Sex On The Seats (Love After Midnight Book 4) by Elise Faber (most inspirational books .txt) 📗

rolled it down the length of his cock and stepped between my legs.

And pushed home.

I moaned at that first pleasure-pain of him sinking in, then again when he bottomed out, his hips meeting my thighs, his cock deep inside me.

“Good?” he asked.

I knew he was checking in with me, making sure I was fine, but that wasn’t the question I answered, what had me arching my back, my pelvis tilting to take him deeper. Instead, my, “Yes” was in reply to the wonderful feelings, the incredible sensations, the fury of need and pleasure that was intertwined within me.

Somehow Archer knew that, and he chuckled, pulling out slowly, driving back in, driving me, slow and steady, back up the cliffside. And just like before, it didn’t take any effort to find our rhythm, to move together in a way that would send us flying in no time at all.

Sweat gathered between my breasts, his rough hands filled my nerves with sensation. I was close again. Already.

I wrapped my legs around him, held him tight, and when he murmured my name, his hand coming to my ass, tilting me for an even better angle, I came, convulsing around him, riding those tsunamis once more, and knowing that I’d done something both incredible and stupid.

Because the invisible string tying me to this man had just grown exponentially stronger.

He hadn’t fallen asleep this time.

And I’d made a critical error in allowing myself to get carried away with this man while he was fully awake.

Case in point, he’d lifted me, carrying me to the bathroom, setting me on the counter next to him while he washed up and took care of the condom. He snagged a bathrobe off the back of the door, slipping it around me.

See? Awake.

And doing things that made me all melty.

Maybe I could hit him over the head with the . . . soap dispenser. Knock him out, get dressed, and run again.

“You can’t knock me out with that puny thing,” he said. “It’s cheap plastic.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Want to bet?”

“No.” After bopping me on the nose, he stepped into his closet, pulled on a pair of boxer briefs, before crossing to me and stepping between my thighs. “But if you do”—he leaned in, put his lips to my ear—“you’ll never find where I hid your skinny jeans.”

I laughed, despite myself. “Um, except, you didn’t actually hide them, just tossed them on the floor.”

A shrug. “Maybe.”

“No maybe about it.” I pushed him back then slid off the counter, trying to ignore that he reached for me to ease me down, his warm hands gripping my arms. “I saw them en route. For such a neat freak, you sure don’t care where you toss my clothes.”

A husky chuckle. “I promise to fold them later . . . if you’re around later.” There was the barest hint of challenge in his hazel eyes.

“No guarantees.”

He bent again, nipped my ear. “Okay then.” He straightened. “Let’s move. Your ice cream is melting.”

I narrowed my eyes. “I’m only staying until I’ve had my sundae.”

“What about my coffee?” he asked, tugging a strand of my hair. “I thought you promised to make me a cup.”

My fingers brushed the doorjamb as I left the bathroom, padding with bare feet across the carpet of his bedroom, making my way across the kitchen and picking up my bowl. And then squirting some extra fudge on top, just for good measure.

Archer’s voice hit my ears, shimmering down my spine, streaking between my thighs. “No coffee?”

I huffed, glared at him over my shoulder, but I stomped to the pot, banged around his cabinets until I found the coffee and mugs, and set the machine brewing. “You think you’re funny, don’t you?”

“Nope,” he murmured, having picked up his own bowl. He held two spoons in his other hand, lifted his brows. “Very not funny,” he added, even though the fucker was stifling a smile.

More stomping.

This time over to grab a spoon, snag my bowl, and using both to facilitate shoving ice cream into my mouth.

Archer moved next to me, snaking an arm around my waist and sitting down in one of the kitchen chairs with me in his lap.

“What are you doing?” I asked archly.

“Sitting,” he said, holding the bowl in front of me and scooping from it. “Eating.”

I huffed.

He chuckled, and the warm breath on my nape mixed with the cold ice cream in my mouth, a shiver wracking through my body. Archer just pulled me closer, lifted his spoon again.

After a few moments, I managed to relax enough to eat my own sundae, the sugar hitting my taste buds, my bloodstream, steadying my anxiety.

The coffee pot hissed and bubbled, the bitter, roasted smell wafting up to my nose, and I found myself studying his space with interest and curiosity rather than going for a quick exit. He had that gorgeous pair of paintings on his far wall, an intriguing mix of colors and shapes taking up most of the space. Near them, another door was half-open, the lights off, and the shadows inside not revealing much of anything. Shifting, I glanced over my other shoulder, saw the brown leather couch, the large TV from before. Though, he had throw pillows and blankets on the surface, making it appear cozy. Like a place I’d want to curl up and watch a show.

The thought of curling up anywhere with someone I’d fucked made an actual cold sweat break out on my spine.

But before I could work myself up into a real tizzy, Archer stood, lifting me out of his lap and setting me on the chair, then crossed to the coffee pot, pouring two mugs. “Cream or sugar?”

“Black,” I whispered.

“So, I guessed right the other day.”

Guessed right a month before.

Thirty-one days of me thinking about him too much, about that night, about what might have happened if I’d answered the door.

He set a mug in front of me then took our empty bowls to the sink and began washing up.