This time, he doesn’t tease.
He seals his mouth over my clit and sucks—hard, relentless—at the same moment he slides two fingers inside me. The stretchburns in the best way, and he crooks his fingers, dragging against my front wall, finding a spot that makes my vision blur.
His mouth works me in time with his hand. Tongue flicking, lips pulling, fingers thrusting in a rhythm that tightens the coil inside me until I can barely breathe. The pleasure builds and builds, layer upon layer, climbing higher than I thought possible.
“That’s it,” he growls against me, the vibration shooting through my nerve endings. “Come for me, Josie. Let me feel it.”
I shatter.
The orgasm tears through me like a wave—cresting, crashing, dragging me under. I come with a scream that I’m sure the entire clubhouse can hear, my body arching off the bed, thighs clamping around his head, pleasure pulsing through me in endless, devastating waves.
He doesn’t stop.
His fingers keep moving, gentler now but relentless, wringing every last tremor from my body. His tongue laps at me softly, easing me down even as he stokes the embers for a new peak.
“One more,” he murmurs against my sensitive flesh. “Give me one more, Josie.”
“I can’t?—”
“You can.” His fingers curl inside me, finding a spot that makes me see stars. “You will. Come on, baby. Be a good girl for me.”
He works me relentlessly—tongue and fingers in perfect concert—and I feel the second orgasm building even as aftershocks from the first still ripple through me. It’s too much. It’s not enough. It’s everything.
“That’s it,” he coaxes. “Let go. I’ve got you.”
The second orgasm blindsides me—sharper, deeper, ripping a sob from my throat. I clench around his fingers, crying his name, my whole body shaking with the force of it.
He eases me through the aftershocks, his touch gentling until I’m boneless and trembling. Then he withdraws this fingers slowly—so slowly—and crawls up my body, pressing kisses to my hip, my stomach, the curve of my breast, my collarbone. When he settles beside me, he pulls me into his arms.
I can feel him against my thigh—hard, straining against his jeans—and I reach down, my fingers finding his belt.
“Your turn.”
He catches my hand, bringing it to his lips instead. Kisses my knuckles. My palm. The sensitive skin of my inner wrist, just above the cast.
“Later.”
“Boone—”
“Later,” he repeats, softer this time. He threads his fingers through mine, pinning our joined hands against his chest. “When you’re healed and I don’t have to worry about hurting you.”
“You won’t hurt me.”
His smile is crooked, almost boyish. “But I want to take my time with you, Josie. Hours. And I can’t do that while you’re still recovering.” He presses a kiss to my forehead, careful to avoid the stitches. “Tonight was about you. Let me have that.”
The tenderness in his voice undoes me more than the orgasms did.
“Okay,” I whisper. “But I’m collecting on that debt. With interest.”
“I’m counting on it.”
I lie curled against Stone’s chest, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my hip.
He makes a rumbled sound of contentment. I shift so I can look at him, propping my chin on his chest. In the dim light of the guest room, he looks softer than he does during the day. Less invincible MC president, more man who just spent two hours learning exactly how to make me fall apart.
“That was a supremely satisfied sound for someone who has yet to get off.”
He grins. “I have the taste of you on my lips, and the promise of more to come. I’d say I’m doing okay.” His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb tracing my cheekbone as he sobers. “I was an idiot, Josie. I’m sorry.”
