Cora Silvera come so hard she pounded the bed at her sides as she brokenly whispered his name.
He had to rest his cheek against her belly, gasping for air the same way she was doing. Not because he was physically tired, though he liked to think his oral skills took some energy. She seemed to yank his emotions free with the way she not only touched his skin, but reached inside him with her reactions. With nothing more than being who she was.
He’d been through a lot of traumatic crap in his life. A lot of highs too. He was generally easygoing with it all by that point. But the way he felt with her, around her, was just shy of overwhelming.
So seductively good he just didn’t have the energy—or the will—to make up reasons to resist.
Cora was an adventure he wanted to experience.
Her smirk when he lifted his head enough to look up her body sent an arc of lust straight to his cock, so he jumped up to dig through his pants to grab a condom before returning to her.
She grabbed the packet from between his teeth before he could bite down and tear it open. “That’s bad for your teeth,” she told him, ripping it by hand and giving it back.
He could flat-out guarantee that he’d never had a lover tell him to be careful of ruining his teeth. Perversely, that only made him harder. So hard that he had to zone out a bit as he got the condom rolled on his dick or else come all over his hand and end this—at least for twenty minutes—before it got started.
Still on her knees from when she’d grabbed the condom, she waited for him, lips slightly parted, pupils large. Her hair was tousled all around her face in a way that screamed, I just had an orgasm.
“On your belly,” he told her.
She rolled over and gave him a look. Inviting more as she thrust herself back toward him.
He swore under his breath as he took in the antique chandelier taking up the entirety of her back. An old-school design. Strong and feminine. Sexy as hell.
“I love this ink,” he said, leaning down to kiss her between her shoulder blades. Settling between her thighs, he pushed one leg up, keeping it bent at the knee.
The sight of his cock disappearing into her body as he slowly entered her short-circuited his brain. His hand at her hip, fingers digging into the muscle there slightly to set the pace he wanted.
Slow. Because he wanted to draw it out.
But that was difficult when she was so snug and hot around him. Still soft and slick from her orgasm, her inner walls stretched, and then tightened around him.
Deep. Even deeper once he’d tipped her hips just a bit. Knew he’d gotten it right when her moan got raspy at the end.
He fucked her with hard, deep digs. Concentrated on how it felt, on how her skin tasted, on the wall holding back his climax.
“Harder,” she said over her shoulder. “More. Please.”
Beau bent himself over her. “I want your hand on your pussy. On your clit.”
He knew she liked it by the way her inner muscles seemed to flutter around his cock. And the surprised moan as she slid her hand between her body and the mattress.
Knew she’d begun when she got even hotter and wetter. Even through the latex it was enough to bring the orgasm he’d been holding back roaring toward him as he stayed where he was, his body caging hers, thrusting deep and hard.
She whimpered into the blankets as she started to explode around him and that was it. He continued to fuck her as it sucked him in and held him under. He came so hard his thigh muscles burned and jumped.
* * *
“SWEET BABY JESUS eating jerky,” she mumbled, rolling over so she could watch him get out of bed to dispose of the condom. She just had some of the hottest sex of her life with a dude who looked like sex on legs.
“Wait. Did you just say sweet baby Jesus eating jerky?” he asked, a wary expression on his face.
“I did. I was just thinking about how you’re just so damned gorgeous and hot and it occurred to me what a delight that was.”
He snorted as he joined her in getting dressed, and then pulled her into a hug, taking a long, leisurely trip around her mouth and throat before letting her go at last.
Leaving her needing to lean against the wall a moment because she was weak in the knees.
“Glad to be of service,” he said. “I like the way you objectify me.”
“That’s a big relief because I gotta tell you, looking at you gets me all warm and tingly. And then you add the cooking and the sense of humor and the way you fuck and it’s just downright impossible not to objectify you.”
Smiling, he walked two steps back to where she leaned against the wall and caged her in with his body. Yum.
“I’m not the irresistible one here,” he murmured before bending his knees to kiss her slow. “I have dreams about your taste,” he said, stepping away from her.
How did one even process a man like Beau saying such things? It made her light-headed in the best way. Made her feel like a gorgeous queen and damn it was really fucking wonderful.
The start of something really fucking wonderful. She hoped, even as she knew it could be a quick thing, she had a very strong feeling it wouldn’t be. There was something compelling about not only Beau, but the energy they had as Beau and Cora.
She shouldn’t think on it overmuch at that point though. Let it be magic. Magic was lovely.
CHAPTER EIGHT
GALLERY SILVERA SAT on a corner, next to a wine bar and across from a café. It was the perfect sort of place to wander after enjoying a glass of wine or a cup of tea. There were several other galleries within a four-block radius, all having a different perspective and emphasis. It created a lovely, artsy atmosphere.
Cora’s town house was close enough that she usually walked during the warmest months. But more, she herself was part of the neighborhood she worked in. When she chose what went on the walls in the gallery, what could be seen through the big windows facing the street, Cora expanded her gallery outside. Connected with those other places, and through Seattle Center, they were part of something vibrant, pulsing with music and art and dance.
It’d been in the current location in the shadow of the Space Needle for thirty years. Most of them had been as a moderate success. Her father had originally bought it as a gift for his wife—and as Cora believed, a way to give Walda roots. To give her a sense of place to build a life and a family. Which she’d done, but in her own way because no one told her mother how to live.
Like any kid who grew up in a family that ran a business, she and her siblings had spent a lot of afternoons and weekends at the gallery. It had brought color and creativity into her life at a very early age. She’d learned her multiplication tables while tucked into a back corner. A young painter who now had an established, successful career had helped her with a book report. Their dining table had always been surrounded
