Up in Smoke, page 17
“I’m just thinking of what a lovely night it is.” And how now I’m going to ruin it by going on a date with some random guy.
Roman stares at me, into me, and that light breeze ignites into a hot gust that envelops my body.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask.
“I genuinely don’t know what to do here.”
He sounds a mix of forlorn and annoyed. I can understand that a man like Roman operates on a level where certainty is a given. He understands the world a particular way, its rules, its patterns, and how to keep his people and crew safe. My entry into his life has thrown him off course and he’s looking for a way back to the straight and narrow.
I can’t make up his mind for him.
“What do you want to do?”
“What I want is not possible, Abby.” His gaze drills into me, strips me raw, and leaves me a spineless mess on the metaphorical floor.
“Tell me what you don’t want, then.”
I expect him to say he doesn’t want me to go on that date. I need him to say that.
“I don’t want to feel your smile on my face when you come in for your shift or the brush of your arm against mine as you get off the truck. I don’t want my lungs to be filled with the scent of you. I don’t want to hear your laugh because it—and everything about you—makes me so damn crazy I can’t think straight.”
“Roman—”
Whip quick, he moves in, his hand cupping my hip, the heat of his touch imprinting on me through the fabric of my top. With lips brushing my ear, his whisper is delicious and decadent.
“I don’t want to feel like this anymore. So fucking desperate. So fucking needy.”
I place a hand on his chest, an attempt at comfort, though whether it’s for myself or for him, I can’t say. Nothing has ever felt so solid and masculine, so perfect under my trembling fingers.
His proximity, the intensity waving off him wraps around me like a gorgeous, weighted blanket. One twist of my head and my lips will rub against his dark cheek. He needs a shave, just like that night at the diner. Perhaps we can pretend we’re those people again. I want to feel that strong jaw between my thighs, the weight of him and the moment over me.
“You said it could be just S—” He breathes against the shell of my ear. “E—” Another touch of his lips against my temple. “X.” He finishes with a rough sound in his throat that instantly gets me wet. “Did you mean that?”
I said it but now I realize that was me trying to convince myself—and him—to take a chance on us.
“I don’t know,” I whisper, though I really shouldn’t admit that. We can’t date, yet sex might not be enough.
He turns, locks eyes onto mine, and breathes a hot puff of longing against my lips.
“How about we pretend that’s all it is?” His words are tentative as if he’s testing their viability to exist in a real sentence.
“You mean lie?”
“Is it a lie if we’re so … upfront about it?”
Be honest about the fact we’re lying, but pretend this means nothing all the same? If that’s what it takes to feel him inside me once again, I’m prepared to strike that devil’s bargain. I refuse to overthink it because that will produce a level of reason that’s so inappropriate to how I feel right now.
I tip my toes, he inclines his head, and our lips line up perfectly.
There’s still time to take a step back into sanity, but in this moment, pleasure and need are a two-punch with their hooks in me. I meet his kiss and fall into madness.
This kiss isn’t a lie. Nothing that hot and deep could ever feel like an untruth. It takes a hold of my senses and wrings them out until I’m gasping. I hadn’t realized how much I missed his mouth, the honesty of it.
“Still as sweet as cherry pie.” He closes his eyes and leans his forehead to mine. “I shouldn’t want this so bad. Nothing good comes from wanting something this bad.”
“It’s okay to want things, Roman.” I’ve been telling myself that for years while I strive to take control of my career and the life I crave. We’re not hurting anyone, though the closer I get to Roman, the more I realize that someone could emerge from this damaged.
Me.
“We have tonight,” I say. “Let’s make it unforgettable.”
I seal the deal with another kiss, followed by a soft exploration of his jaw that previews coming attractions. Then I turn away, shaky as the leaves teased by the wind, and open the door.
In my apartment, my purse falls to the ground and when I turn Roman wraps me in his arms. Everything about him is solid, hard, and insistent.
I’m tall and well-built, but with Roman I feel soft and, well, cared for. He has my back at the station, on every call. The alpha protector thing is embedded in his DNA.
Who takes care of him?
Tonight, that’ll be me.
I push him against the door, my hands shaking as I fumble with his belt. No slouch, he unbuttons my blouse, pulls it apart to expose my bra-cupped breasts …
And groans.
“You are something else. A fucking vision.”
My hands unzip and pull his jeans down. He helps remove them, kicking off his shoes and socks. I fall to my knees, then work my way back up along the inside of one thick, hairy, hard-as-stone thigh. His muscles bunch with each press of my lips to his skin, and when I peel his boxer briefs down to free him, his entire body stiffens.
“You okay?” I ask as I pull his underwear off. Oh Lord, look at him.
“Define okay.”
“Not likely to collapse if I take this beautiful cock in my mouth.” I kiss the underside softly, moving my lips over the throbbing vein.
I hear him swallow. “No, not okay. Definitely not okay.” He curls a hand around my neck, moving his thumb over the corner of my mouth. “You don’t have to—fuck!”
“I know.” You were saying, Lieutenant?
I’ve always loved giving head. The taste, the feel, the power to give that much pleasure to someone while they are trusting you with their most precious possession. (Because let’s be honest, guys love their dicks.)
I suck him deep, and apply myself to tasting every solid inch of him. The musky scent consumes me, the solid weight fills me up, and knowing what this does to him takes me somewhere special. He groans, a long and heartfelt sound, and in it I hear his pleasure and his gratitude.
“Abby, yes, fuck—that’s so good.” He tunnels the fingers of one hand in my hair, while the palm of the other at the back of my neck keeps me in place, focused on his pleasure which is also mine.
“Baby, I’m going to come,” he warns, but I’m going nowhere. I suck harder, taking him deeper, and make sure he’ll never doubt my commitment to his need. The first drop to hit my tongue is hot and salty, and I drink him down through his howl of release.
Breathless, I rest my head against his thigh and let him stroke my neck and jaw for a few precious, quiet moments.
“Up,” he says, his tone raspy and rough.
Standing, I place my hands on his hips. His body feels like an anchor, something solid to hold on to. He curves his palms around my butt and pulls me in for a deep, wet kiss.
“Before this goes any further, I need you to do something for me.”
I blink at this weird attempt at bargaining for my orgasm. “Something else?”
He rubs his nose against mine. “Dump your date.”
“I could just stand him up.” Though I’d never do that.
“I know what that’s like. It’s not nice. Break the date. Then let me show you why it’s the best decision you could have made.”
Neither of us seem to be so hot in the decision-making department, but I’m prepared to follow his lead on this. I reach for my purse and pull out my phone.
Twenty-six
Roman
I’ve made a ton of mistakes in my personal life, but I’ve always tried to keep it out of the professional. After the two collided in New York, I should know better but here I am again …
… and I don’t care.
Her hand on my chest. My mouth on hers.
One taste and I’m gone.
I cup her gorgeous ass and yank her close enough to feel how hard I’m getting. Again. Even though she milked my cock perfectly with that hot, sweet mouth. I should have made her come first but in that moment, letting her suck me deep just felt so fucking right. I hadn’t realized how much I needed it, but somehow she knew.
Her arms circle my neck, and she kisses the corner of my mouth, an almost too sweet gesture for the level of lust I’m feeling.
Or maybe that gesture is just right. Lust is merely a word right now. My chest is swarming with a ton of other emotions, and lust is the least of it. I want to protect her, fight dragons for her, punch anyone who says she can’t. Not that she needs me going into battle for her.
I lift her against me, needing to feel that heat between her thighs. She groans as her favorite parts meet my favorite parts in a hot as hell how do ya do. I take that sweet kiss and manipulate it to my liking—a dirty, deep, wet swirl of my tongue inside her velvet mouth.
Her moan makes me harder and my hardness makes her moan louder. We’re a feedback loop of mindless, oh yeah, never-stop-baby desire. I’m acting like I haven’t been with a woman in … okay, that’s about right. This is exactly how it’s going down. I’m a teenage boy suddenly presented with the prom queen. Every reason for not doing this is dissolving in a melting pot of hormones and lust.
I flip our positions so her back’s against the door and she’s hitched up, her thighs over my hips. No position has ever felt so good but I’ve a feeling that lying on top of her in a bed might ace it. I leave her lips to ask, “Bedroom.”
Really, it comes out more like, “Br-oom” because word formation has deserted me.
“Behind you,” she gasps.
I shift her higher against me and head to the bedroom, while she kisses every part of my face. It’s kind of sweet how much attention she pays to my cheekbones and eyebrows, nose and lines at the corners of my eyes, parts of me I don’t feel are all that deserving. I suspect she’s giving my mouth a break so I’ll keep my eyes open and not break a leg on the way to the bed.
I lay her down. She blows a strand of hair out of her eyes and leans up on her elbows to watch as I peel off my shirt.
Those gorgeous blues glaze and darken.
“You are something else, Roman Rossi.” She sits upright and places both hands on my hips, her thumbs running along my V-cut. Her eyes never leave my face.
That’s … different. With my ex, there wasn’t much of that eye contact. She was always pretty clear about what she needed from me. Hard and fast, not a lot of tenderness or connection. I spent most of my twenties in a weird dynamic of fucking my wife, but never making love to her. I tried, but she wasn’t having any of it.
This already feels like a vast improvement. It shouldn’t—or I shouldn’t allow myself to hope.
I should want to urge her forward, demand she get down to business and let me get her off as fast as she did me, but apparently I’m enjoying the slowdown. And when she places her soft lips on my stomach, she hums, a vibration over my skin that raises it in gooseflesh.
I let out a sigh at the rightness of it.
“Let me see you properly,” I ask. Beg.
Inching back, she unhooks her bra to reveal the most beautiful set of tits I’ve ever been privileged to witness. Her pale skin, mapped with light blue veins, makes my mouth water.
“Jesus, you are gorgeous.” Gentling her back on the bed, I cup one perfect breast and brush a thumb over her nipple, weirdly proud when it peaks under my touch.
Looking up, I clash gazes with her. Her lips part, and I realize it’s been twenty years since I kissed her. So I take her mouth with mine and commit to this moment and to her. No more hesitation. If I’m going to cross the line, I’m going all the fuck in.
I strip her completely, ensuring no more barriers—not clothes, not jobs, not that niggling voice telling me this is a mistake. I’ve taped its mouth closed. Finally we’re where we need to be: skin-to-skin, exploring and touching.
She has a thing for my arms. She can’t help running her fingertips over my biceps, squeezing the muscles.
“They are,” I murmur.
“They’re what?”
“Real.”
She swats at my arm—another quick check she can’t resist—and then she coasts a palm over my pecs. “These, too?”
“Yep. Think I need to do some checking of my own.” I plump one supple breast and take it to my mouth. Then inside, swirling my tongue over the rosy peak before graduating to a lusty suck. She arches off the bed in pleasure and that response makes me fucking wild. Still sucking, I move a hand down her rib cage, her belly, through the thatch of curls to find her wet and hot.
I release her breast to speak. “Open up for me, ciliegina.”
“Chili what?”
“Little cherry.” I stroke through her pussy and take those shivers of desire as my due. All mine. “Sweet as pie.”
Continuing to rub through her slick, hot heat, I figure I can multitask and kiss her pale, perfect skin. The muscles in her belly contract when my lips skim her skin. When my tongue gets a taste of the heaven between her thighs, she’s moaning again.
“So sensitive.”
“Not usually,” she pants as I ratchet up the tension with a finger inside her. “Your hands, they’re …” She shakes her head, rolling her hips to suck me deeper. I add another digit, pushing and stretching her, seeking out the points that’ll light her up.
Turning an index finger, I glance against her clit, just a whisper to test the limits.
“Yes, that’s—oh, yeah, that’s it, Roman.”
I love hearing my name on her lips. I don’t know why that’s important but it is. I need to know I’m the one she wants here, that I’m not replaceable.
I shake my head, wondering why I thought that. Knowing the origin but preferring to push it away. I don’t need the ghost of my marriage haunting this bedroom.
I rub more, generating more slickness as my cock insistently pushes against her leg. Pre-come leaks, streaking against her skin and I suck in a controlling breath. Watching her fist the sheets and the eyes rolling back in her head assures me she’s close but I like drawing it out. I had thought this would be quick, a desperate effort at release—get ’er done so we can rear view it and move on—but it no longer feels like that.
It feels fucking monumental.
I want to spend all day and night with parts of my body embedded inside hers, looking for all the ways to get her off, then switch to her wringing every last drop of come from me. I want it to last, then I want to start over and find new ways to fuck that neither of us have thought of.
I swirl my palm over her pussy, a slow, sinful, sensuous rub. It unwinds something in her and soon she’s coming against my hand, grasping my wrist to hold me fast.
As if I’m going anywhere.
This is the only place I want to be.
Twenty-seven
Abby
I don’t think I’ve ever come that hard in my life.
Roman’s dark hazel-green eyes glitter with lust and pride. He knows exactly what he’s done and he’s pretty in love with himself right now.
“That was—good,” I murmur.
He kneels between my thighs and I get the best vista imaginable: Roman, all God of Thunder thighs, his lightly-furred chest, bronzed skin, the arms.
The. Arms.
I could craft art with those arms as molds. But the main attraction right now is getting Roman’s attention. He’s pumping his cock and while I know I probably should be helping, the sight is so arousing—and that orgasm was quite draining—that I’m happy to lie back and watch.
“Just good, huh?” he says with a smirk, referring to my downplaying of the peak I just reached. “Guess I’ll have to figure out how to improve on that.”
I sit up and curl a hand around his neck.
“Thank you.”
He stops the motion of his hand. Looks shocked, to be honest. Has no one thanked him for an orgasm before? Isn’t that listed in Emily Post’s etiquette rules?
“You’re welcome,” he says quietly.
“Let me.” I take his hand away and replace it with my own. He’s hot and hard again in my grip, a weird contrast with the vulnerability I see in his eyes. I get the impression that Roman’s not one for self-care. That everyone looks to him for their needs and he doesn’t think over much of his own.
The tip of his cock is dotted with fluid and it looks like it needs some love. I run my hand over the shaft, letting the pre-come lubricate the motion. He pulses hard in my hand.
“Need to be inside you, Abby.”
I couldn’t agree more.
I grab a condom from the nightstand drawer and watch as he secures it and lies over me. The vibe has changed. Still sexy, but now more urgent. More of a recognition that we can’t laze about all day in bed like a regular couple because there’s nothing regular or couple-y about us.
This is about primal need, answering a call, and releasing a fire-truck load of tension.
He rubs his sheathed cock over my opening and I almost come again. I’m not going to last but I’m conscious that I need to. I need to prolong this time with him.
In this game of would you rather, I want the power of slow motion.
“You okay, Abby?” he whispers.
I nod, and he lays the sweetest kiss on my forehead before pushing in with one long, all-reaching stroke, and it’s like my body knows he’s the only one who fits right and makes itself ready for him. The moan that erupts from my throat doesn’t sound like me. I don’t usually sound so wanton and needy. Sure, I enjoy sex and I recognize that it’s usually better with a partner, but I don’t generally rely on that partner to complete me. I have my own hands, tools, and fantasies for that.
But with Roman, it’s different. He rules my body with a quiet intensity that slays me. He’s here with me, his gaze pure and searching, each thrust another question trying to get to the heart of who I am. The man seems to think he can know me this way, and that in knowing me, we become partners in pleasure. I understand that concept—I read romance novels—but I’ve never experienced it.
