Page 124 of Let’s Make a Scene

“Condom?” I pant, and he moves, fumbling in the drawer of his bedside table. The few seconds his body is away from mine are cold and painful, but then he’s back, and I help him put the condom on, only wanting to touch him and tease him as he has done for me, but I can’t wait, don’t want to wait any longer. We roll over once, twice, until I’m on top of him, straddling him, guiding him inside me with a sigh of pleasure and relief.

He reaches up, undoing the clasp of the bra I had forgotten I was still wearing, throwing it aside. His fingers play across my sensitive flesh as I ride him, taking him deep inside me where I’ve needed him for so long. I rock against him, delirious with pleasure as he fills me, as he murmurs more praise, as he says my name over and over and over again like a benediction.

“Oh, god.” I squeeze my eyes closed, another orgasm coiling inside me, a glorious tightening, a pressure so intense I find myself bracing for the fallout. “I’m going to—” I start, but he curves up, pulling my mouth against his, his hand cradling the back of my head, his fingers in my hair, cutting me off as his hips thrust wildly, a frantic, stuttering rhythm that matches my own loss of control. He hits the perfect spot, hits it again, and when his thumb circles my clit it’s all I need.

Shuddering, calling his name, drowning in the taste of him, I fall apart. We both do. Together. An intense feeling of joy spreads through me, sunshine running through my limbs, and I laugh, overwhelmed by the pleasure that shudders in waves and waves and waves. My whole world tilts on its axis, like everything I thought I knew is rearranging itself. I have to settle into a new reality now; there’s my life before this moment and my life after.

Turns out sex with Jack is basically a religious experience.

“Are you okay?” I croak, several minutes later. The words are muffled against his chest where I have collapsed, draped bonelessly over his body.

There’s a moment of thoughtful silence. “I think I’ve gone blind,” he says finally.

I lever myself up, far enough to see his face. My discarded bra is draped over his eyes, like a lacy sleep mask. I make the monumental effort to pull it away.

He blinks, his gaze unfocused. “Thanks.”

I fall back onto him, snuggling against his chest. “What do we do now?” I ask, the question slurred.

“We sleep,” he says, rolling us and tucking me tenderly against him. “And then we do that again.”

“Okay,” I murmur, already more than halfway to unconscious. “Sounds like a plan.”

Chapter 40 JACK

When I wake up the next morning it is to the exceptional sight of Cynthie asleep in my bed. The light is filtering in from the curtains I never bothered to close, and sunlight slants over her face, limning her profile in gold. She’s lying on her stomach, the sheets thrown back to expose the graceful line of her back. Her face is turned toward me, long lashes forming a crescent-shaped smudge against her skin thanks to the mascara she was wearing yesterday. Her hair is tangled, her expression deeply peaceful.

My heart actually, physically, aches while I look at her, and I rub my fingers absently across my chest, as if to ease the pain. I suppose it’s time to admit what I’ve known all along—I’m so painfully in love with Cynthie Taylor; I don’t know what to do with myself. And I have no idea how she’s going to feel about it.

After we got home from lunch yesterday, I jumped on her like an animal, but I don’t have it in me to feel sorry about it, and Cynthie certainly didn’t seem to mind. Watching her take on my parents, defending me, so bright and fierce in the face of their disdain, having to restrain myself all damn day while that silk tease of a dress slipped up and down over her bare legs, sitting next to her at the table, wrapped in her perfume, her knee pressed against mine, her long hair brushing across my arm whenever she turned her head… I was out of my mind by the time we finally got out of there, barely capable of thought, let alone words. The second the door closed behind us there was only one thing I wanted, and I took it, took everything Cynthie offered, without restraint or concern about the consequences.

Last night was thirteen years in the making, but never in my wildest fantasies have I come close to imagining how it would be between us. We spent the rest of the afternoon and then the whole of the night tangled up in bed together, losing ourselves in one another. Some of what happened was tender and full of soft words, and some of it was a pure, animal need that I didn’t know I held inside me.

Now, in the cold light of day I have no regrets. I only hope that she won’t either. We still haven’t talked about the state of our relationship. It’s all very well for my head to be full of fantasies—roses around the door and us, a hundred years old and still together—but she’s just come out of a relationship that could be charitably described as traumatic. Her life is in a state of upheaval. She might not be ready for this. My blood runs cold at that thought.

She stirs beside me, her lashes flickering. “Are you staring at me like a creep?” she murmurs, her voice still rough with sleep.

I smile. “I might be.” I lean down to kiss her, a sweet, soft “good morning” that spirals swiftly out of control. Soon enough she’s pinned underneath me, panting as I slide inside her once more, the way her body tightens around mine, a gift.

“Feels so good,” she moans.

“That’s because you take me so well,” I murmur, kissing my way down the valley between her breasts, pulling one rosy nipple into my mouth, sucking gently while my hips rock and I feel her muscles clench deliciously around my cock. I concentrate on making her feel even better, understanding her body well enough now to know what she needs, what she likes, what exactly will have her fisting the bedsheets and screaming my name.

Afterward she lies with her head on my chest, and I smooth her hair back from her face.

“That’s a hell of a way to wake up.” There’s laughter in her voice.

“Beats the alarm clock,” I agree, instead of saying “I could get used to it,” which are the words on the tip of my tongue.

“What time is it?” she asks, lifting her head to squint at the clock on the bedside table.

“Almost eleven.” I hear her stomach growl. “I need to feed you.”

“Yes, you do,” she says, pressing a brief kiss to my mouth as she sits up, clutching the sheets to her chest. “And you need to find me something to wear—we didn’t even get as far as bringing our bags in yesterday. All my stuff is still in the car.”

“I had other priorities.” I run a hand down her arm, and she grins, that sunshine-happy smile that scrunches her nose, and tenderness kicks me right in the chest again. I am in so much trouble here.

“I wasn’t complaining. But I think now it’s time for that tour you promised me.”