Chapter 22

Abby:

Paul moves to kneel over me, one leg on either side of my hips. “I love how you look in my sweatshirts.” His voice is scratchy and raw as he leans over me and looks pointedly at the university sweatshirt I threw on before heading off to work earlier. I put it on today for the same reason I kept it all these years. Because some twisted, masochistic part of me still wanted to feel close to him. I completely forgot until this moment that I was even wearing it. “But more than that, I love how you look naked.” Paul tugs at the hem, then grabs the thick material in both hands and pulls it straight up over my head.

With one last tug, the hoodie falls away, baring my chest and stomach. He sucks in a surprised breath—because I’m not wearing a bra?

Paul wastes no time reaching for the waistband on my pants and tugging them—and my panties—down and off my legs. How many nights have I lain awake in bed, alone, wishing he was there? Too many nights I’ve slid an exploring hand into my panties as I pictured him having his way with me—knowing it would never happen in real life. Now, here I am, naked under him.

Paul crawls up my body, the epitome of seduction. He stops with his mouth just inches from the apex of my thighs, lifts his face to look me in the eyes. It isn’t the earnest, puppy-dog, eager-to-please, am-I-doing-this-right face I’d grown so used to seeing from him when we were together before. No, this look is one of pure masculine confidence, dominance. He is in charge, and we both know it. God, I could cum right now if he’d just lower himself a few inches and lick.

He straightens and reaches an arm behind his head, tugging his shirt off in one, fluid motion. Dim light filtering in through the window from headlights on the street below flickers over the contours of his chest and stomach, highlighting the definition. His muscles ripple as he begins working at his belt buckle.

He slides his zipper down and pulls the flaps of his jeans back to reveal bare skin and a faint trail of dark hair disappearing under the denim. Now I strain upward, reaching to get my hands on him, feel him under my fingertips.

He stills me with a hand across my stomach, pressing me back onto the bed, reminding me that he is in control. He leans down and nuzzles my neck like a wild animal sniffing for signs of weakness. He lifts his head just long enough to pierce me with a look of hunger so strong it’s clear he intends to devour me. Then he’s back against my neck, nibbling in the most delicious way.

When he nips and licks his way down my chest, goose bumps tingle across my skin. He’s everywhere, seems to be touching my entire body at once—everywhere except the important parts. He’s driving me wild with kisses over my chest, my stomach, my thighs, his fingertips tracing the trails his lips leave on my body.

I’m writhing, my body shaking with the intensity of my arousal. “Paul, please!” He doesn’t stop his ministrations, but he does start an ascent back across my chest toward my face. He plants a heady kiss on my mouth, his lips moving over mine as if he owns me. And right at this moment, he owns every part of me. I need him to possess me, to fill me—make me whole.

“If you don’t fu—” He silences me with another brush of his lips against mine, but I’m determined to get the words out. I turn my head to the side and try again. “Fuck me now, or I’ll die.”

His resulting chuckle is a seductive, throaty sound against my cheek. “I don’t think anyone’s ever died from lack of sex.”

“Then I’ll be the first.” And I mean it.

He must take pity on me because he pauses his attentions long enough to slide off the bed and yank his jeans down. I barely get a chance to enjoy the view before he’s leaning back over me, the sight of his erection jutting proudly into the air, already throbbing, but I see enough to know that he isn’t as unaffected as he’s pretending to be.

Paul crawls over me, his face inches from my body. He stops to breathe shallow breaths against my nipples, making them tighten into little buds. He gives each one a swift lick and leaves them to harden further from the resulting chill as he continues his progression up my body.

Finally, he positions himself at my entrance, but pauses there for a moment. He sets his forehead against mine. “I love you, Abby. I always have.” Then he drives into me, burying himself deep inside. There’s no build-up, no warning. One minute I’m wondering where he’s going to kiss me; the next he’s thrusting into me, filling me. A fraction of a second later, he slides almost entirely out and drives home again. And again.

He pulls out and sits up, then grips my hips and yanks me up onto his muscular thighs. I’m helpless to do anything except feel, experience, explode with sensation as he glides into me.

“I need you, Abby,” he breathes through clenched teeth. “Need you like I need to breathe.”

And I need him, too. Need this.

He covers me with his body, stoking the heat in my body from the inside. He’s loving me, making love to me like he never has before. And in his kiss, I can taste every regret, every single lonely moment from the last three years.

Soon, too soon, I’m close to coming. My release is closing in like a geyser, the pressure building up to imminent eruption. He must know it, feel it somehow. He starts whispering into my ear, mostly incoherent words of encouragement.

When the first waves of ecstasy crash down around me, I can do nothing but shudder, straining for more, clinging to Paul, trying in vain to pull him completely inside me. He drives into me again and again, his hips pistoning against mine as he succumbs to his own orgasm. Then he collapses over me, his arms shaking with the effort to hold his full weight off me.

For several minutes, he lies over me, stroking my face, my hair, my neck with a tender touch.

“Does this mean you forgive me?” He repeats his question from earlier, his words a wisp of air against my skin.

I curled into him, memorizing the feel of his body surrounding mine. “I think I might need a little more persuading.”

And persuade me, he does.