I nod, breathless. “More than okay.”
I reach down, guiding his hand to where I ache, my body already humming with anticipation. He presses his palm against me—firm, gentle—his thumb circling through the fabric of my bikini bottom, where I’m still wet from before.
“Does this feel good?” he asks, his voice low and rough, a sharp contrast to the tenderness of his touch.
I arch into his hand, biting my lip to stifle a moan, my composure unraveling. “Yes,” I breathe, voice trembling. “Right there. Don’t stop.”
He obeys, fingers moving in slow, deliberate circles—drawing pleasure from me with every pass, building a heat that spreads through my entire body.
“You have no idea,” he mutters against my throat, “how many times I’ve wanted to do this.”
“Me too,” I whisper, sliding my hands down his back, tracing the lines of muscle beneath his skin. I push him back slightly, straddling him, letting my palms roam over his chest—every tattoo a secret I want to learn by heart.
His hands grip my hips, guiding me as I move against him, the friction dizzying. Sparks fire through me with every shift, a slow burn threatening to become a wildfire.
“Tell me if this feels good,” I say, grinding down against him, breath catching when I feel him thicken even more beneath me—a hard, undeniable response to my touch.
He groans, head tipping back, hair a dark halo against the pillow, mouth parted in pure, desperate need.
“Fuck, yes,” he pants. “I want you out of this bikini. Now.”
His tone leaves no room for argument. And I don’t need one. I shimmy out of the bottoms and toss them aside.
He reaches into the nightstand and comes back with a condom, and the sight of that—his practiced confidence, the way he watches me while sliding it on—makes me ache all over again. “I’m also on the pill,” I manage. “So we should be safe.”
He kneels between my thighs, pausing just long enough to brush a hand down my cheek. “Still sure?”
“I will literally die if you stop.”
That earns me wicked grin. And then he’s pressing into me—slow, thick, perfect—and I can’t do anything but gasp. He fills me in a way no one else ever has. Like he was made for this. For me.
His forehead drops to mine. “Fuck. You feel like heaven.”
I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him closer. “Then don’t stop.”
He starts to move. Slow at first, savoring every drag, every grind, until I’m moaning into his mouth and clutching his shoulders like I’m drowning in him. The rhythm builds, deep and steady, until it’s all-consuming.
Every thrust drives the breath from my lungs, every whisper of my name in that raspy voice makes my toes curl.
We fall into a rhythm that’s equal parts sweet and filthy—kisses that linger, gasps between words, skin slapping against skin.
His hands pin my wrists above my head, the sudden dominance sending a surge of heat through me. I surrender to it, letting him take control—a decision that feels both terrifying and exhilarating.
“Do you like this?” he growls, his hips slamming into mine.
I moan, the sound ripped from my throat, my body tightening with need. “Yes,” I cry, voice breaking. “Don’t stop.”
He doesn’t. His rhythm is relentless, pushing me closer with every thrust. His name spills from my lips like a mantra.
“Together,” he commands, voice low and rough.
His thumb finds the swollen bundle of nerves between us, and I cry out, the pressure sending me spiraling. “Yes—Ash—”
He groans, hips stuttering. “Olive—fuck—I’m gonna—”
The climax hits like a tidal wave, pulling me under. I arch off the bed, screaming his name, pleasure unraveling me completely. His release follows, his breath ragged against my neck, our hearts pounding in sync—wild, frantic, connected.
He collapses onto me, his weight solid and grounding, yet oddly gentle. He kisses my forehead, voice hoarse. “That… was exactly what I needed.”
