His thrust is hard. Unapologetic. Intense.
Absolute fucking perfection.
I’m pinned between the wall and Drake Bennett, and I don’t know which is harder.
My shoulders dig into the drywall as he slams into me again, as if he’s needed this as badly as I have. Each stroke is an intentional movement. Deliberate. Like he’s trying to commit this to memory through the fog like I am.
“Now this is cooperation,” I say, the sound coming out in small bursts around his thrusts. I leverage myself with my hands against his thick shoulders and tilt my hips to allow him to go as deep as he can possibly get. “Just like that.”
“You feel so good,” he says through clenched teeth.
“Give it to me harder.”
His chuckle is strained. “If I give it to you any harder, we’re both going through the wall.”
“I can afford renovations.”
Like the good man he is, he gives me what I ask for.
He drives into my pussy so deliriously deep that I cry out. My voice pierces the air as I squeeze my eyes shut, vaguely aware of the sound of my body colliding with the drywall. It’s borderline pain and pleasure, like I might be splicing into two, and the ferocity of the sensation makes me feel alive.
A painting crashes to the floor from overhead, sending thousands of tiny beads scattering across the hardwood.
“Don’t stop,” I say. “I didn’t like that piece anyway.”
He leans forward, capturing my lips with his, and kisses me like his whole life depends on it. Our mouths move together in slow, sensual movements like we’ve had a lifetime of practice. There is no learning curve; we’re in sync from the start.
“Bedroom?” He presses the words against my lips. “Which way?”
I motion vaguely to the right, moaning in displeasure as he slides out of me.
“I’m mad at you,” I say, locking my ankles around his waist and fingers working through his soft hair.
He smirks and carries me toward the bedroom. “If this is what being pissed looks like with you, I’ll endeavor to keep you madder than hell.”
“We could’ve been doing this for the past week, but you had to try to prove a point,” I say.
“Sometimes you have to sacrifice to—whoa.”
He stumbles over the cookie tin filled with buttons, kicking it across the room. Buttons fly everywhere like circular confetti. But as he regains his footing, he trips on a step stool—why did I not move it afterItripped over it?—and we go lurching forward. Drake holds me up with one arm and catches us against the couch with the other.
Impressive.
“Sorry,” I say, wincing. “The life of an artist.”
“I hope you have good insurance.”
I tug on the roots of his hair and grind my pussy against him. “If you were an athlete, do you think you’d have better balance?”
“Excuse me?” He laughs, starting down the hallway. “I am an athlete.”
“No, but if you were a real athlete. Take the last door on your left.” My hips roll. The head of his cock is right there, and if I move just right … “Could you pretend you’re an athlete again and run? You did run in football, right?”
He squeezes my ass until it stings. “Wait. Just wait.”
“I have been. If you make me wait again, it will not end well for you.”
His eyes blaze as we enter the bedroom. The light is on in the en suite, illuminating the room just enough to see. Drake marches to the bed and tosses me onto the mattress. He’s hovering over me before I’m settled.
