“Colt!”
“Do you want me like this?” he asks huskily, his words hot puffs of air against my skin, his tongue flicking out to circle my entrance. “You want my mouth?”
I want anything.
I want everything.
“Honey, I?—”
He moves, his big body coming over mine, surrounding me in his warmth. “Or do you want me like this?”
The head of his cock nudges at my entrance and I shudder, arching my hips, trying to take him inside me.
But he shifts back.
My protest is loud.
So loud he shushes me again.
“If you don’t get inside me and fuck me, I’ll get so loud that Blake will—” I break off on a moan as he pushes in, stretching me wide, wider than normal in this position.
“Threats, starfire.” Teeth on the shell of my ear. “You play dirty.”
“I—”
But I can’t begin to know what I would have said. Not when he’s drawing out and pressing it back in and doing it in a fierce rhythm that means I have to brace myself on the headboard, that I can only hold on tight as he…fucks me.
A hand on my hip, the other shoved under the jersey to my front, cupping my breast, rolling my nipple and then I’m thrusting back, meeting his strokes, taking him as he takes me and?—
“Gonna need you to come, baby,” he rasps. “Like now.”
I’m close.
But I’m holding it back. Because this feels too good and I don’t want it to be over and?—
As though he knows exactly what’s going through my mind—and is going to allow absolutely no part of it—he dives his hand between my legs, works my clit with ruthless abandon.
I have no hope of holding back.
Then again, with Colt, I never have.
The pleasure flames over me, incinerating any of my control—my rhythm goes jerky, my cries grow in volume (in far too much volume), and my body isn’t mine.
It’s Colt’s.
It’s the pleasure he creates in me.
The joy and safety and love.
My arms give out and I fall forward, a flash of worry crossing my hazy brain—that I’ve messed up his rhythm, messed up his orgasm—but then his thrusts are increasing in magnitude, in speed, until the sound of our bodies coming together is all I hear, until his balls slapping against my oversensitized folds is all I feel.
Until—
“Oh, my God!” I cry as I come apart again.
And this time, it’s paired with his groan, his strokes going wild…and finally, he stills, collapsing on top of me.
“Sorry,” he says some time—it could be a minute, an hour, an eternity—later.
