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I’m dimly aware of him gathering me in his arms, of him moving. Then the spray of warm water on my body. I half open my eyes and realize he’s holding me up in the shower. I cuddle into him, let him dry me, then lift me up and put me to bed.
He slides in next to me and pulls the covers over the both of us. He turns me on my side, then curves his body around mine.
Then he kisses the top of my head. “Was it good for you? Did you like it, baby?” His voice rumbles up his chest, sending pleasant reverberations across my skin.
My eyelids flutter down, but I manage to nod. “I loved it,” I mumble truthfully.
He tucks my head under his chin, wraps his heavy arm about my middle, and by God, I think I could come all over again from this feeling of security engulfing me. Then the needy part of me, the part that wants to make him happy, rises to the fore and I ask, “Was I a good girl for you?”
He chuckles, the sound so delicious, it settles in my bones, and in my cells, and in those secret crevices on my body only Q knows. “You’ve been such a good girl, and you took me so well. You deserve to be held and snuggled as you sleep.”
A smile curves my lips. I’m about to drift off. Perhaps, it’s being in this half-asleep, half-awake state that loosens my tongue enough to remark, “I think you’ll look even more devastating if you grow out your crew-cut.”
I sense his surprise, then he rumbles, “Would it make you happy if I did, little Raven?“
“Very much.” I yawn. He sounded so... tender there. Like he’d do anything I ask of him. Damn, these orgasms not only make my pussy very happy but they also confusing my brain. “Goodnight, Q,” I whisper.
I am aware of him wishing me goodnight in that deep, dark voice of his as I drift off to sleep.
For the next three days and nights, Q makes love to me. Yes, he also fucks me with a relentless attention to detail, where he ensures every hole in my body is his. But in between, there are occasions where he takes me slowly, tenderly, while looking deeply into my eyes. There are occasions where he ties me up again, other occasions where he bends me over the settee in the living room and fucks my ass. Then, there’s the time he screws me against the glass walls of his conservatory with the rain pattering against it on the other side. And there’s the other time in the kitchen, in his garden among the jasmine flowers, on our bed, in the bathtub again, the time he simply throws me down on the carpet in front of the massive, lit fireplace and makes me orgasm as soon as he enters me.
My body is an instrument he’s tuned to respond to his slightest command. I lose count of the number of times he makes me come.
I get used to this floaty, bubbly feeling that fills my blood. I get used to the ache between my legs that signals I’m well fucked. I forget to wear clothes—why should I? When he’s going to tear them off me. Good thing we’re so well stocked up and he’s a good cook because I’m in a sexual haze and about all I can manage is to eat the food he puts in front of me before he fucks me again.
If there are times when I spot him watching me with a strange look in his eyes, I put it down to him getting used to the idea of us being married. After all, it’s difficult to think of anything else when he follows it up with trying out another sexual position. The days meld into nights. When I wake up on the morning of the fourth day, the sun is bright outside.
I realize I’m alone in bed—which hasn’t happened since that first morning here. My heart somersaults into my throat. A ripple of apprehension zings up my spine. For some reason I panic even more than I did the last time... then turn to find he’s watching me. There’s a tray of food on the bed stand next to me. His brow is furrowed, his jaw hard.
But in his eyes, there’s worry.
Also, he’s shaved—which he hasn’t for the past few days. And he’s wearing jeans and a chambray shirt. He’s only worn a pair of grey sweatpants and kept his torso bare all the time we’ve been here.
"What’s wrong?" I sit up in bed. "What time is it?"
"It’s three p.m."
"Three p.m.?" I gape. "You mean I slept away the morning?"
I expect him to smirk and say something to the tune of he no doubt wore me out with his ministrations. Instead, he straightens and places the breakfast tray on my lap. “You need to eat.”
“But I want to know why you’re dressed?” I cry.
“And I’ll tell you, but eat first.” The command in his voice insists I obey him. Besides, the scent of the food tickles my nostrils and makes me realize how hungry I am.
I dig into the pasta, and the tangy flavors of tomatoes, combined with the acidity of sautéed garlic and the creaminess of mozzarella cheese, coat my palate. "This is so good," I groan. I polish off a few more mouthfuls, then look up to find him watching me with heat in his eyes.
"What?" I snatch up the napkin from the tray and wipe at the edges of my mouth.
He shakes his head. "I like seeing you eating the food I cook." There’s a hint of possessiveness and satisfaction in his voice.
"You’re a caveman."
"I like taking care of you.”
"I like you taking care of me.” I dip my head, not sure why I feel so shy. “In fact, one of my favorite images is of you wearing an apron and cooking for me. It’s so sexy.”
His smile widens at that. Once again, I expect him to say something that’ll build on the sexual tension simmering between us, but when he doesn’t, I realize whatever is on his mind is worrying him more than he’s letting on.
