“I got it,” I said through clenched teeth, afraid to move. “I think I got it.”
“You got it,” he said behind me, his excitement a buzz of magic at my back.
And then . . . I didn’t have it.
One of the bags bounced awkwardly off my hand, and when I instinctively reached for it, I tossed another off course. It plopped into the fish tank with a gurgle, the fish darting to their corners like boxers at the bell.
Jeff punched both arms into the air. “Touchdown!” he screamed out, like I’d just made the winning throw at the Super Bowl.
I burst out laughing . . . and couldn’t stop. I laughed until tears flowed from the corner of my eyes, until I was on my knees on the carpeted floor, until my stomach was aching from it.
“The crowd goes wild!” Jeff shouted, running around the living room in a victory lap, pumping his arms in the air. He spiraled back to me, and held out his hand, fisted to hold an imaginary microphone.
“Ms. Keene, you’ve just scored your fourteenth winning touchdown in this record-setting game. How are you going to celebrate?”
Still hiccupping with laughs, I mopped at my cheeks and looked up at him, grinning foolishly. Grinning adorably.
This, I realized, was us. Not playing at a kind of movie and magazine romance that didn’t really interest us.
But laughing together. Learning together. Loving together. That was our particular romance. And it was a heady brew.
He was still crouched in front of me when I saw the sudden intensity in his eyes, that shift from humor to seduction. This time, I didn’t shy away.
I reached out, put a hand to his cheek, and swooned when he closed his eyes, lips curving with pleasure. I leaned forward, pressed my lips to his and kissed him softly. Just a small kiss, a small enticement.
He opened his eyes, surprise on his face. “You’ve never kissed me like that.”
I frowned. “Like what?”
“Like you needed to do it.”
Love swamped me, ferocious in its desire to make him see what I’d known for a very long time. That he’d always been the only one, even if I’d denied it.
I put my hands on his face, met his gaze. “I need you. I’ve always needed you. I just didn’t allow myself to admit it.”
He growled low in his throat, and his mouth was on mine before I’d even processed the sound. It was less a kiss than a battle, and we both intended to win.
We pulled clothing with animal ferocity, tearing at them like they were burning us alive. I found his elastic waistband and released him, and he fell, heavy and hard, into my hand.
“Jesus, Fallon,” he said against my mouth, as I handled him well and thoroughly, his body fairly vibrating with pleasure. “I need to be inside you.”
He stripped me of the clothing that remained and stared down at me.
“Jeff?”
He held up a finger. “Un momento. I’m savoring this moment. Committing it to memory.” He slid the flat of his hand down the middle of my body, then lifted it again to cup my breast.
My body sang with pleasure, eyes drifting shut from the sensations that I’d imagined for so long, finally real.
His mouth clamped on mine again, and he pressed me down to the thick carpet beneath us, his arousal between our bodies, eager for action. With hands and fingers he teased and entreated, his kisses brutal. I dug fingers into his back, pulling him closer.
“Jeff. I need you.”
He growled, low in his throat, and without argument or delay, spread his body over mine and thrust powerfully. He made a noise that sounded like relief, but relief wasn’t on his mind, not for me.
Sweet and geeky Jeff, lover of games, knew how to move. Each nearly brutal motion rode the line between pain and pleasure as his mouth tortured mine. Our magicks rose again, keeping pace as pleasure swamped us, and exploding through the room when we cried out the other’s name.
It was twenty minutes before I could feel my legs again. I glanced at him beside me, smiled. “I’m not sure how we’re going to improve on this.”
He didn’t even pause. “I have several very specific ideas.”
I couldn’t help but laugh, and had the sense he’d been saving that response for a very long time.
“Oh?” I turned to my side to face him, propping myself on an elbow. “And what ideas are those?”
“Costumes.”
“You’re not serious.”
“Princess Leia. Wonder Woman. Silk Spectre. Mystique. Hit Girl. So many options.”
“I’m not putting on a costume to satiate your prurient fantasies,” I said, lying back on the floor again.
And then I thought about who he was, and who I was, and our kind of romance. “But if you’re willing to play Bruce Wayne, I might reconsider.”
He was. So I did.
