“H-holy—”
“There she is,” I whisper, kissing the hinge of her jaw. “My gorgeous disaster.”
She lets out a soft little whimper that shoots straight through me.
My thumb presses to her clit and she bucks into my hand.
Her breaths turn short and frantic.
Her free hand fists my stomach like she needs something to hold onto before she comes undone.
“Already close?” I tease.
She tries to glare but another moan interrupts her.
I smirk. “Yeah. You are.”
My pace quickens…deep, controlled thrusts of my fingers paired with strategic pressure that is not rushed, but deliberate enough to tell her exactly what I want:
For her to fall apart on my hand.
“Bryce,” she cries out, voice cracking. “Please.”
“That’s it,” I murmur. “Use your manners.”
She shudders, hips jolting as her climax hits hard enough to steal her breath.
Her whole body tightens, trembles, then melts around my fingers.
I work her through every second of it, slow only when she’s nothing but shaking softness under my hand.
Her breathing settles in broken waves.
I kiss her cheek, her jaw, the corner of her mouth.
“Morning,” I whisper.
She laughs. “That is… definitely not how mornings are supposed to go.”
“Oh? And here I thought orgasms were part of a balanced breakfast.”
She hits my chest.
Soft.
Playful.
Hopeless.
Her hand drifts lower, sliding down my abs, fingers wrapping around me… slow, confident, curious.
My breath hitches.
“Damn,” I mutter. “You’re trouble.”
She strokes once slowly.
Twice firmer.
