In Your Dreams by Sarah Adams - 34

He wraps my arms around his neck and piggybacks me all the way to my cottage. We’re laughing, my body jolting against his as he jogs.

At the door he shifts me in his arms, my legs wrapped around his waist, so he can kiss me hard. His mouth crashes into mine as he kicks the door shut behind us, his tongue slipping past my lips.

He swallows my gasp in the dark, turning to press me against the door. My hands roam up his chest, curl around the back of his neck, tangle in his hair. He groans, low and rough, and my stomach twists into delicious knots. I want more. I get more.

I get to have James.

The kiss is wild. Desperate and hungry. His hands are everywhere, holding me tight as I cling to him, still wrapped around his body. His solid hips press between my thighs.

Months— years —of longing surge to the surface, all of it crashing into us at once.

He carries me to my kitchen table and sets me down, leaning over to place both palms flat on the surface, mouth devouring mine. I get my hands under his shirt to run up his burning-hot torso. Trace every ridge and swell of his muscles. He flexes against my hands like he’s trying to capture my touch.

I want to see it. I want to see everything.

I tug at his shirt and he appeases me, breaking away from my mouth to rise and rip his shirt over his head. My bones turn liquid seeing the way his jeans hang on his hips, straining with desire. My teeth ache to sink right there in the jut of his hip.

I just need a few hours to sit here and stare at him. Soak up every detail of his body.

He wets his lips and leans over again, forcing my face to angle up.

“You have no idea how long I’ve dreamed of doing this.” He pushes my hair from my face—a brief pause in the madness—softly and sweetly lifting my shirt off over my head.

Air rushes over my breasts, along with his realization that I’m not wearing a bra. His breath hitches as his eyes take me in, fingertips floating up the outside of my arm, centimeters from my chest. Not touching yet.

“How many times I’ve fantasized about you like this,” he says, leaning, lips teasing mine again.

“How many?” I’m breathless with anticipation. Aching. Inching my fingers to the waistband of his jeans.

His mouth brushes mine with every word. “It’s not a respectful amount.”

“Thank god,” I groan. “Disrespect me, James.”

He pulls back to stare at me, eyes sinfully touching me in all the places his hands haven’t yet. He unbuckles my shorts and shucks them down my hips, past my knees—then lets them fall to the floor.

“If that’s what you want, Madison, you’ve got the wrong guy.” He lowers, dropping to his knees in front of me at the table. “I don’t want to disrespect you even a little.” He lowers his face until he’s between my thighs, lacing my sensitive skin with soft kisses. His voice is gravelly—a shot of whiskey to my stomach—when he says, “I want to worship you. Here on my knees, if that’s okay with you?”

I swallow, feeling nervous for the first time in years. But I manage to get the words out. “Yes . . . I want that.”

A grin.

A kiss on one thigh.

A kiss on the other to match.

And then he’s pulling my underwear aside, and his hot mouth presses there, where I’m dying. I fall back to my elbows, spineless as his tongue tastes and plays. So attentive. So loving.

“Beautiful,” he rasps. And I have never felt sexier, more in tune with and proud of my body. Turns out, this man makes me feel important not only in public but also while naked on a table.

I’m gasping for air when his hand slides up my body to cup one of my breasts, calluses on his palm rough against my nipple. Tides of pleasure threaten to break over me as he licks and sucks. But I don’t want to break apart yet. Selfishly, I want this to last forever. Never end.

“James,” I gasp. “Wait. I want—”

He lifts his head, moving his kisses to my thighs again as I struggle to speak. “Yes?”

“I want it with you.” I’m not making sense, but he knows what I mean anyway.

He rises to his feet, gets out his wallet, tugs a condom from it (wonderfully prepared), and tosses it beside my hips as he unzips and pushes his jeans off. I watch—leaned back, legs open—and oh my god, when his underwear is off and I finally see all of him, I fall in love all over again. He is . . . perfect.

Leaning up, I take him in my hand. His head falls back, throat bobbing on a rough groan. It’s a delicious sound. I return the tasting with a lick and a kiss—but a sample is all I get.

“Madison, I’ve waited for this so long. I won’t last,” he pleads and gently lays me back against the table.

He rips the foil.

Rolls it along his length.

Pulls my hips to the edge of the table, panties discarded.

Nudging against me, he asks, “Okay?”

My heart cracks open. Even in this—even when he knows I’m ready and wanting—he still asks.

“Yes. Now,” I beg.

The wood creaks below me as he pushes in slowly, and I cry out from ecstasy. He fills me completely, and nothing has ever felt so good. When we’re fully meeting—hips joined, my legs wrapped around his lower back—he looks down, looks at us, and I imagine that is what ultimate yearning looks like. He is gutted with pleasure.

“Fuck,” he grinds out as he moves again, in and out, so slowly I’m splitting apart at the seams. It’s overwhelming, being so intimate while in love. No one warned me it would feel like this.

So warm, I’m burning.

So loved, I’m screaming.

So free, I’m shaking.

I move my hips, but his fingers bite softly into my sides, pinning them to the table. His look is a warning. “I mean it—I will be done for in two seconds flat if you keep that up.”

But I’m turned on to a level I’ve never reached before, so I take that comment as a challenge.

Feeling powerful, I rock against his hands and his eyes roll shut.

“Madison,” he warns through gritted teeth.

I smile and rock again, but this time it hits me right where I want it most. A pulse of pleasure teases my core and I need more. I grip his shoulders to bring him down to kiss me, but the angle isn’t right.

“Bed,” I pant, writhing against him.

He withdraws, scoops me off the table, and carries me to the bed. I’m not laid down gently; I’m tossed. And he’s back on me in a second, prowling over my body in a way that promises incredible destruction.

“Open your legs for me,” he commands, and I do—because I want nothing more than to have him there. All night. All day. I’m never leaving this bed with James.

His large body settles between my thighs and this time, when he pushes in, he doesn’t go slow. I gasp at the feel of our chests pressing together and grip at his back, holding on. And then he gives me what I really want— all of him, plus his mouth on mine. Once he’s fully seated, he rolls his hips against me while swirling his tongue in my mouth, mounting this sensation to something so acute, so absolute, I think it will consume me. Singe me. Brand my body.

He drops from my mouth to my throat, hand coming up to grip my breast, rolling his hand over my nipple in time with his hips.

“Oh . . . I’m . . . so close,” I pant out, rocking, thrusting, begging.

“Do you want it like this?”

“I want it like this—and a thousand other ways.”

He laughs against my throat. “Deal. We’ll start here.”

And he lets go of his restraint.

He rocks into me—over and over—faster and harder each time. The headboard pounds the wall and my blood surges through my body, pooling between my legs where James is pushing in and out. And then I’m hitting that ultimate climb—gasping, reaching, tugging to reach the peak.

James grunts a strained noise, and I know he’s holding off, waiting for me to go first, but it’s taking all his willpower.

My fingers bite into his sweat-slicked back and I clamp my teeth down on my bottom lip.

“No,” he rasps, and his thumb pulls my lip from my teeth. “I want to hear it when you come. I want to hear my name on your lips when you—”

I shatter, and cry out exactly what he wanted, and clutch his back, urging him to keep going, to ride this pleasure with me. His pace continues, but the set of his jaw hasn’t loosened. He’s not done. His hand slips between my legs now, where we’re joined, and he puts his fingers around the base of him, gently swirling a new rhythm as he thrusts. And it has me approaching orgasm all over again.

I drag in a breath, arching and whimpering as the sensation builds again. And when he rasps, “That’s it. Give me one more,” I do.

And then James shifts onto his arm, pulling my knee up by his rib cage, a new angle to finally chase what feels best to him. His body tenses and he drops his face into my neck, groaning deep and low as he comes apart. I’ve never been happier. I’ve never wanted someone to enjoy something so much.

But it’s James. My James. And together, we made this happen.

“Want to do it like five more times?” I ask against his dewy chest after we’ve both settled.

He chuckles softly and squeezes me. “Give me like two minutes.”

“You get one and a half.”

I end up giving him thirty—and in that time, James discovers I’m hyper after sex. I clean up, pop on a tank top and underwear, and whip up some snacks. While James sits propped on my bed, munching seasoned popcorn, I give him a one-woman show: delivering a monologue from my favorite movie, Pretty Woman.

“When I was a little girl . . .” I start, and end with, “. . . I’ll put you up in a great condo.”

James is a rapt audience. He claps, and I bow.

And then he has me naked again in a blink, and we’re making up for all the times we wanted to do this over the last three months but resisted. There’re new angles, tricks up James’s sleeve I never would have guessed he knew. He’s got me folded over the bed at one point and on the floor at another. It won’t always be like this, I warn him, because I don’t want him to think I’m some never-ending sexual spring of energy. He reminds me he’s a farmer, up at five every day, and it’s okay if our nights are not always so sensually prolific. He says this with my legs slung over his shoulders.

What a joy.

And the very best part of this night, I realize, is how much we talk along the way. We laugh. We play and find what feels good together without preamble or theatrics (other than my monologue). It’s just comfortable, and exciting, and lively—but oh so cozy. I am cocooned in undeniable safety at every turn, not worried about what he’s thinking of me, because he’s voicing it. Not for dirty talk or because he’s trying to outdo anyone I’ve slept with previously but because he’s my best friend. And best friends tell each other everything.

I love him, and I love that when we’re thoroughly exhausted and ready to sleep, he’s too big for my bed but stays with me anyway.