She lets out muffled sounds behind the gag she asked for while I rapidly flick my tongue against her clit. It could be my name, another tease, or a curse.
“You taste so fucking good. I could spend hours between your legs.” I dive my tongue against her while my hands travel up to play with her tits and her nipples.
She moans even louder as her body starts to tense.
“Come on my face.” I sink back between her legs, lapping up every ounce of her while her orgasm builds.
She thrashes and mumbles, and I bear down, flicking my tongue fast, and when I feel she’s about to come, I insert two fingers into her center, pressing on her G-spot. Her eyes fly open, her fingers grip the sheets, and I continue to lick her while her peak rips through her body.
Nothing has ever touched this. Not a perfect game, not draft day. Her beneath me, coming hard—and I’m the one who did it.
“That’s it. Look at you.” I move upward, slipping the shirt away and replacing it with my mouth, kissing her slowly,worshipfully. Pushing back inside her, I thrust slowly at first, then pick up the pace.
“You’re my good dirty girl,” I pant as I thrust into her. “I want to own every last inch of this cunt. Come all over you, inside you. Have you wake up tomorrow with the feel of me still between your legs.”
“Wesley,” she cries. “I’m so close.” She starts to clench again, and I need to come so fucking hard feeling her around me, knowing I’m her man. She convulses, squeezing me, and the room around me fades to black.
I grip her ass, and rock into her, a burst of white-hot pleasure shooting up my spine.
“Motherfucker,” I snarl as I pulse into her, coming until there’s nothing left in me. She continues to tighten around me as I slow down. We both collapse on the bed, me rolling her over so she’s on top of me. I kiss her neck, her shoulder, her lips.
“Fuck.” I pull out slowly and discard the condom.
I’ve never come harder.
She melts against me, boneless, looking thoroughly fucked. Thoroughly mine.
I stare at the ceiling, chest heaving, trying to catch up. Joy Preston and I just had sex. Not the safe kind; it was mind blowing, life tilting, filthy. The pretty blonde who hides in baggy layers has a body built for sin and a dirty, fearless mouth—and she knows exactly how to use both.
Good luck prying me loose.
9
AURORA (JOY)
Dawn blurs the window, pale blue and unforgiving. I wake before him, skin still humming, sheets tangled at my waist. Wesley’s arm is heavy across my ribs, his breath slow and even. For a minute, I let myself watch him—the calm after the storm, the faint crease between his brows even in sleep.
The truth sits on my tongue, small and sour. Daughter of Robert and Serena Preston. Niece of Julian Rothschild. Generational money. A résumé that would change the shape of his smile.
If I say it out loud, he stops seeing me as the girl he danced with and starts seeing a Preston. A Rothschild. The kind of legacy that makes people adjust how they stand. Serena-in-training. I can’t stand the thought of that flicker in his eyes, of him pulling back because suddenly I’m not Joy, I’m an institution.
I could tell him now. The words hover—Joy isn’t the whole story—and my pulse trips thinking them. He flexes against my stomach; I freeze. The quiet feels too whole to break.
Outside, something cracks—the roof settling maybe. I swallow the confession and kiss his shoulder instead, a coward’s way out.
He stirs, half-murmuring my name, and it hits me how that single syllable—Joy—leaves so much unsaid.
“Morning, Foxy,” Wesley rumbles, his voice rough from sleep.
I roll onto his bare chest—warm skin, cedar, woodsmoke. The bed is criminally small. Every part of him has an excuse to touch me. He uses all of them.
Last night, he refused to let me untangle. Apparently Wesley Kane was absent when they explained the refractory period in biology. His version involves catching his breath and pulling me closer for another round.
My thighs are on fire, and I’m starving.
“Morning, pretty boy,” I murmur, aiming for breezy. “Santa bring you gifts last night?”
“Santa brought me a problem.” His mouth skims my temple. “You.”
