The slap of my skin rings out in my bedroom. “Try again.”
I lift myself to my knees, pressing against him. “I say stop.”
Before I’ve even finished saying thepof the word, he shoves into me.
“Fuck, you’re so tight.” I can feel Magnus shuddering against me.
“Mm, more.” I’m breathing hard now, my vision darkening on the sides.
“So demanding.” He sinks into me to the hilt, causing me to yell out.
His hand covers my mouth, pulling me against his chest. God, how big is his cock? I feel so full.
“Shh, I don’t want anyone coming up here thinking I’m murdering you.” His hips buck into me, making me brace myself against the headboard.
My hand starts pumping my penis, which is, of course, hard again.
He bites my shoulder hard. “I’m not gonna last, baby. You look too fucking good. You sound so good. Fuck, you’re mine. Mine, mine, mine.”
“I’m yours,” I groan.
And that’s what finally undoes the Flame. He bites me again to stifle the moan that rumbles out of him as his cock pulses inside me.
The pulsing feels so fucking good that I tip over the edge as well.
I collapse against the ruined sheets, Magnus’s 200-and-something-pound muscle barreling after me.
It’s quiet besides our heavy breathing and pounding hearts.
He rolls off of me, throwing an arm over his eyes. “Again.”
“No way!”
? ? ?
I pry my eyes open, feeling like I’ve just been run over by a truck. My room is dark, telling me it’s late morning. Magnus isn’t in the bed.
I look around, noticing his clothes are still strewn about my room. I pull on a pair of boxers and Magnus’s hoodie and step out into the living room
The condo smells like soap, old wine and… why can I hear Magnus swearing?
“Absolutely not,” Magnus is saying to something in the kitchen. “I pushed the button. You had one job.”
I round the corner and stop. He’s shirtless in low-hanging sweatpants and my robe thrown on open like a cape. He’s facing the espresso machine with his hands on his hips, looking at it like it insulted his mother. There’s a damp cowlick in his hair and a tiny smear of shaving cream on his jaw that he clearly missed. The cup on the drip tray contains one perfect, disobedient centimeter of espresso and a whole spill across the counter.
I lean against the doorframe and watch. He does not notice me. He’s too busy reading something on his phone.
“So you’re telling me I have to grind the beans,” he says, picking up the grinder like it might explode, “andtamp them, and then lock this thing—yeah, like that, look at me being a surgeon—andthenI press the button? Okay. Where do I sign up for your online course, Mr. Robot?”
“Tuition’s obscene,” I say, deadpan.
He yelps, spins. He tries to look offended and not busted at the same time; it’s adorable.
“You can’t sneak up on a man during delicate negotiations.”
“Were you threatening my espresso machine?”
“I was encouraging it through a growth opportunity.” He gestures. “It was a teachable moment.”
