Page 28

TWENTY-SEVEN

Joey

I open my mouth to answer, even though I don’t know what the hell I’m going to say.

What the hell can I say to something as wonderful as that?—

And I’m interrupted by a knock at the door.

Damon goes still, eyes slicing toward the heavy panel as though he has lasers in those bright blue irises, lasers that can cut through the material and disintegrate whoever’s dared to interrupt this conversation.

But—

“My sundae!” I exclaim.

His head jerks, and heat floods my cheeks.

Thankfully, he’s smiling as he leans in, brushes his thumb over the pink I presume is spreading on my face. “Your sundae,” he murmurs, tugging me close and pressing his lips to my forehead.

Then he stands and moves to the door, answering it, and coming back while I’m still reeling from that soft touch of his mouth. He’s holding my dessert and I watch as he lifts his free hand, dips a finger into the whipped cream—my extra whipped cream!—and brings it to his mouth.

“That’s mine!” I cry.

His mouth quirks, eyes dancing. “Is this you telling me that your extra whipped cream is more important than what we were talking about?”

Horror whips through me.

But then he comes closer and I get a good look at his face, see that he’s teasing me, and my always present sass (at least with Damon) makes itself known. “Maybe not the whipped cream”—I lean in, pluck up one of the maraschino cherries—“but the cherries are definitely more important than what we were talking about.”

I pop it into my mouth and chew, the explosion of sweetness hitting my tongue. But when I reach for the second one, he swings it out of reach.

“Damon!”

A wicked smile, but there’s an edge of seriousness in his blue eyes that has me dropping my obsession with the sundae and focusing back on what’s important.

Only, I don’t have fancy words. I don’t have anything eloquent, anything that could possibly equate to what he said before the knock at the door.

All I have is…

“I feel the same way.”

The transformation in his eyes takes my breath away.

His reaction does too.

But mostly because it’s freezing cold.

“Whoops,” he says, upending the sundae on me.

I shriek in surprise, but it’s cut off by his mouth coming down on mine, the remnants of the sundae squished between us, soaking into our clothes. His tongue slips between my parted lips, tangling with mine at the same time he starts in on my buttons.

I gasp as the sundae slops down the open front of my shirt, drips into my bra.

Then gasp again when his mouth lifts from mine and?—

I moan, head dropping back as his tongue trails along my skin, lapping up the remains of— “My sundae!”

He chuckles, the heat of his breath on my flesh, tangling with the cold, making me shiver and arch against him, hold him close. “Don’t worry, baby,” he murmurs, tongue and lips working. “I’ll order you another one.”

My lungs hitch and it’s not because I’m worried about the sundae, nor because I’m worried about the ice cream and hot fudge and cherries and whipped cream wasteland between us. But rather, it’s the glorious things he’s doing with that tongue and mouth and those lips. It’s the reverent way his hands are moving on me, undoing my bra, pushing it and my shirt to the floor.

Down.

Down.

Down.

My throat. My breasts. My belly. My hips.

Down to the waistband of my pants, flicking open the button, tugging down the zipper…and they join my shirt on the floor.

His slips his fingers into my underwear, sends them sailing too.

And then I’m naked.

“Look at my dessert,” he murmurs, trailing his fingers through the sticky mess, circling the hard bud of one nipple and then the other. “All pink”—he dips those fingers between my legs then lifts them, glistening with the evidence of my desire, to his lips and sucks deeply—“and sweet?—”

I gasp.

Then he’s scooping me up, tossing me on the bed.

I bounce once and then he’s grabbing my ankles, yanking my hips to the edge of the bed, spreading my legs. “ Mine .” Then his mouth is on me, doing wonderful things, doing fucking incredible things.

Fingers and teeth, lips and tongue.

It’s like he’s memorized every moment of the night before, everything I liked, everything that made me gasp and moan, everything that drove me closer to orgasm.

And he’s not going slow tonight.

This is a man determined, a man exploiting that knowledge…to my very pleasurable benefit.

“Wait,” I murmur as I feel my orgasm closing in, the tremors beginning, my nerves firing, my hips bucking, grinding against him. “Wait, sweetheart,” I say, trying to slow myself, trying to find control. “I want to come with you.”

He doesn’t wait.

He also doesn’t stop.

But he lifts his head, wicked grin in place. “You’ll come with me”—he strokes a finger through my slick pussy—“but you’re also going to come now.”

Then he drops his head.

And he’s right.

I come mere moments later, and I’m still feeling that pleasure ripple through me as he strips off his clothes and climbs over the top of me.

“Inside,” I beg.

He doesn’t delay, spreading my legs, stroking deep.

I wrap my legs around him, clenching tight as he starts fucking me hard and fast. No delay. No quarter. Just taking the edge of my orgasm and driving me up to an even higher peak.

And he’s right.

I came before.

And I’m coming now. With him.

His strokes go jerky and uneven, my name tumbles off his lips, and then he collapses on top of me, both of us breathing heavy.

But it’s what he says when we eventually catch our breath that has me falling a little in love with Damon Connors.

“Now that was a sundae.”