He wasn’t the only one with an arsenal in this war of ours.

What I didn’t plan on, though, was him behaving himself.  He left not much later without even kissing me, or even trying to, and I told myself that was good.  Maybe we were getting better.  Maybe my theory (Familiarity breeding self-control) had been correct.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I didn’t hear from him for a few days after that, and then when he did call, wanting me to come over, I was in an airport, heading to New York for five days.

Within a five-minute conversation though, he convinced me to come over to his house the day I got back.

In fact, jet lagged, travel weary, I found myself driving directly from the airport to his place.  What could I do?  He was bored and waiting for me, he’d told me over the phone.  Who could turn that down?

Apparently not me.

I grabbed us takeout from this old, Italian place, Sophia’s, that was conveniently located just five minutes from the airport.  We used to have it delivered to Bev’s, back in the day.  It was killer, and I hadn’t had it in six years.

I wanted that takeout.

We shared a long hug when he opened the door for me, looking delectable in a white T-shirt and jeans.

We pigged out on stuffed shells and the greasiest garlic bread I’d ever consider worth the calories.

I had almost stopped to grab a bottle of wine at a liquor store on the way to his house.  I’d parked the car before I’d remembered why that was a bad idea.

That calculatedly absent alcohol was the only thing that made our dinner together that night any different from the old days.  No, not the old days.  The good old days.  The great ones.

After dinner, I found myself on the couch again with him, watching our favorite show together and letting him slowly take liberties that I knew from the start were going to lead farther.

Eventually, he eased into lying behind me on the couch, an arm thrown over me, the other under my head, being used like a hard pillow.

I laughed at the show we were watching, and my body moved just enough to brush him.  With that brief contact, my back arched instinctively, pushing my butt hard into him in an artless invitation.

My head said no to that, but it was, unfortunately, several seconds slower than my traitorous body.

He sucked in a harsh breath.

We were on the thinnest of ice, so when it cracked, and we both went crashing through, I couldn’t even pretend to be surprised.

Any vague remnant of caution I’d felt walking through his door was quickly overrun by the promise of sheer carnal oblivion.

Physical need could be a terrible thing, and I didn’t even need to get into how messy the rest of our baggage was.

His hand covered my breast over my clothes, fondling, fingering my hard nipple, kneading at my pliant flesh.

My top had a built in bra, so when his hand delved into the side of my blouse, it made direct contact with skin.  I pushed myself into his hand, gasping.

His mouth was on my neck, my eyes closed with pleasure, when my hands went to the front of my slacks.  I felt him working at the fastening of his jeans behind me.

I didn’t get my pants all the way off, just pushing them past my h*ps to bunch around my knees.

I didn’t even manage to turn around.  The second I felt his bare skin against me, his hardness digging into me, we shared but one goal.  To get him inside of me, by the fastest means possible.

One of his hands gripped my hip, anchoring me as he pushed hard against me.

My back bowed; my body contorting until I was angled to allow him entry.

He started to surge into me with a rough curse.  He had to work in slowly, the fullness of it overwhelming, the voluptuous sensation of every raw tender nerve being worked making me so frantic that I bit my fist in some desperate attempt at restraint.

His hand snaked down, rubbing my cl*t with a light, fast touch, meanwhile the progress of his c**k into my cunt was at an all-time slow.

“Please,” I called out.

“I can’t rush it.  I don’t know when you’ll let this happen again, and the last time few times were so fast, so f**king rushed, that I’ve regretted that I didn’t savor them more.”

I wiggled my h*ps impatiently.  He kept moving deeper, stopping completely when he was fully submerged.  Instead of pulling out, or thrusting, he began to circle his hips, shifting inside, dragging his shaft around and around, hitting nerves, setting off sparks.

The sensations that caused had my eyes rolling up into my head, and I was shaking like I had a fever.

“It’s too much,” I gasped, one hand flying up to grip at his hair, the other reaching for the coffee table.  I could just reach the edge of it.  I scored my nails across it, and the soft dark wood finish gave under my fingers.

He’d have a bitch of a time hiding the damage.

He brought me over like that, with that torturous circling and his relentless fingers.  I was still clenching on his c**k as he shifted, rolling me until I was pinned flat on my belly below him, his hand pushing down hard on my shoulder.  He began to move with purpose then, deep thrusts that pounded me into his couch.

“Fuck, Danika.  Do you have any clue how often I think about this?  It’s a wonder I get any f**king thing done, when my mind is always right here, buried in this divine cunt.  Do you have any idea how much I’ve missed this?  Missed you?”

I whimpered, but he wasn’t done bombarding me—with his thrusts or his words.  He kept at it, cursing, praising, rutting, caressing.