His hands move to the waistband of his pants, unbuttoning them slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. I watch, breathless, as he pushes them down, revealing the outline of his erection, thick and hard, straining against his boxers. My mouth goes dry at the sight, and I reach out, my fingers tracing the bulge.
I push his boxers down, freeing him. His cock springs free, thick and flushed. I run my fingers along his length, marveling at the feel of him, the heat, the hardness. Ash hisses, his head falling back as he fights for control.
“Fuck, Olive,” he groans, his hands gripping my hips tightly. “You’re going to be the death of me.” His voice is rough, his breath coming in short gasps. “I need to be inside you, now.” His words are a declaration, a demand, and I feel a rush of anticipation, of need, that makes my core ache.
He turns me roughly, pressing me back against the wall, his body dominating mine. I feel the cold surface against my back, a stark contrast to the heat of his body. His hands roam over me, possessive and demanding, as he positions himself at my entrance. I reach back, my fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him close, needing his mouth on mine.
He doesn’t make me wait. With oneswift thrust, he fills me, his cock sliding deep into my wet heat. “So tight,” he murmurs, his voice thick with wonder. “So perfect.”
He begins to move, his thrusts slow and deliberate, each one sending waves of pleasure through me. I wrap my legs around his waist, pressing myself into him, craving more, needing more.
“You feel so good,” he growls, his voice hoarse with desire. “So fucking good.” His hands grip my hips tightly, his thrusts becoming more urgent, more demanding. I meet him with each movement, my body moving in sync with his, our rhythms merging into one.
My body tightens, the pleasure building, spiraling out of control. I cry out, my head falling back as my orgasm washes over me, waves of ecstasy crashing through me. Ash groans, his thrusts becoming frantic, his body tensing as he follows me over the edge.
I pause, notebook hot in my hands, pulse pounding.
I read it back once. My cheeks are flushed. And then slam the cover shut.
I amsonot okay.
I drop the notebook onto the nightstand and bury my face in a pillow.
He doesn’t even like me like that. He was just doing his job.
And I’m writing smut about him in my bed.
God help me.
***
The next day Ash and I are hanging out by the pool. The sun is warm on my shoulders, my feet are dipped lazily in the water, and I’m starting to think I might actually be relaxedfor once. Ash is sprawled on a lounge chair nearby—sunglasses on, guitar across his lap, a can of sparkling water balanced on his knee as he works on a song.
“Damn it!” he suddenly mutters.
I glance over. “You okay?”
He grumbles like an old man. “I’m fine. It’s just this song I’ve been working on. I can almost hear how it’s supposed to continue—it’s right there at the back of my mind—but I can never quite catch it. It’s been driving me mad. And now that I’m finally getting somewhere, I don’t have my notebook.”
It’s true. I’ve noticed him strumming the same line over and over, humming the same few words. You can’t rush music, I guess.
“Here. Use mine,” I offer, reaching into my canvas tote and pulling out a small spiral-bound notebook—the one I use for everyday stuff: lists, craft ideas, grocery thoughts, maybe a quote or two.
I toss it to him.
He catches it one-handed and starts flipping through. “You mind if I find a blank page?”
“Go for it.”
I stretch my arms overhead, the breeze cooling the strip of skin between my tank top and waistband, and glance over at him absently.
He’s still flipping.
One page. Then another.
Then he stops. He finally must have found a blank page. I’m nearly done with this notebook. I make a mental note to buy another one for my everyday use.
Out of the corner of my eye I see his body stilling, his brow lowered just slightly, his fingers frozen mid-turn.
