He liked that answer, too, judging by the way a groan shaded into a growl.
He shifted his weight to one arm and grabbed his penis with the other. He met no resistance. She was soft, open. Maybe zombies were foreplay.
Or maybe lying next to Jake watching zombies was foreplay.
Regardless, he slid right in.
She sighed contentedly. She hadn’t had sex without a condom for years. But there was something so delicious, so lazy about just rolling over and going at it.
And this was lazy. Not in an “I can’t be bothered” way, but in an “I’m kind of spent from all the sex we’ve already had, but I still can’t keep my hands off you” way. He ground his hips in slow circles against her, and because he was lying on top of her, pasting his whole body over hers, staying fully sheathed in her as he worked his hips, the angle put pressure on her clit. She moved against him lazily, too, keeping her ankles locked at his back. There was no thrusting, no athletic pumping, just small circles, just friction and want.
He came first, filling her with a low grumble that sounded like a mixture of pained and relieved. She wasn’t there yet, and he kept moving his hips, but she’d lost the friction on her clit. He knew it, though, and peeled his body off hers just enough to press his fingers against her. He established the same rhythm they’d had with their bodies—slow and measured. She was wet, and his come was oozing out of her, and she loved the squishing sound they made when she rolled her hips in time with his circles.
“Come on, Nora,” he whispered against her ear, his head buried in her neck. He wasn’t hurrying her, just encouraging her. Sighing again, she let her head fall back. She’d been looking at where they were joined—it was so hot—but the weight of her head was too much now. “Come on,” he said again, leaving his thumb on her clit but rotating his hand so he could insert a finger into her next to his now-soft penis.
Her muscles started fluttering around him. “There you go,” he whispered.
If she’d thought about it, she would have predicted this would be a quick, serviceable orgasm. She was already so wrung out, both emotionally and physically. She’d had a lot of orgasms in the last twenty-four hours, good ones.
But holy crap, she had never had one like this. It started small, but then it just…didn’t end.
“Yeah,” he encouraged, keeping up the same rhythm with his fingers.
“Oh,” she breathed as the contractions kept coming. It wasn’t a hurried sensation, at least not at first. It started out measured, but it was expanding inside her. When she thought she was approaching the end, the whole thing would start over. It was a little bit scary, not knowing when the end would come, but not scary enough to make it end. “Oh!”
“Yeah, Nora. Keep going, baby.”
A small part of her mind registered that it was a little absurd how he was cheering her on. But mostly his words, his low, sexy tone, just poured fuel on the flames.
Eventually, though, the sensations waned. As she came back to herself, vulnerability arrived. She was sweating and panting and sticky and crying a little—and not over Grandma. She wasn’t generally one to get fussed over what she looked like while having sex, but that was because it usually didn’t involve her partner watching her…do what exactly? Have multiple orgasms? Because that’s what that had been, right? Or had it been one unending monster one? Her medical knowledge fell short.
Regardless, she’d lost herself there. She had no idea what she had looked like—or sounded like—from the outside.
He pulled his hand off her, and it almost hurt, she was so oversensitized. “Dear God, woman.”
Dear God was right. Her already hot cheeks burned even hotter. Had she made a fool of herself?
He flopped onto his back like she’d slain him. “How can we make that happen again?”
She was magnificent.
That was the only word Jake had as he stared at the ceiling of his bedroom, his entire body turned to mush as if he had been the one who just had the five-minute orgasm.
Her stomach growled.
So she was hungry, too.
Magnificent and hungry.
He rolled off the bed. “We gotta eat something actually substantial.” They’d been snacking since that first bowl of popcorn…whenever that was. He pressed the home button on his new phone to display the date and time—which was actually a pretty handy feature. Look at that. It was the last day of the year. He had a text from Clara inviting him to a New Year’s Eve party at the Mermaid.
He had lost track of time as they’d dug in. It had been snowing for hours—days?—and that added to the sense of being unmoored from reality.
As did having every kind of sex every kind of way until he hardly knew his own name anymore, much less what time it was.
He rummaged around in the kitchen. Things were sparse. He did have dog food, though, so he set to refilling Mick’s dish. Poor Mick. He had grown accustomed to a lot of exercise, but the poor mutt had gotten none in the last while. He’d had to settle for quick trips outside to do his business during breaks in taking care of Nora—in a few different ways.
She trailed out from the bedroom with a quilt wrapped around her. “Go back to bed. I’ll bring you something.”
She rolled her neck and kept walking toward him. “I think I need to, like, use my limbs.”
“Okay.” He pointed to the breakfast bar that separated the kitchen from the main living space of the cottage, and she sat. He opened a cabinet and peered in. He wasn’t sure what he expected to see. It wasn’t like there was going to be a Hawaiian pizza in there. “I need to make a grocery run.”
“Jake Ramsey, are those Lucky Charms?” She sounded disproportionately delighted.
“Uh, yeah? You want some?”
“Yes!”
He needed to feed her something more substantial, but he got the box down. “I should probably say something about how these were left over from Jude—”
“He was too young for solid food.”
“Or Clara likes Lucky Charms.”
She rolled her eyes.
“What can I say? I’m a fan.” He shrugged. “I don’t know, those little dry marshmallows really do it for me.” He passed her the box and collected milk, a bowl, and a spoon. “Help yourself, but you also have to eat something more substantial.”
Which, at his house, meant fish. He opened his freezer.
“Is that fish? That you caught?”
“Yeah. I hate feeding you frozen fish, but I’m pretty much out of everything else. This is the emergency trout stash.”
“Emergency trout stash!” She sounded delighted again.
The problem was, there wasn’t very much of it. One medium-size fillet. He popped it in the microwave, and as it defrosted, he inspected the fridge again. Hmm. Did he have…Yes. There was still a hunk of gouda that had been part of a gift basket the Toronto douchebag had sent when they’d shipped the canoe.
“I’ll go home tomorrow,” she said through a mouthful of cereal.
“Tomorrow’s New Year’s Eve,” he said, trying to project a casualness he did not feel. “Well, today, technically.”
“It is? Man, I’ve totally lost track of time.”