Let go, Stella. He’s got you, I repeated as I looked up at the ceiling, and closed my eyes. As he made a slow clockwise circle around my clit, he groaned. His exhalation warmed my skin, and he groaned again. It was the unmistakable sound of someone eating something they found absolutely delicious.
Though I’d never seen the northern lights, I felt like I was seeing them now. Ripples of green and blue got mixed up with deep blues and purple-blacks. As I relaxed, I eased down into a wonderful in-between place, neither here nor there nor anywhere, and yet everywhere. It was a place where I didn’t need to worry and didn’t need to decide. It was the pleasure of lying down on cool grass on a hot day. Before I knew it, I was close. Really close. The flicker and the pulse had started, and my nervousness was gone. It was coming, and no amount of overthinking was going to stop it. I gripped his hands hard. “Nick . . .”
He nodded between my legs, and his stubble scratched me in the most amazing, delightful, and crazy-making way.
“I think I’m going to . . .” Instinctively, I tried to close my thighs, but he didn’t let me, and all that tension amplified the exquisite, warm pleasure that was starting to throb through my whole body. “You’re going to make me . . .”
He nodded again and went into full nuzzle mode. He pulled away just long enough to say a deep and dirty, “You know what to do. So do it.”
I closed my eyes. And let him take me away. I don’t know if I sobbed when I came or if I screamed. But through it all I felt the strength of his body, supporting mine, making it so very easy to finally let go.
When I relaxed my grip, he very slowly pulled his mouth away from my clit. He gently pushed my skirt away and raised his head from between my legs so that his face was framed in polka dots and crinoline. As soon as he saw the tears on my cheeks, he climbed on top of me, shoes and dress pants and all. “You OK?” he asked, wiping his thumb gently under my right eye, lingering at the corner.
I nodded, with a sniffle that got mixed up with a laugh. “I am. Totally OK.”
But he didn’t seem the least bit worried. “I’ve never had that happen,” he said, tenderly sweeping another tear away from my left cheek this time.
Slowly I felt myself coming back to earth. “It’s never happened to me.”
“Won’t be the last time, guaranteed,” he said softly, and kissed my cheek where the first tear had been.
He was up on his elbows, in a push-up over me. I undid his belt and the top button of his pants, slipping my finger between the elastic of his boxers and his magnificent treasure trail. He was every inch a red-blooded, brawny, sexy man. Perfect in every way.
He straddled me and put one finger under the left strap of my dress and slipped it off my shoulder. He ran the back of his finger up my bare shoulder and down again. “Your skin is so amazing. It’s just so . . .” He trailed off, searching for the word. Then he lifted his eyes to me and shook his head. “Pure. So pure.”
I’d never seen anything like his skin, either. On his tattooed forearm, I now recognized all sorts of different animals, objects, and even people. They weren’t a mishmash of acquired tattoos, some hodgepodge put together over time; instead, it seemed to be one big, continuous canvas. I traced the edges of a bear’s paw and a warrior’s shield. “Will you tell me what all of these are?” I asked.
“I will,” he said, watching me as I traced between the blacks and the blues, the reds and the greens. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
There was so much I wanted to know, but right then there was something I wanted even more. “We can do that later,” I said.
His eyes darted up to mine. “Oh yeah? You ready?” He pressed his lips into my palm, and I nodded. Flexing his biceps and pecs, he pushed up off me and stood next to the bed. He reached into his wallet to get a condom. He let his pants drop to the floor and tossed his wallet beside them. In the mirror, I saw us again. Him, in all his naked perfection. Me, still in my dress.
“I should take this off,” I said, reaching for the tiny hidden zipper that ran along the left side of the bodice.
But he shook his head as he ripped the wrapper off the condom. “Nope. Keep it on. That way whenever you wear it, you’ll think about us. About what I’m about to do to you,” he said, and rolled the condom onto himself, holding the base as he pinched the tip.
I put my knees together, and he slid my panties off, tossing them aside. “And what are you gonna do to me?” I asked.
He didn’t answer, but instead pushed my thighs back so that my knees came toward my shoulders. He dipped two fingers into me and spread my wetness over the condom. With my hips on the edge of the bed, he began to push into me. As he filled me, he placed his hand over my heart. It took my breath away. It was an absolutely beautiful thing to do, and so I followed his lead and did the same. Looking into his eyes made me feel like I was falling into a warm bath. The chemistry—body to body, heart to heart—was an explosive mix of passion and tenderness and heat. It was kindness and warmth and patience. His heartbeat thrummed against my hand, steady and strong. Constant and reassuring.
But then his heartbeat did speed up, just a touch, as he got all the way inside me. He closed his eyes and bit his lip as I felt the pressure on my cervix. I sucked in a long breath, and my feet cramped because of my constantly curling toes. He felt like magic. He was magic. He went slowly, carefully, always watching to make sure he wasn’t hurting me. Once that initial wave of pleasure left him, he opened his eyes and never took them off me, while he drove into me in that steady, sweet way.
The pleasure was maddening. It was overwhelming. It was all-consuming. It was everything. The flicker and the pulse started again, even though he wasn’t touching my clit at all.
“Oh my God, Nick.” It was happening. The throbbing, the pulsing, the pounding deep in my body. The tremors. Every drive was the magic thing that I’d never known I could have. El Dorado was in sight. “I think . . .”
“Fuck yeah.” He doubled down on the thrusts with so much force that the bed smacked mercilessly against the drywall. “Say my name the whole way through it.”
The flashes of light started coming, like faint strobe pulses. Left was right. Back was front. And I was gone, the world nothing but shimmery sparkles, saying Nick, over and over again.
20
NICK
I fucked her through moans and toe curls, through writhes and roars. I fucked her as she bit my shoulder, as her Nick-Nick-Nicks turned into yeses turned to pleases and back again. I fucked her as she clawed at my back and only eased up when her pussy loosened its grip on my cock.
“Oh my God,” she said against my shoulder. “I’ve never . . . it’s never . . . how did you . . .”
I adored her like that, with her half sentences and unfinished thoughts, so overcome with pleasure that she forgot how to speak. Her wetness had thickened, and I felt the primal need to keep at her, to take her to orgasm again and come with her. But she’d come so hard, I knew she needed to catch her breath. So I held her close, my fingers tangled in the straps of her dress, and then rolled over so that she was on top.
“Breathe,” I told her, keeping her chest pressed against mine. I felt every pant against my pecs, her rib cage rising and falling, expanding and contracting. She was relaxed and helpless in my arms; her breathing slowed, and she rested her chin on my shoulder. I was still inside her, still rock solid, and I knew that wasn’t going to change, no matter how long we lay there. Her post-orgasm wetness trickled steadily down onto my balls. Her skirt pooled over us. In the mirror behind her, I watched her position her feet with the tops to my thighs, her toes peeking out from beneath the polka dots.
I breathed with her; when she inhaled, I’d exhale, so that we stayed as close as possible. Her pants slowly got more regular, and the pulses inside her pussy eased up. With my finger on her jaw, I lifted her chin.
“You’re a fucking goddess, you know that?” I said, tracing the line of her cheekbone.
She shook her head
like she was embarrassed. It was fucking adorable, the way she got shy and modest. But shy or not, she needed to know how beautiful she was. She perched her chin on my chest, and I cupped her jaw so she couldn’t turn away. “A fucking goddess. Say it.”
“I’m . . .” She trailed off. “No, stop.” She looked up at the ceiling, all blushes.
“Say it.”
“Nick!” Now she set her teeth, like she was irritated. Like she didn’t know what to do with all this attention.
But I was damn well going to get her used to it, because this was just the beginning. “Stella. Say it.”
She pressed her lips together and made an irritated moan, and I felt her toes leave my thighs. “You’re killing me.”
Holding her jaw, I made her nod. “Say it. It’s not that difficult. ‘I’m Stella Peretti, and I’m a fucking goddess.’ See?” I put a lock of her hair behind her ear. “Easy peasy. Your turn.”
Looking away again, she suddenly seemed very interested in the sheets. And the window, and her bookcase. She made some helpless groans, and her eyelashes brushed her beautiful pink cheeks. Then, very, very quietly, barely louder than the sound of her breath itself, she whispered, “I’m . . . a . . . goddess,” and pressed her chin into her shoulder, embarrassed all over again.
The way she said it, it had a question mark at the end. I’m . . . a . . . goddess? It absolutely slayed me. Her, with all her moxie and confidence, shy with me right now. “Close. Except it’s not a question, and it’s fucking goddess.”
Very slowly, as we locked eyes, her shyness faded away. She was getting genuinely annoyed, I could tell, and I loved that shit. Because hell yeah, I wanted to push her. Push her all the way into seeing what I saw. I waited for her to repeat it and lifted my eyebrow to say, C’mon. Do it.
And then she lifted her chin and pursed her lips and said, “I’m a fucking goddess.”
“Atta girl,” I said, and gave her a nice solid slap on her ass. She exploded in giggles and buried her face in my chest. I put her knees on either side of me, holding her tight to keep her face right next to mine. Very slowly I started driving into her again—not a primal fuck, but a loving one. She tried to come up on her knees so she was riding me, but I didn’t let her. “I need you close. I need you just like this.”
I put one hand on the small of her back and the other on her upper back, in that depression between her shoulder blades. And just like that, I drove into her. Slow, measured, careful. With every drive, more of her wetness trickled from her pussy and down onto me. I pulled her face to mine and gave her an intense, teeth-clashing kiss. I sucked her tongue hard into my mouth, and she did the same to me. She wasn’t going to take control—not now, not tonight. Tonight I was going to show her that yeah, she might have my heart in her hand. Yeah, she might know everything about me. But I was Nick Norton, and I was going to own this goddess tonight.
I ran my left hand down her hourglass, keeping the pressure on so her hips stayed firmly against mine. And then I slid my middle finger between her ass cheeks, pressing against the tight O to show her I owned that too. I was just way too into her pussy to take it. She groaned into the kiss. I fingered her ass more fully, and she groaned some more. It was a lurid porn-star moan, so wild and rude that it made a pulse of cum fill my shaft. Very gently I slid my other hand around and pressed on her throat. I wanted her sweet. I wanted her dirty. I wanted everything she had.
Driving into her from below, I paced myself. I tried to think about boring shit, about fixing my motorcycle, about grocery shopping and taxes and all those thoughts that should have staved off the orgasm that was coming. But fuck, it was coming hard, and it was coming soon. There was no fighting the tide. I didn’t ask permission, and I didn’t warn her. I cursed that motherfucking condom, grabbed hold of her hips, and went for it, fucking went for it. I put my cum inside that pussy, imagining the day when she’d let me do it for real. When she’d trust me enough to take her like I needed to take her. When she’d let me make her fucking mine for keeps.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” I ground out between clenched teeth. She was everything I never knew I needed. I knew then that I didn’t own her body, hell no. That perfect pussy of hers, it owned me.
Into my ear she growled, “Keep going. Never stop. Ever.”
I sat up with her on top of me and planted my knees to get her on her back, her head nearly off the edge of the bed, her hair spilling nearly to the carpet. On top of her, I doubled down to push myself into back-to-back orgasms; the first one was barely over when the second one started. She felt that good, and I needed her that bad. The first load had felt great, but the second felt even better. In the mirror I saw myself, powering into her with every ounce of brutal passion I had. Every ounce belonged to her, and I didn’t stop until I felt my own cum dripping out of the condom onto my balls.
When I finally collapsed on top of her, her legs hooked together around my hips and she ran her fingers lightly through my hair. She put small, tender kisses all over my cheeks. I’d finally found it. Total bliss.
But the flurry of kisses tapered off. She turned her face slightly, and her chest rose and fell, shallowly and rapidly. Like a pant, but quicker. Her breasts compressed against my chest. “Ummm . . . Nick?”
Jesus. I didn’t even know if I could talk. I was so breathless and so spent . . . but I did manage to answer, with a deep, “Yeah, gorgeous.”
“Did you actually turn off the oven, or . . .” she asked, followed by a few sniffs.
As I pulled my face out of her silky dark hair, I smelled it. I smelled it past the warmth of her perfume and past the crazy-making scent of her pussy still on my face. What I smelled wasn’t a Stella smell. It wasn’t a heaven-sent smell. It was more of . . .
A burning smell.
Suddenly, a piercing squeal filled the air—one of those insane, mind-bending, hundred-decibel alarms that make your brain freeze. Stella jammed her fingers into her ears and said, “Smoke alarm!”
In that instant, I realized what I’d done. “Holy shit, don’t tell me I left the oven on.”
And she dissolved into helpless, overpowering, full-body laughter in my arms, nodding against my chest.
21
STELLA
My famous lasagna looked like a pan full of asphalt roofing shingles. Meanwhile, Nick stood naked in the middle of the kitchen like he’d just caused a ten-car pileup. In one hand, he held the nine-volt battery he’d pried from the smoke alarm. The other hand was pressed to his forehead. “I’ll buy you a new pan.”
Using my oven mitts, I placed the smoking pan in the sink. The glass hissed against the droplets of water on the metal basin. “Don’t worry,” I reassured him, briefly considering the possibility of dousing the whole shebang in water, but reconsidering because God only knew what happened when a Pyrex pan cooled off too fast. Kaboom! Trying to reassure him, I said, “That oven is very confusing.” It actually wasn’t confusing at all. It had three buttons, one of which was a great big red “Off.” The only other button he could have hit to create what really did resemble a piece of tire on the side of the highway was the up arrow. Way up. “You were pretty distracted.”
“I’m just . . .” He stared at the smoking pan. “Are those ashes?”
Yeppers. No doubt about it. “It’s fine,” I said, pressing on his rock-solid arm with my oven-mitted hand. “It’s totally fine. And listen, I have plans to make you as much lasagna as your heart desires.”
He shifted his attention away from the hazmat situation in the sink and back to me. The hand that had been on his forehead slid down to cover his mouth. I took the battery from him and set it on the counter.
He eyed me over his hand and asked, “Really?” like he didn’t quite believe me.
Really. I nodded. “Lasagna. Manicotti. Maybe even . . .” I tapped his heart with my mitt. “Calzones.”
Of all the noises I’d heard him make—the primal growls, the savage roars, the naughty Yeah, fuck yeahs—this one might’ve been my favor
ite. It was an actual whimper. A whimper in the name of homemade Italian food.
He raised a finger to tell me to hang on, and reemerged from my bedroom wearing only his boxers and cradling his phone between his shoulder and his ear.
“No need to call the fire department. I’ve got this,” I said.
“No, I’ve got this.” He gave me that mischievous, sexy smile that I was starting to adore so much. “Mitts, please.” He made pinching moves with his hands, and I handed them over. They were much too tight for him, but he did look super cute. Lobster-claw mitts and navy-blue boxers was a delicious combo.
Picking up the blackened rectangle from the sink, he headed for the door, which I opened before he got there. Moving his chin away from the receiver, he told me, “Seriously. Definitely buying you a new pan,” and stepped outside. He made his way down the sidewalk to the fenced-in dumpsters. He pitched the whole pan into the one on the right, then headed back to my apartment.
When he came inside, he was saying into the receiver, “That’ll be delivery.” He looked me up and down, like he was measuring me for a dress. “Orange chicken, I’d say.”
He had me all figured out, from El Dorado to House of Chow. “And eggrolls,” I said. “Lots and lots of eggrolls.”
“I already ordered a dozen. But I can definitely order more,” he said, and gave my tush a lobster-mitted pinch.
“A dozen should do it!” I said, giggling as he tickled my side.
“Make it fourteen,” he said into his phone, smiling at me all the time.
Once the lady had read the order back to him and he ended the call, he put his phone on the counter and gave me this look, this possessive, needy stare and said, “It’s gonna be an hour. Gives us plenty of time.”
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