The spark flared the moment their lips touched, as if they’d been too long apart, hands gripping, lips meeting, clashing, breaths catching as they took and gave. His shirt was gone and then so was hers and his lips were on her throat, her shoulders, her breasts, her hands playing over the hard planes of his chest, his back, his arms, diving into the silky hot waves of his hair. She gulped in air, making little greedy, needy sounds as he licked and nibbled and sucked his way down to the button on her shorts and then the shorts were gone and so were her undies and his fingers were there, parting her curls, his tongue thrusting into her folds and thank god he’d backed her up to the table because she could barely stand upright as he licked and sucked, his fingers playing over her. His hands moved, lifting her onto the table, opening her to him even more so that he could truly feast, and then thank god—thank god—he stood and she lifted her legs as he moved between them and cried out as he thrust inside her, the thick length of him almost more than she could bare. But it was glorious and she wanted it, wanted him. Wanted more.
More.
More.
She didn’t care that the table was hard underneath her or that they were making love in the kitchen and anyone could walk in. All she cared about was this, him, what he made her feel and what she could make him feel. He was everything she’d ever wanted and more because he was so unexpected. She wanted to tell him that. Needed to tell him. But there were no words right now, her mind too full of pleasure and the wave that was once again growing and growing inside her, cresting, breaking over both of them, carrying them up and then letting them go.
She wrapped herself around him as they fell, keeping him safe and protected as he did the same for her and rode out the waves, collapsing finally, limbs soft, entangled, the hardness of the table’s surface finally registering.
Not that it mattered.
All that mattered was this. That they were here. Sharing something magical. Gasping for breath and tingling all over and feeling energised and enervated all at the same time. A confusion of sensation, sure, something that would have worried her before her realisation today. But now, it didn’t worry her at all, because it was right. This. Here. Them. Together.
She loved him.
He loved her. She was sure of it.
One.
They were one.
‘What did you say?’ He jerked back, looking down at her, shock and worry and fear written all over his features.
‘What?’ she said, confusion then worry washing over her as she wondered if she’d murmured her thoughts out loud. They’d been so big in her head.
Surely, she hadn’t?
But she could see by the look on his face she probably had.
What the hell was wrong with her?
He shook his head and pulled away further. ‘You can’t.’
‘Can’t what?’ She sat up slowly, trying to pretend like she hadn’t just blurted out the one thing he wasn’t ready to hear. Warm pleasure slid from her veins to be replaced by icy cold as he backed away from her. She became aware she was naked. But she couldn’t move. He was pulling back. Pulling away. Not just physically. Something had changed in his eyes. That look that had made her feel so cherished earlier was gone and a cold wall was in its place.
‘Can’t love me. It’s not what we agreed.’
She sucked in a shaky breath, the sensation like she’d been punched making her want to cry. But she didn’t. Couldn’t. She’d done this and she had to fix it. Blinking back the hot wash of tears, she reached for the t-shirt lying on the table beside her. It was his, but it didn’t matter, she had to cover herself with something. She was so exposed. Been so stupid. Blurted out something that shouldn’t have been blurted out like that. Not now. Not in this moment. Lovemaking confessions of love. God, how cliché. Her rash, run with her instincts crap at their very worst.
She pulled the t-shirt over her head, down to cover as much of her as she could and then slipped off the table, aware of the evidence of their lovemaking wet and heavy and hot between her legs. She wanted to run to the bathroom, to clean herself up, to pull herself together, to find some shred of the dignity that was scattered with her clothes on the floor. But she couldn’t. Not when he was standing there, looking as shocked and betrayed as if she’d shot him, pulling up the jeans he hadn’t even fully taken off. She hadn’t noticed he’d only shoved them down enough to enter her. She’d been too lost in the madness of passion to notice she was the only one truly naked and exposed.
What an idiot. She brushed her hair back from her face. God, she wished she had the band. She needed the calm surety of pulling her hair back into that tight, high ponytail, returning herself to some semblance of order. But it had probably flown across the kitchen when he’d removed her t-shirt and god knows where it was now. So, she just raked her fingers through her hair, pushing it back behind her ears and lifted her chin, gaze meeting his, smile pulling at her lips in a way that felt plastic, tight. ‘Who said anything about love?’
His gaze raked over her, heating for a second before returning to that cold tinged with fear. Betrayal. ‘You did. Just then. You said we were one.’
‘I didn’t mention love.’
‘That’s what you say when you’re in love.’
‘Is it?’ The tight smile widened. ‘I wouldn’t know. I’ve
