Page 87 of Crash Course
He pumped and pumped and pumped. In his hands, her legs stiffened. Close. So close.
"Come on, sweetheart," he whispered. "I’ve got you."
He sure did. Hopefully forever.
But, jeez, if she didn’t come soon, he’d leave her in the dust. He changed the angle again, hoping beyond hope they’d explode together.
She lifted her head, stared right at him. "Don’t stop. Don’t, don’t, don’t!"
"Oh." Her body froze and she shoved at his shoulders, angling her head back.
Her cry shattered the quiet night air and the sound drove Cruz wild, sent his own tight body spiraling. He pumped his hips, faster, so close to that edge.
"You’re amazing," Cilla said, her gaze on him.
Back in the game after her own orgasm, she lifted her hips, rotating them, banging against him, the whole thing rougher than he’d have wanted for their first time, but . . .
His eyes nearly exploded and his body bucked. Hard. He rode it out, focused on the release and that massive high he knew would leave him in seconds.
So good.
He let go of Cilla’s legs and collapsed on top of her, catching himself before he crushed her.
"Holy shit," he said, trying to catch his breath. "You might be the love of my life."
"Oh, Cruz Blackwell." She reached up, set her hand on the back of his head and stroked his hair. "Ditto."
One thing about Priscilla Randolph,Esquire. She didn’t screw around. No bullshit, no waffling back and forth. About anything.
Including buying an office.
Cruz loved it.
The morning after a truly stupendous night of lovemaking Cruz definitely wanted a repeat of and would remember until his dying day, he and Cilla left the Friary, each in their own vehicles. They’d met thirty minutes ago at a one-story, brick office that had once been a residential bungalow in downtown Asheville. She’d apparently seen the space online a week ago and liked what she called the cottagey feel. He couldn’t disagree. The minute he stepped inside it felt . . . good. In a fixer-upper sort of way.
Now, after they’d done two passes through, she stood in what would be the reception area and did a slow circle, eyeing the marred paint and holes along the wall. How many pictures did the previous tenants hang?
"It needs work," Cruz offered.
"It does. All cosmetic, though. And look at the tin ceilings? I’d bet those are original. A fresh coat of paint and it’d be stunning."
Cruz shrugged. "I’m not a decorator, but yeah, they’re pretty cool."
She pointed at the bay window along the front of the building. "Plenty of sun probably comes in here. We make this the seating area." She swung around, gesturing with one hand. "Receptionist would be here in one of those U-shaped desks."
Before he’d visualized it, Cilla was off, hustling down the hallway where she stopped in front of an open door. "I don’t need five rooms so maybe we can knock out this wall, connect the two rooms and make it a conference room. I wonder if that’s a load-bearing wall."
Stepping behind her in the doorway, Cruz peered inside. "If it is, you put a beam in. It’ll be four or five grand, but if it’s what you want, it could probably be done."
She nodded. "It’s what I want."
On the move again, she strode by the next office, this one on the right. "Layla will be here. She’ll love her own office. And not having to answer phones."
Like he said, no bullshit. No waffling. The woman knew what she wanted.
At the end of the hallway sat a bathroom on the left, a set of French doors and another office on the right.
Cilla ducked her head in the bathroom. "I’ll rip this out and put in new."
