Living Out Loud (The Austen Series Book 3)

by Staci Hart

  We took two selfies with my little camera, our snowman, Kevin, photobombing us like the joker he was, and the second our pictures were safely stowed, Greg chased me, pelting me with snowballs while I squealed, scrambling for handfuls of snow that I threw blindly behind me, my feet slipping around like a baby deer until I fell.

  I rolled over onto my back, laughing so hard, I could barely breathe. When Greg tried to help me up, I pulled with all my weight, and he tumbled down on top of me, the two of us laughing until we were kissing, kissing until we didn’t feel the cold at all. And all the while, my heart thumped like a ticking clock, steady and reliable and sound.

  I’d already grown used to the normalcy even though I’d never known it. The affliction I’d known all my life had all but disappeared, and more than anything, I found myself awed by the real understanding of how everyone else lived.

  To Greg’s we went so he could change into his suit and get his bag, and by cab, we made it to the apartment where my family was waiting to hear the recount of the audition. And when I changed and packed a bag of my own for our vaguely named overnight trip, my family caravanned all the way down to Delmonico’s for dinner.

  The building was a striking brick wedge that filled the triangular space of a split street, the entrance to the restaurant at the juncture. The inside was just as incredible, rich and decadent, with dark wood–paneled walls and deep colors that gave it a very old-boys’-club feel. And though I was destined to a life of eating well for my heart’s sake, I cheated and ate a filet mignon that melted in my mouth in a way that I’d had no idea meat was capable of.

  My family was happy, I was happy, and Greg was at my side, smiling.

  Nothing could have been more perfect.

  A few hours later, Greg and I were in a cab, headed into Midtown, snug and warm and quiet, my body curved into his, his hand on my thigh, my head resting in the crook of his neck. We never stopped touching, not in the cab, not through dinner, his hands and my hands twined together, fingers shifting, hearts thrumming the same note like they ran on their own frequency. And every time our eyes met, it was accompanied by a spark of anticipation.

  Because tonight was another night of firsts.

  When the car came to a stop at the curb of The Plaza, I was caught in a rush of sights that overcame all other thought.

  Crimson carpet lined the steps under the wide awning, soft and plush under my heels as we entered the building. The lobby was lovely, the floor a mosaic laid to look like a Persian rug, with a magnificent chandelier hanging over the center of the room. Tourists snapped photos, milling around and gaping like I was, but Greg and I didn’t stop for long.

  We checked in at the front desk, our eyes meeting and agreeing silently that we didn’t belong, sharing a note of worry that they’d figure it out and boot us back through those gleaming brass doors and onto the sidewalk. Instead, they handed him keys and offered a smile, directing us to the elevators, and away we went, smiling like we’d gotten away with something.

  Every detail spoke of another era, another time, from the caged elevators to the frescos on the walls. And down the hall we walked, hand in hand, to our room.

  It was as rich and lovely as the rest of the hotel, dominated by the bed, which was piled up with pillows and framed by an elegant gilded headboard.

  Greg set our bags next to the dresser and turned to me, his eyes touching on my face with desire and restraint, with devotion and reticence. And for a moment, he didn’t move other than the rise and fall of the broad expanse of his chest as he drank me in.

  But the weight of his gaze didn’t calm my mind, which was three steps ahead of where it should be. The stillness sent uncertainty trickling through me, the quiet moment before we began, the anticipation cold and heavy and distant, as it was consuming, waiting for the starting bell with every nerve on alert.

  Knowing me as he did, he recognized the tightening of my nerves from across the room. My mind’s train had run away, and the smile he offered pulled the brakes with the skill and ease only he possessed.

  His long legs paced him into my space, where I always wanted him, and the moment he was close enough, he brought his fingers to my jaw, tracing it with a feather’s touch.

  “Are you afraid?” he asked simply, honestly.

  “No,” I answered with the same regard. “I just don’t know what to do.” The words slipped into a whisper.

  His eyes, touched with protection and longing, looked into mine and saw all of me, to the depths of my soul. “Are you sure you’re ready? Because I’m in no hurry. I’d wait forever for you, Annie.”

  I knew that to be an absolute truth.

  Nerves flitted around the cage of my ribs, landing, then taking flight, then landing again as I took a breath and spoke the words I’d rehearsed for so long.

  “I want this first to be ours, just as I want the rest of my firsts to be ours. I know…I know that I’m young, and even though I don’t know much about love, I know what it is at its very center. Love gives itself without condition or expectation simply because it must. Love is devotion, and I find myself devoted to you, body and soul. I love you. As little as I know, that is the thing I am most certain of.”

  Exaltation shone from him like the sun. “I’ve loved you since the start,” he whispered. “I’ve almost told you a thousand times.”

  “And a thousand times, you did without speaking. So know that I’m not afraid, and I am exactly where I want to be. Is it too much to hope that you’ll be my very last first?”

  “No, Annie.” His voice was soft and rough. “No, it’s not.”

  He brought his lips to mine, the absolute rightness of him overwhelming me, drawing me into him.

  He collected me in his arms, holding my body against his own as he kissed me deep, deeper still. And with every shared breath, every sweep of his tongue against mine, with every beat of my heart against his, the bond that twisted through us wound tighter until one was indistinguishable from the other.

  I broke away, my heart drumming madly astride his as our eyes closed and foreheads bowed until they touched. And after a moment of reverie, I took an unwavering step back and turned, collecting my hair with trembling hands to expose my zipper.

  His fingers—they trembled too, a sweet tremor of awe and affection—touched the fastener and pulled, the sound sending a jolt of heat through me, the feel of his breath between my shoulder blades and his lips against my skin settling that heat deep and low in my belly. His hands brushed my shoulders, pushing the dress over the curves and down to the ground in a whisper.

  I stepped out of my heels and dress at once, left in nothing but a small swath of black lace around my hips. A single moment of fear tripped my heart with a lurch. But I drew myself tall, stretching the length of my spine until it was straight and sure, felt the fear disappear as faith took its place. And then I turned to face him.

  What I found when I looked upon him was a bottomless expression of ardent worship, the expression of a man who saw the sun breaking the horizon after a lifetime of blindness. His hand seemed to move of its own accord to capture the ends of my hair in his fingers, rolling the strands between his fingertips, as if they were fine silk.

  Those same fingertips moved to the welted scar between my breasts, reverential and possessive, sparking memories and wishes and desires in the wake of his blazing touch. And, when he reached the bottom of that puckered red line, he brushed the curve of my breast with the backs of his fingers so delicately, a chill rushed across my hot skin, peaking my nipple with anticipation.

  He spoke, a gravelly rumble. “I will never know greater fortune than having you for my own. Not as long as I live.”

  And as if to seal that vow, he brought his lips to mine with deep emotion, with a hundred things said and unsaid passing between truthful lips.

  My blind hands removed his jacket, my fingers working the knot at his neck, then the buttons of his shirt, then slipping into the warm space between his shirt and his skin, relishi
ng in the heat of his solid chest against my palms, the feel of his heart beating as wildly as mine.

  He backed me toward the bed, pulling off his shirt when I sat on the edge with my lips waiting, my arms open. His pants were gone in a second along with his shoes and socks, leaving him in nothing but a sheath of black jersey that brought my eyes first to the span of his narrow waist, then to the rigid column of his length, then to the tops of his thighs where the tight fabric clung to the thick cords of muscles.

  But my eyes wanted more, wanted him exposed as I wanted to be exposed. I wanted to give him every soft, vulnerable part of me. And he saw the offering and filled my arms to claim it, laying me down, pressing me into the luxurious bed with his body.

  Of all the times we had kissed in my room, of all the times we had brushed the edge of desire, never had we erased the boundary so resolutely. He’d touched me before but never like this. I’d felt the length of him against me, but never had I been able to relish in the strength of it or the heat of my need, heat that pooled low in my belly. Heat that spawned tendrils of steam, curling down with slow fingers to lick at the aching tip of my desire.

  My hips rolled, seeking connection, seeking pressure, seeking him.

  He listened to the hum of my body, knowing what I wished for. And so, down my body his lips moved and across my jaw, down the length of my outstretched neck, brushing my collarbone in a soft, wet trail, climbing down me as he went, settling his torso between my thighs, opening them up to accommodate the breadth of his chest.

  His lips took their time when they reached my breasts, and he took his pleasure there, the swell in his big palm, his hot mouth over my tight nipple. And with every sweep of his tongue, with every gentle graze of his teeth, with every quiet moan of appreciation, a shock of fire rushed to my core, fanning the flames he’d already built.

  I had no idea what I wanted or needed, but my body knew, and Greg knew, and neither of them needed me to think, which was fortunate for all of us.

  His mouth vanished, leaving my slick nipple pulling almost painfully taut, the warmth of his lips gone. But he had another purpose, one that called those lips over the curves of my stomach, one that had his fingers hooked in the band of lace at my waist to rid us both of its obstruction.

  I lay in the bed, my chest heaving and lips swollen, my eyes on his hands as he slid the black lace down my thighs; my skin tingled in its wake, a ghost trail of his touch. His eyes met mine for a moment, as if asking permission again, and I whispered a plea that seemed to fill him with single-minded purpose, which he applied at the place where my thighs met.

  Under my legs he went, his hands guiding my thighs to rest on the rippling muscles of his shoulders. I watched him with a thundering heart and an emptiness between my legs that I’d never felt before, but his eyes were on the warm, waiting juncture at his fingertips.

  It was a slow exploration of a part of my body I barely knew; he touched it with unhesitating gentleness, spreading me open with his fingers, slicking them with my heat, touching the silky point of my body that every nerve ending reached for.

  A gasp filled my lungs, sharp and burning, my hips flexing involuntarily.

  But nothing could have prepared me for the moment he closed his velvety lips over me and sucked.

  My back snapped off the bed, my neck stretched in an arch and my chin pointed at the ceiling, the contact so pervasive, so encompassing that I found myself lost completely. My body was no longer mine; it belonged to him, to his fingers buried in the flexing center of me, to his lips and his stroking tongue, to his heart that loved me and to his soul that whispered my name.

  And I called his as the trembling heat thundered through me, uncontrolled and all-consuming. He gave me the pressure I craved with his glorious mouth, his face nestled between my legs, brows drawn with intent, with benediction and quiet worship.

  The sight of him was too much to bear, every sense flaring at once, white-hot and blinding as my body found release, kneading his fingers, drawing him into me. My lungs pulled in a breath so deep, it singed my ribs, burned with my heart, burned with the pulsing center of me. I burned for him.

  His lips slowed as I found my way back to my body, testing first my fingers as my breasts heaved, then my neck as I turned my face and tried to open my eyes. Up my languid torso he moved, kissing a trail toward my breasts. But rather than settling back on top of me—even now in my sated state, I wanted to feel the weight of him against me—he lay at my side, pulled me into his arms, and brought his lips to mine.

  The tang of my body on his lips sent an echoing pulse of my waning orgasm through me. And when he pulled away, his lids were heavy, his eyes hot as coals, his smile warm with love.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, cupping my cheek like he was checking me for injury.

  My brow quirked with confusion. “Is that a real question?” I asked back, my voice smoky and satisfied and amused.

  Greg chuckled, taking that for the yes that it was, and kissed me again.

  “I don’t know how I can top that,” I said, curling into his chest, the self-consciousness of the next step, the real step, finding its way into my voice.

  His smile immediately soothed me. “Right now, you don’t need to know anything, except that I love you.”

  “I love you, too,” I whispered before kissing him.

  I kissed him with thanks and adoration, my hands on his chest and his on my bare hip. But down my fingers roamed, across the curves and ripples of his chest and abs, to the waistband and under, to the inflexible, unsatisfied length of him. My fingertips curiously marveled at the simultaneous stony hardness and decadent silkiness of him, relishing in the feel of him in my palm, the weight of him in my hand. I touched him gently, exploring the ridge underneath his crown and the wet slit at the tip, not knowing any other way, only thinking that, if it felt good to me, it would feel good to him too. His pumping hips told me I was right.

  I tugged at the band, wanting to free him, wanting nothing left between us. The heat I thought I’d expended at the mercy of his mouth seemed to build again, starting in my heart and slipping down through me like a smoky fog.

  He helped me slide his remaining clothes away, and our bodies came together—the heat of his chest against my breasts, the feel of his strong thigh slipping between mine, the length of him pressed to my flesh. And that need caught fire in both of us.

  In a breath, I was under him, that glorious weight of him caging me, pinning me, leaving me unable to move and with no desire to. The kiss went unbroken as he spread my thighs with his legs, pressed his hips to mine, the length of his shaft shifting against my center, awake and tender and restless again. My body angled for him, my hips shifting and arching, the hollow in me aching to be filled by him. And he relinquished restraint, breaching me with only the very tip of his crown.

  He broke the kiss, held my face, whispered my name, and I whispered his.

  And when he flexed his hips, I was forever changed.

  The pain was different than I could have possibly imagined, a breathtaking sting that drew on and on, a searing stretching of my body to make room for him. He edged into me, kissing my quivering lips, slowly gaining ground before pulling out again. His trembling arms bracketed my head, his fingers in my hair, but my mind was occupied solely with the point where our bodies connected.

  He rolled his hips to press deeper, deeper still, and then he was fitted so completely inside of me, there was no space for anything but him. Not in my body, not in my heart.

  For a moment, we breathed, a ragged drawing of air through parted lips, our eyes tethered together, using that thrumming line of connection to transmit all that we felt, those things for which there were no words.

  Another flex of his hips, and the pain was less by miles, the utter bliss at the feeling of holding his length inside of me, of being filled by him so entirely, set my pulse hurtling. Again and again, first slow, cautious and gentle, but as my body relaxed under him, moved with him, opened up
to him, his pace quickened. And with every thrust, each more demanding than before, his body tightened. His arms around me. His fingers in my hair. His sinewy neck and wide shoulders. His flexing ass. His straining cock in the sheath of my body. And I urged him with my hips and hands and lips to let go.

  With a gasp and a grunt so deeply satisfying, my core flexed around him, he came, shuddering with exertion from holding back the urge to slam into me like I knew he wanted to, his fingers making deep divots in my hip.

  He collapsed on top of me, burying his face in my neck, his breath fast and loud, the length of him still throbbing inside me.

  I held him like that until our heartbeats matched, my fingers skating circles across his back, my cheek pressed against his ear.

  He slipped his arms underneath me, and mine locked around his neck, bringing us as close together as two people could get. Twin tears slipped from my eyes.

  Greg rolled us over, pulling out of me gently. The tears standing in his eyes as he touched my face shocked me in their rightness and truth.

  “Tell me once more that you love me, Annie, and I’ll never want for another thing in life.”

  “I love you,” I whispered.

  And the kiss he bestowed on me sealed the promise of those three little words.

  Hours later, after a long, hot bath together, we lay awake in the dark, talking about nothing and everything, talking of the future and the past, of the moon and the stars and our place in the constellations. And I knew without a single doubt that we would have more perfect nights such as this, just as I knew that not all nights would be perfect.

  But I had a feeling they’d be pretty close.

  27

  Epilogue

  Annie

  The lights were turned down just enough in my uncle’s penthouse, the hum of conversation hanging in the air of the room, punctuated by the occasional laughter.