The use of my actual name—rough, reverent—combined with the confession sends a fresh wave of slick rushing around him. I hum, the sound breaking into a higher-pitched moan when he shifts angle, dragging over that devastating spot inside me.
“Fuck—faster, faster, right there?—”
He obliges and then some. Thrusts turn fast, extra deep, hips snapping with precision that has my vision whiting out atthe edges. Pleasure coils tight and vicious; I come undone in seconds, clenching around him like an anaconda, milking him with rhythmic pulses that rip a guttural curse from his chest.
He follows right after, burying himself to the hilt and spilling hot inside me—pulse after pulse that I feel leak deep. He pulls out just as his knot begins to swell, denying the lock again.
But he’s not done with me.
Strong hands grip my thighs, and suddenly he’s lifting me higher—higher—until my legs are hooked over his broad shoulders, my back sliding up the tiled wall, core completely exposed to his mouth.
I barely have time to suck in a shocked breath before his tongue is on me.
He licks me clean—slow, filthy drags through my folds, gathering our combined release like it’s his favorite dessert. The flat of his tongue, the pointed tip, the gentle suction on my clit—every trick designed to unravel me all over again. One of his hands disappears between his legs; I realize he’s gripping his knot, massaging it roughly to take the edge off while he feasts.
I lose language.
Curses tumble out first—English, raw, creative. Then, as the second orgasm barrels toward me, my brain short-circuits into French. Full, fluent Parisian French—swearing, pleading, praising—spilling from my lips like I’m possessed.
He smirks against my pussy—I feel it—then seals his mouth over my clit and sucks just right.
I come so hard I squirt, a hot rush that leaves me quivering, thighs shaking against his ears. He groans deep, the vibration prolonging every aftershock.
I feel him tense—close again—and he starts to lower me carefully.
But I’m not having that.
The second my feet touch the shower floor, I drop to my knees on the warm marble, breathless, trembling, but determined. Water streams over both of us as I look up, open my mouth, and rasp, “Shoot here.”
His eyes flare wide. “Fucking beauty?—”
He fists himself, stroking fast and rough. Three strokes, maybe four, and he’s coming—thick ropes painting my tongue, my lips, streaking across my cheek. I swallow what lands inside, humming at the taste.
He doesn’t let me finish.
He hauls me up, both of us sinking to our knees on the shower floor, and kisses me—messy, desperate, sharing the taste of us between our tongues until we’re forced to break apart for air.
Water pours over us, steam thick as London fog, our foreheads pressed together.
I grin first, voice hoarse. “Think you’ll last until morning, big guy?”
He laughs—low, winded, utterly satisfied—and nips my bottom lip.
“Fuck yeah, Sweetness. Sunrise round’s already on the schedule.”
And somehow, kneeling drenched and spent in his shower, I believe him.
CHAPTER 11
Pancakes And Firefighters
~ROSEMARIE~
Iwake to thick arms wrapped around my waist, and for a blissful, drowsy moment, I forget where I am.
The firm warmth behind me is solid—immovable, almost—like being spooned by a particularly affectionate wall of muscle. There's weight to his embrace, a heaviness that should feel confining but instead feels like an anchor. Like safety. His breath is warm against the back of my neck, slow and steady with sleep, ruffling the fine hairs at my nape with each exhale.
I don't want to leave this bed.
