The Love Interest

by Kayley Loring

  In this world, I am now alone in my bedroom, clean and getting dressed, super chill after fucking my hand once I’d realized I was going to be showering solo. I can smell the pasta sauce cooking downstairs because Fiona is in the kitchen. She’s probably not naked, but I can’t complain.

  Because Fiona Walker is here.

  I still don’t believe in fate.

  But I guess, in some twisted way, I have that little shit Beowulf to thank for luring her out to Cold Spring and being a creep.

  More importantly, I have Bettina to thank. If I hadn’t written that letter about Sophie in her journal, I wouldn’t feel so open to seeing Fiona now. Maybe that journal really is magic.

  Or maybe Fiona and I are just meant to be together.

  But last night, I made a decision. Fuck waiting. That’s my decision.

  We’re both adults. I trust her to be discreet. I trust myself not to do anything to fuck up my life. The thing that’s been driving both of us crazy is the resistance. My resistance. Fuck my resistance.

  We’re here, alone together, in my cabin.

  Now, the only thing stopping us from doing the thing that we’ve both wanted to do since the night we met is her resistance.

  I don’t blame her for not wanting to see me. I don’t blame her for being mad at me. But I want her to be mad at me while she’s naked and screaming my name. I want her to be mad at me for making her feel so good that she knows for a fact I’m the only man she’ll ever want. I want her to be mad at me because she knows we’re going to be so in love with each other that we’ll always drive each other nuts. Our greatest passion in life will be each other. If it scares her, I will show her she doesn’t have to be afraid of it—or me. She doesn’t have to let everything else fall away. She only has to trust that once I’ve made the decision to love a woman, I won’t let go of her.

  She can count on me.

  I just need her to sit on my face for like half an hour so I can convince her of this.

  When I’m downstairs, my hair is still damp, I’m barefoot in jeans and a T-shirt, and I’m only mildly disappointed that Fiona is still wearing that pullover shirt and jeans. Because she’s hot as hell, even though she was clearly trying to look as unattractive as possible.

  She’s at the kitchen sink, absentmindedly staring into it. I see that she’s opened the red wine and has had almost a full glass already. Good girl. I see that she is also barefoot now. I can see her reflection in the window above the sink, and she is so pretty. When she realizes I’ve dimmed the overhead lights in the dining and living room, she doesn’t say anything. She goes to the stove in the middle of the island to check on the pasta. I go to the record player and put on Vivaldi. I don’t have a big record collection here, but the other options include Marvin Gaye—which is too on point—and Disney Ultimate Hits Volume 2, which I bought for my niece. Classical music won’t intimidate Fiona, even though the lute is a surprisingly sexy instrument. Classical music will remind both of us that we’re grown-ups. Super responsible grown-ups who are on winter break and need to start fucking immediately.

  She turns off the burner. “Colander?” So terse. She’s back to trying to prove that she’s mad at me.

  So be it.

  “Yeah, I’ll get it.” I grab the colander from one of the cupboards and place it in the sink for her.

  “Thank you.” She carries the pot of boiled water and penne to the sink and pours it all into the colander.

  As I’m reaching for a wineglass, she jerks back and yells out, “Ow! Shit!” She drops the pot into the sink and flings her left hand around.

  “Did you burn yourself?”

  “The hot water splashed on me. It’s fine.”

  I go over there to turn on the cold water, push the colander and the steaming pot aside, take Fiona’s hand, and hold it under the cold running water. She winces and then glares at me.

  “Better?”

  She nods.

  I turn off the water and grab a dish towel, wrapping it around her hand. Even amid the aroma of pasta sauce and fresh basil, I can still smell her unique fucking delicious fragrance, and she is all I want for dinner tonight.

  She pulls her hand away. “Thank you.”

  “Anytime.” I grab that wineglass and pour myself some Malbec. I like watching her move around my kitchen. She’s graceful…and tense. More tense than before I took a shower. I can think of about fifteen different things I can do about that tension, off the top of my head, but I’ll wait for her to come around.

  She carries the colander and pours the penne over the pasta sauce in the saucepan, mixes it all together with a wooden spoon. “Do you have a big serving bowl, or should I put this in individual bowls?”

  I take another gulp of wine before fetching a big white bowl and placing it on the island counter for her. She pours the pasta into it and then takes the saucepan to the sink to rinse it off. I turn off the burner.

  “I was going to do that,” she snaps.

  “Well, now you don’t have to.” She’s so cute when she’s snippy.

  She huffs. Polishes off her glass of wine. “Do you have grated Parmesan?”

  “No, just the fresh basil.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “I know.”

  She frowns at me and then turns to make salad dressing.

  I stare at her ass in those jeans and let the silence between us make her even more uncomfortable. I can’t bring up school, even though I’m dying to ask how her semester finished out. I want to ask her about her upcoming schedule. I want to ask how her novel’s coming along. I want to know how wet her panties are because I bet they’re really wet right now.

  I finish my glass of wine, lick my lips, stay where I am by the island.

  She moves back to the sink to wash her hands. While rinsing them, she glances up at the window in front of her. She sees my reflection. I’m about five feet behind her. Her big brown eyes lock with mine in the window. She turns off the faucet. I comb my fingers through my damp hair, never taking my eyes off her reflection. She reaches for the dishtowel, and when she’s done drying her hands, she grips the edge of the counter.

  She stares into the sink again, and I can’t tell if she’s aware of my approach, but when I place my hand on the small of her back, she turns to face me. Reluctant but resolved. I hold her face in my hands. She’s glaring at me, staring at my mouth. She presses her hands flat against my chest but doesn’t push me away. Her fingers curl, gripping my T-shirt. I let her stare at the exposed chest hair where the neckline of my shirt is being pulled down. The string orchestra is reaching a crescendo. Her breaths are uneven, getting faster. I wait until her thick, dark eyelashes flutter and then cup the back of her head, bringing her in for a kiss.

  She is hesitant at first, even as her lips part for my tongue.

  She tastes like wine, but despite what I just drank, I feel completely sober this time. I am going into this with a clear head and an open heart. There will be no regrets.

  I kiss her so deeply, her knees give out. I catch her and lift her up onto the counter. She wraps her legs around me, kissing me with renewed vigor. Then she bites my lower lip and pulls back.

  “I’m still mad at you.” It sounds like she’s trying to convince herself, more than me, of this.

  “I’m fine with that.”

  She grabs the hem of my T-shirt, yanking it up. I raise my arms and let her pull it off over my head, toss it aside. Her eyes widen as she slides her hands down from my shoulders to my pecs, exploring my chest hair. There isn’t a lot of it, but she clearly likes what I’ve got.

  I pull her shirt off over her head. She’s wearing a bra. A pale-blue bra that pushes her tits up. I take a bite of that smooth, soft flesh and then kiss and lick her all the way up to her neck, to a spot just below her ear. I kiss her lips again, unhooking the back of her bra and getting my hands on those nipples.

  She sighs into my mouth and whispers, “If you don’t fuck me this time, I will never speak to you again.
”

  “I will fuck you so many times you won’t be able to speak.”

  She kisses me all over my face, so frantic and almost happy. “I’m not going to ask any questions, but—”

  “I want you, Fiona. I want you, and I’m not asking you to wait for me. I’m yours. Now. Whether you like it or not.”

  She releases a beautiful, joyful little laugh, and then my mouth is on her tits. She leans back, wraps her arms around my neck. I have never wanted to devour a woman like this before, but tonight is about showing her that I am in control of my senses. Tonight, I will savor and cherish her.

  Okay, I’m not completely in control of my senses when my mouth is on her tits, but I know what I’m doing. I know what I want. I want this. Every day and every night.

  She straightens her posture, runs her fingers through my hair, holds me to her. It’s nurturing and sexy, and I am falling so hard for this woman.

  “I want you.” My tone is somewhere between desperate and forthright. “God, I’ve always wanted you.” My voice catches in my throat before I can say anything else. I can only show her how I feel now. Desperate and forthright. It’s how I’ll always feel about her from now on—I’m sure of it.

  I lift my head to kiss her mouth again. That mouth. Nothing will stop me from kissing this mouth. I find one more word for her. “Baby…”

  She gasps and rests her forehead against mine. “You called me ‘baby.’” She plants grateful kisses all over my face again. I can’t remember the last time I was this happy. She licks my lower lip and then reaches down to cup the bulge in the front of my pants. “Emmett…you’re so hard.” She sounds genuinely surprised by this.

  “Don’t you know what you do to me?” My hands are all up in her silky brown hair, sliding down her arms to her hips. Almost all of the tension in her body is gone already. She really does like sex, I can tell. She needs this as much as I do.

  She captures my earlobe between her teeth and then says with a throaty voice, “Show me.”

  I carry her to the living room and try to decide how I will show her first. Placing her down on the sofa, I expect her to lie back. I unbutton my jeans, but she reaches for the zipper and tugs them down for me. She barely waits for me to step out of them before stroking up the length of my erection through my boxer briefs and then pulling the waistband out so she can reach inside.

  Jesus.

  Is that what she wanted me to show her?

  Both of her hands wrap around my cock with just the right amount of pressure. Her eyes are lit up, and she licks her lips as she leans toward me. I brace myself against her shoulders because all the blood has left my brain. I close my eyes because if I watch this, I will explode in her mouth immediately. I feel the tip of her tongue gliding up my shaft and then her mouth around the head.

  Fucking hell, I would die for this woman.

  She sucks, moaning and grabbing on to my ass with one hand.

  I’m trying to find the words to ask her to stop, but I don’t have to. She gives the tip a little kiss and then says, “You need to fuck me right now. I’m on the pill, and you don’t have to worry about anything. Just please come inside me.”

  Fuck yeah, twenty-five-year-olds.

  All I can do is grunt in agreement, but in my mind, I’m thinking, Yes, anything for you. Have my babies. I will buy you a house and protect you and love you forever.

  But first—I will fuck you right now and come inside you. Yes, please.

  33

  FIONA

  Oh, sweet baby Jane Austen, now it’s really happening.

  This is not a drill.

  Emmett’s boxer briefs are off, he has peeled my jeans and panties from my body, and he has positioned himself over me. His beautiful, massive erection is between my legs and about to enter me. I have enough lubrication for three yonis, but that rock-hard cock of his is mine—all mine. We’re going to have all the sexy sex, and I don’t have to worry about being classy in his class anymore.

  I just need to take deep breaths and stop wondering what all of this means. I just need to focus on the music. Vivaldi has always made me horny. How did Emmett even know that? All eight thousand nerve endings in my clitoris have been doing a silent scream ever since he put that record on.

  Or ever since the first time I saw him, if I’m being honest.

  Underneath all that denial and resistance, all of my lady parts were looking up at me with big cat eyes, going: I can has?

  We can has now, ladies. We. Can. Has.

  “You ready?” He looks so serious. Hooded-Eyes Handsome Guy wants to know if I’m ready for him to penetrate me yet or not.

  “You’re joking, right?” I tilt my hips up and bend my legs even more. I’m not going to beg. It is beyond obvious that I’m ready to get my freak on.

  He doesn’t even smirk. He presses his stiff, throbbing member inside me, slow and gentle at first. It feels exactly like almost every other experience I’ve had with Emmett—shocking, hot, expansive, and somehow comforting. The sharp sting of him thrills me, and it’s so much more than anything else but also never enough. He exhales. I suck in a breath and wait for him to go as deep as he can.

  “God, you feel so good,” he whispers. “Baby…”

  I didn’t even realize I was tensing up until my entire body relaxes after hearing him say that word again.

  He pushes in deeper, and I run my fingers through his damp hair, kissing him. I’m not used to this kind of tenderness with a man in a moment like this, but I could get used to it.

  I rock my hips, nice and slow, to let him know he can move now. He does not need much encouragement. He braces himself and starts to thrust. I move to his rhythm and tempo—he starts right in with Allegro non molto at first, slowing it down to Adagio and then ramping up to Presto. Like the movements of the second concerto in Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, “Summer.” I’m already in the second stage of sexual response, so this is very intuitive of him. He somehow knows that the passionate thunderstorm of the plateau phase is moving through me quickly.

  Or maybe I’m overthinking it and he’s just fucking me.

  I brace my feet on the sofa so he can ram into me harder.

  He mutters my name.

  I cry out because oh my God.

  He moves with the grace of a seasoned athlete, but there’s something frantic about his energy now that is beautiful to me.

  Suddenly, he lifts up one of my legs to rest against his shoulder. He groans because I’m tighter around him now. His pace slows. He is catching his breath and savoring this new sensation. I raise my other leg to rest it on his other shoulder. He hisses. “Fuck. Baby. So hot.”

  I’ve never talked much during sex before, but I want to, for him. “I love how you feel inside me, Emmett.”

  He grunts, drilling into me again.

  The fronts of my thighs keep getting pushed up against my boobs, and I don’t mind at all. “We fit so good.”

  “Your pussy was made for me,” he mumbles.

  Well, now.

  He’s a little better at this than I am, so I’ll just shut up and let him fuck me.

  And he does.

  He slides his hands up my legs as he gets up onto his knees, hikes me up higher, and comes at me from a different angle. I’m used to seeing his face all tensed up, but this kind of tension makes him look so sexy I could cry. He stares down at my breasts. They’re bouncing around happily. I do something else that I wouldn’t normally do for a guy—I put my hands on my breasts and touch myself for him.

  The flicker of his eyelashes, the sound that emanates from the back of his throat is reward enough.

  “Fucking hell,” he groans.

  I’m becoming a woman for him, I think. The sexiest, most intoxicating version of myself. This must be some kind of reproductive evolution. My body wants to make babies with him, so it’s making me do all the porny things I’ve never been inspired to do for anyone else.

  I am pretty sure my blood content is about ninety percent sex hor
mones right now.

  Every part of me feels swollen. Even my fingernails are on the verge of orgasm. My spleen is getting in on the action too, I’ll bet.

  Just when the contractions start, Emmett pauses to flip me over so I’m on my hands and knees. He takes a fistful of my hair and tugs on it. I never knew I wanted anyone to do that to me, but it puts me over the edge. He holds on to my hips, his thrusts getting faster and faster. He is so in control of my body, and I have never been handled so masterfully in my life.

  I realize the sounds I’m making could be interpreted as agonized or terrified or despondent. But it’s pure bliss. My body can’t contain this much pleasure all at once, so I have to release it by crying out and transmuting my climax to sound vibrations that match the “Winter” movement that’s coming from the speakers.

  Emmett slams into me, and then his whole body shudders. The sudden stillness is electrifying. My eyes squeeze shut, and I sigh because I can feel the warmth of him emptying himself inside me, exactly what I wanted. His hands glide up my back, which is slick with sweat. I lower myself down so he can lie flat on my back. I feel his lips on my shoulder.

  “Jesus,” he mutters.

  I would give him a standing ovation, but I love feeling the weight of him on top of me. I love his breath on my skin and his fingertips stroking my biceps. I love that he doesn’t have to ask me if I came, because I’m pretty sure the entire county knows I did. I thought I loved sex before, but this was something else entirely. This was two bodies colliding because our souls needed to smash into each other to create something newer and better than we’d ever known. This was the long-awaited culmination of two personalities reacting to each other and being transformed like chemical substances.

  Or maybe it was just two people fucking and it was awesome.

  I want to do it again.

  He kisses the crook of my neck. “Should we eat dinner and then do that again?”

  “Yes, please.”

  I remember needing inspiration that night that I met Emmett. I looked up the definition of inspiration in the dictionary the other day. One of the definitions is: “a divine influence or action on a person believed to qualify him or her to receive and communicate sacred revelation.” Another: “the act of drawing in; specifically: the drawing of air into the lungs.”