likely it was because it was Luke.
It was Luke kneeling at my feet. It was Luke’s mouth on my most intimate part of me, Luke’s kiss that mingled with the taste of blood in my mouth.
I clenched his hair as he stoked my fire, unleashing the climax that turned my knees to jelly. His hands immediately came to my hips, steadying me, holding me up as my shudders washed over me.
Every aftershock was jarring, hitting all my fragile nerve endings. The loss of Luke’s mouth and the rush of humid air on my bare skin sent shivers vibrating through me.
His mouth immediately covered mine, which was expelling breath so rapidly I vaguely wondered whether I’d pass out.
I really hoped I didn’t pass out.
His taste mingled with my own served to build up the desire that I’d thought he’d just sated. My hunger for him was not quelled after that. Not after this long.
We had years to make up for.
He growled as my fingers ripped at his tee, detaching from my lips for the second it took to yank it off his body. The second he was separated from the material, he yanked our naked torsos together, the electrifying combination of his skin against mine something beyond perfect. I scratched at the flesh of his back, moaning at the same time he hissed out a breath when I broke the skin. His eyes were almost black, telling me he liked it like that.
Which almost made me stutter. This glimpse of the new Luke, the bad Luke, who was going to take me hard and rough and drew my blood and liked it—no, loved it when I drew his.
But then he yanked my hand to the hardness straining from his jeans and all my feelings of guilt disappeared, swallowed by the power of my desire. I was desperate, feral almost, as I yanked at his belt buckle, a small sting in my forefinger telling me I’d broken a nail getting it loose. Not that it mattered. Not when I was freeing him in all his glory.
I caressed him for a moment, freeing him from jeans but leaving them on. He grunted as my hands ran over the smooth and hard flesh. And then they weren’t anymore, one of his hands circling my wrist, yanking it away from him. The other made short work of his jeans and then somehow—maybe I collapsed, maybe he pushed me down—we were on the floor. And then he was inside me.
Both of us stilled on that first thrust, all the ferocity of before disappearing. He just stayed there, inside me, both physically and emotionally, stare locked on mine. The moment that passed was not one fueled by aggressive and almost-crazed desire. This lucidity was almost painful in its exquisiteness, in the way we passed a million words in that one glance, acknowledging how long this had been in coming, about how perfect it was.
About how this should never have happened. About how imperfect it was.
And I wanted to throw away all those other moments I’d snatched from between us so I could make room for this one. Steal it out of the present and store it to become my ultimate treasure.
But I didn’t have time.
Because his lips were on mine.
And then he moved.
And then there was no room for coherent thought.
There was room for nothing but our bodies and our passion, and for once, simplicity.
But all good things come to an end. And the worst ones too. I just couldn’t figure out which one this was.
I came to my senses quickly. Well, after five orgasms. But after a handful of hours with a man who could give five orgasms, one could describe that as quick. Because most women, most sane women, would hold onto that, not let it go after a mere few hours. No, a sane woman would put a fucking ring on that shit.