His Expectant Ex(3)

By: Catherine Mann

Thunder growled and he cupped her face in his hands, electric-blue eyes snapping sparks through her, echoing the snap of lightning overhead. “I need to hear you say it, that you want me inside you as damn much as I want to be there.” His low growl spoke of his own strained control. “We have enough regrets without adding one more to the pile.”

“I only know this is a heartbreaking day and I have to have this.” She couldn’t bring herself to say she wanted him, not after all the times she’d needed even just his presence only to spend another solitary evening on their balcony with only the rolling surf, a top-shelf wine and her salty tears. “Now, can we put our mouths to better use?”

He kept his gaze firmly on her face while his hand slid down, his thumb brushing a distracting back and forth along the side of her breast. “We can end the conversation, but that won’t stop me from telling you just how sexy you are.”

His eyelids lowered to a heated half-mast as he dipped his head to nip at the oh-so-sensitive curve of her neck. Knowing every button to push to send her writhing against him, achy, needing. More. Now.

“Or how much you turn me inside out with the way your legs look in those heels. Yellow. God, who wears yellow shoes?” His broad palm slipped under the hem of her skirt, up the length of her thigh in a hot path as he traced the edge of her panties right between…

Her head fell back as words scrambled together in her overheated mind. “Me. I do. And they’re lemon-colored.”

“They’re hot.”

If only great sex and a whopping big bank balance were enough, they could have made it to their golden anniversary, no problem. That thought could douse the pleasure brought by his talented fingers faster than emptying a silver ice bucket in their laps.

She tore at the buttons on his monogrammed shirt, popping, opening, scraping back fine fabric until her palms met warm skin. The flex of hard muscles contracting beneath her touch blocked out the world waiting beyond the abandoned forest nook. She kissed, nipped, laved over him while Sebastian tunneled his hands through her hair until it slipped free of the loose twist, tumbling midway down her back.

His BlackBerry buzzed an unwelcome interruption. Her skin started to chill. He tore the handheld off his belt and tossed it to the floor impatiently.

About damn time he did that.

Marianna gripped his shoulders, fingernails digging half-moons into his flesh as she strained to get nearer, desperate to deepen the closeness. Twining her fingers in his close shorn hair, she held his face to hers, devouring him, ravenous after the months of going without.

Sebastian nudged her jacket aside, down her shoulders, and cupped her breast through the satin camisole. He circled a thumb around the tightened crest sending sparks of want through her. When he lowered his mouth to replace his hand, she couldn’t control the urge to roll her hips against his.

“Enough.” The moist heat of his mouth as he worked the satin over her skin tightened the swirls of pleasure. “More.”

And thank goodness he understood the contradiction of impulses that had plagued most every part of their marriage. He angled them both upright again until he sat in the middle of the seat. Marianna straddled his lap, her suit skirt hitching up as she knelt, her toes pressing against the front seats until her Gucci pumps began to slip off.

His hands reached down, gripping both shoes and holding them in place. “Leave them on,” he growled low, “I’m suddenly a big fan of lemon.”

She fumbled with his belt, just above the hard press of his desire straining against his zipper. Then yes, she found the enclosed velvet length of him, stroking. Never one to lag behind, Sebastian slid his hand beneath her skirt again, fingers twisting in the thin string of her thong, pulling the panties lightly biting into her flesh. She welcomed the pinch on her over-heightened senses and then it…


He pitched aside the insubstantial scrap of yellow silk she’d worn to make her feel like more of a woman and less of a failure at the most important relationship of her life. Marianna positioned herself over him, and he thrust upward. Fast. Hard. No fumbling. No awkwardness. Rather a synchronicity gained from nine years of knowing just how to come together with sex if nothing else.

She grabbed his wrists and moved his hands to cup her breasts. Her fingers stayed with his over her while he pounded into her with an urgency as powerful as the storm outside and the man inside. Marianna rocked her hips against him in grinding circles, milking every ounce of sensation from this last explosive encounter.

One last time to be together.

One more memory to tuck away and torment herself with over a glass of wine by the beach.