A soft, wrecked sound escaped her lips. “Yes. Yes, Dylan—please.”
He lined up and thrust into her in one slow, deep stroke that punched a moan from her throat. Her nails dug into his shoulders, mouth falling open.
“Jesus Christ,” he groaned. “You feel like heaven. You’re always so fucking tight for me.”
He pulled back, then slammed into her again, his hips snapping forward with a rhythm that made the kitchen echo with every filthy, wet sound between them.
She was whimpering now, chanting his name under her breath.
“Tell me how it feels,” he growled, fucking her harder. “Tell me who’s making you feel this good.”
“You,” she cried. “God, yes, Dylan—I’m so close—”
He reached between them, thumb pressing into her clit again. “Then come for me, baby. Right now.”
Her orgasm slammed into her like a tidal wave, body tensing, legs shaking around his waist, mouth open on a sobbed curse.
And Dylan watched it all.
Her eyes fluttering. Her body unraveling. Her walls tightening around his cock as she came apart for him.
He didn’t last much longer.
“Shit, Ali—I’m gonna—fuck—”
He buried his face in her neck as he came deep inside her, hips jerking through it, hands gripping her thighs like they were the only thing tethering him to the ground.
They stayed like that for a moment, tangled and breathless.
Ali ran her fingers through his hair, gently.
Dylan groaned, brushing a kiss to her shoulder.
Our Song
Ali
The smell of grilled steak hit Ali before they even rang the doorbell.
“Okay, but if I get trampled by children, I expect someone to bring me dessert in the hospital,” she muttered as Dylan squeezed her hand.
He laughed, kissed her temple. “Noted.”
Rocky answered the door barefoot, holding a kid upside down by the ankles.
“Heyyy! Look who finally made it! Come in, come in—Naomi’s threatening to burn the corn if I don’t help, but I told her the grill’s a sacred space.”
“Hi, Aunt Ali!” Zoey yelled from behind his legs, launching forward and hugging Ali’s knees before running off mid-giggle.
Ali blinked. “Did she just call me Aunt Ali?”
Dylan smirked, placing his hand on the small of her back as he guided her inside. “Yeah. Naomi started it. Figured it was easier than explaining ‘Daddy’s teammate’s girlfriend who he talks about constantly.’”
Inside, the house was full of warm light and louder laughter. Naomi waved from the kitchen, apron on over a tank top and leggings, a wooden spoon in one hand and a baby monitor in the other.
“You must be Ali,” she called. “Come in, sit, I’ll pour you something cold!”
Ali smiled, suddenly shy. “Thank you for having me.”
