He shut the door and pulled her close. “I’ll buy you something.”
He’ll buy her something!!! How cool was that? She was going to just die. Could she send Jay a postcard or something from Nantucket? Then Bobby’s lips touched hers and she said, “Mmmmmpffdddwwwp,” because her brain was still racing with the sheer, unadulterated glory of him and her, of them . . . and Nantucket! She’d have to call Meg and her mother and dad and Liv and anyone else who she knew even remotely to tell them of her good fortune.
And even if it didn’t last, think how good her story was now.
But then her brain blanked out like cable did when a storm was passing by because he’d backed her up against the wall and lifted her just enough so he could slide his big cock inside her and she didn’t know what was hotter and wetter—outside in the shower or inside, where he was moving really, really slowly so she could feel every luxurious inch of his fine, fine, long, hard cock fill her so full she was standing on tiptoe, gasping.
He made up for lost time.
She made up for lost time.
They both made up for lost time.
Until finally, sinking to the shower floor, they sat with their backs against the wall, their legs sprawled out in front of them, their hearts beating like drums and tried to catch their breaths.
“I think—I’m—in love,” he panted.
“How—do—you know?” she gasped.
“I think—I’m in love.” He smiled. “That’s—all I know.”
“Me, too,” she said.
“Good.”
He didn’t ask her how she knew or why. Maybe that was for the best because for once in her life, she didn’t have any answer.
“I’m hungry.” His appetite was coming back.
“Me, too.”
He grinned at her. “I think we’ve got something going here.”
She nodded because she didn’t want to say, “Me, too,” again but most of her blood had gone to other parts of her body the past hour and her deprived brain was on hold.
“Tired?”
She shook her head.
“Come on, let’s dry off and order some food.” Coming to his feet, he picked her up and carried her out of the shower. She didn’t protest once. She didn’t even think about it. As he dried her off while she sat on the side of the tub, she decided she’d have to review the merits of complete independence as a woman.
It was rather nice to be dried off by a handsome man who said he loved you after numerous rather sublime orgasms.
But then, feeling a twinge of guilt, she said, “Would you like me to dry you?”
“No thanks, I’m already dry.”
Really, was she lucky or what?
And without having to read more than a chapter or so of How to Make All the Luck You Need. Okay, maybe just a page or so. Honestly, probably only the chapter headings.
Maybe she was telepathic. Maybe the entire book had just drifted into her brain through her senses. And maybe this feeling she had that she and Bobby Serre were going places was in the nature of a psychic revelation.
She’d better not mention that, just in case he wasn’t as spiritually inclined as she. She wouldn’t want to scare him away.
“Chinese or Italian or California cuisine? What’s your call?” he asked, kissing her for good measure to wake her up. He was damned hungry.
“Are we really going to Nantucket?”
“Yep. What do you want to eat?”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yep. I’m ordering Italian unless you scream.” He was standing, clearly on the way to the phone.
“Whatever you want,” she said, dreamily. Really, who could eat at a time like this, when she had to plan her travel wardrobe?
Just think, if Arthur wasn’t such an ass, his ex-wives would never have stolen the Rubens and she and Bobby would never have met, and they wouldn’t be flying to Nantucket tomorrow to meet his folks.
Not that she was going to rush into anything. No, no, no.
But still . . . maybe a long getting-to-know-each-other pre-engagement would give them time to travel. She had plenty of vacation, and maybe she could learn to pack one carry-on for everything if she really squeezed everything into those rolls like they showed you in magazines. On the other hand, it would do her good—exercise wise—to carry a couple suitcases. Think what her biceps would look like. It would be very healthy. Good. That was settled.
She couldn’t wait to tell her family and friends.
And most of all—Arthur.
Wouldn’t he just die . . .
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Hot Legs Page 25
