Just One More Night by Caitlin Crews (ereader iphone txt) 📕

head fall. Closing her eyes and once again trusting him to hold her where he wanted her, to move her as he liked.

Taking all of him and making low, greedy noises as if she loved every inch.

And when he felt her pussy clamp down on him once more, she sobbed wildly, another orgasm taking her over. Stefan found his own release, emptying himself into her with a few hard, deep, glorious thrusts.

Then he held her there as she collapsed against him, her mouth wide open in the crook of his neck as she fought for air.

He was still inside her and carried her that way, enjoying the little noises she made when he took the stairs up to the second floor. He carried her to the loftlike master suite and into the bathroom, where he set her down outside the massive shower stall. He reached in and turned on the water, smiling with deep satisfaction when she made her way in a moment or so later, but had to hold on to the tiled wall as if her legs weren’t quite steady.

He stripped, then followed her into the hot spray, already steaming up the room.

“Oh,” she breathed, gazing at him in what looked like awe. His cock certainly thought so, and stood proudly. “I’ve been wondering what you look like naked.”

She reached over and traced the tattoo that took up the better part of his chest, then wrapped around his back. It was a phoenix etched in bright colors and utilizing all his scars, its tail ending in the small of his back. And Stefan had always loved his tattoo, the story of how he always rose from any ashes, but never so much as now. Because Indy moved closer and began to trace it with her fingers. Her soft little hands. That hot, dirty mouth of hers.

“What are these?” she asked softly, finding his various scars concealed in the lines and swirls.

“Knives and guns.” He grunted as she found a different ridge. “The odd boot.”

Her dark eyes rose to meet his, then dropped. But she kissed his scars a little bit longer.

After the shower he dried himself, then took her towel from her and amused himself with drying her, too. She combed her tangle of hair with her fingers, then braided it, letting the damp mass of it fall over one shoulder.

“I left all my clothes downstairs,” she told him when he pulled his jeans back on.

“You don’t need clothes.” He studied her. “Are you hungry?”

She considered, and then her face lit up. “Ravenous, as a matter of fact.”

He had her walk before him down the stairs so he could watch her move. So he could contemplate the sweet line of her spine and the flare of her hips as he imagined taking her from behind.

Would his hunger for her ever end?

Once on the ground floor, he settled his hand on the nape of her neck and steered her into the kitchen at the back of the house that looked over the terraced grounds, green by day. Tonight the pool gleamed turquoise and beyond, down in the valley, the city of Prague lay like ribbons of light.

“Tell me about this place,” she said, jumping up lightly to sit on the counter as he moved around the kitchen, assembling a simple meal of savory pancakes, a Romanian staple his grandmother had always made him when he’d visited her. “This villa. The art on the walls, the air of old-school elegance mixed in with all these modern lines... None of this seems to go hand-in-hand with an alleyway in Budapest.”

“I think you would call this layers, no?”

“Are we naming all these layers?”

He glanced over at her, but she didn’t look avid in any way. Just... Interested.

In him.

Not what he could do for her. Not what she could get. Just him and whatever story he might tell.

It felt like a new kind of magic. He remembered he’d called her a witch, and it fit.

Stefan cleared his throat. “My father was a hard man. When I tell you this as a Romanian, you must understand that I do not mean hard in any American sense. I mean the real thing. A real kind of hardness that went deep inside him. He should not have married, but then, even monsters get lonely. After my mother died he stopped pretending to be a father, not that he had ever taken to the role. He was a jailer. I mean hard, you understand.” He moved his shoulders to do something about the tension in them, not sure why he was telling her this story. There was a reason he wasn’t much for sharing. But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. “It was a relief to escape him when I joined the army. But then, the army takes all men and makes them hard. I think this is true everywhere. Afterward, I found other ways to fight. And learned to live by my own laws.”

“Meaning outside everyone else’s laws.”

He nodded. “But my grandmother left Romania a long time ago and settled in Old Town. Far away from her troublesome son-in-law and her memories of the daughter she lost. I visited her here in Prague as a boy. And I bought this house early in my...career, let us call it. Maybe as a monument to her. I always knew that someday I would retire here.”

“You don’t look old enough to retire.”

“The kind of business I was in...” Stefan shrugged. “If you are lucky enough to retire, you do it young. Or not at all.”

For a while she didn’t say anything, and he finished preparing the meal. He brought a stack of the savory pancakes over on a plate that he set down on the counter next to her, and then stood there himself, watching her as she ate. Eating himself, until it felt as if that, too, was a kind of sensual act.

Simply being with her was a sensual act.

He was going to have to find a way to