Page 122 of Love What's Left
“I love you.”
“Louder.”
I laugh and speak up. “I love you.”
“You can do better than that.”
I turn toward the lake, fling out my arms, and yell, “I love you, Gabriel McRae.” My voice is no longer hoarse, and my shout is loud and clear.
Standing in the distance near the cars, Troy hollers, “About time!”
“Look away kids. Mommy and Daddy are having private grown-up time,” Gabriel shouts back, then he turns to me with a grin.
“I love you,” I say again at a normal volume.
He kisses me again, no hesitation in sight. He’s a man without a single doubt that I’ll welcome him inside.
He’s right that we can’t do more than this here. Molten arousal floods through me anyway.
He positions me sideways across his lap. The iron bar of his erection digs into my thigh, but if he can ignore it, I can force myself under control too. Somehow.
“Need to hold you and feel your skin,” he says.
His palms cup my breasts under my T-shirt, and I groan quietly at the delicious temptation of his touch.
“You know,” he says conversationally. “You’re wearing my shirt again.” He slides down to caress my back and lower abdomen in lazy strokes.
I nod. “Yes.”
“I like it. It fits you like a tent. In fact, it’s dark enough that between this big black shirt and the distance, no one could actually see a thing if I—” He moves his hand, completely covered by the voluminous fabric, into my stretchy cotton shorts.
My core clenches as he cups me, pressing against my naked flesh, the heel of his palm applying pressure to my clit. I gasp and grind against him.
“No. Don’t move. If you can stay still, all anyone looking at us will see is the two of us cuddling. Can you do that?” He pinches my clit between two clever fingers, then flicks it.
I whimper.
“Yes or no?”
I turn my head to stare sightlessly at the water. “Yes,” I whisper.
“If you’re afraid you’ll get noisy, put your head on my shoulder and muffle the sound there.” His hand hasn’t stopped moving, and the fact that he knows exactly the right amount of pressure to drive me crazy tells me everything about this man. He pays attention. He listens. He studies my body like there’s nothing more fascinating.
I remember pieces of our sex lives, but I want to know more. What touches make him lose control? Does he like to be in charge, or would he like me to take over sometimes?
His fingers tease sensitive nerves, playing me like a musical instrument. Forcing myself to sit still and stay quiet becomes an exercise in erotic torture. The only thing restraining me is my own self-control.
His fingers dip inside. “So wet,” he says thickly. “After you come on my fingers, I’m going to lick them clean.”
The whimper that leaves me borders on too loud.
His free hand comes up to guide my face to his broad shoulder. “Shhh.”
Gasping, I cry out against his neck as he works my body. The scent and taste of him goes to my head. When I kiss and nuzzle his skin, he shudders beneath me, a low moan rumbling through him as his cock flexes against my thigh.
He crooks his fingers, and,Oh God,I remember this, and there’s no way I can stay still and quiet. No way. “I can’t. Not here,” I sob.
He withdraws immediately.
