“I want you to fuck me,” she says, her voice a whisper, her body trembling. “Hard. Please.”
I don’t need to be told twice. I grip her hips tighter, as I position myself behind her. I thrust into her slowly, savoring the way her body welcomes me, her walls gripping me tightly.
Her moans are muffled, desperate, and I quicken my pace, my hips snapping against hers. I reach around, my fingers finding her clit, rubbing it in time with my thrusts.
My cock is pounding into her with a rhythm that’s almost brutal. She cries out, her voice raw, her body meeting mine with every stroke. Her walls clench around me, her arousal coating my cock, and I know she’s close again. I lean down, my lips brushing her ear. “Let go, baby,” I command, my voice a harsh whisper. “I’ve got you.”
She shatters, her cries echoing in the dim room, her body convulsing around me. I hold on, my own release building, my thrusts becoming frantic as I chase my own edge. “Fuck, Olive,” I groan, my voice breaking as I let go, my cum surging into her, my body trembling with the force of it.
I collapse onto her, breathless, my forehead resting on her back, her blindfolded face turned toward me. The room is silent except for our heavy breathing, the scent of sex and sweat heavy in the air. I pull out slowly, her body still trembling, and roll us onto the bed, her head resting on my chest.
Carefully, I reach behind her head and loosen the blindfold.
She blinks in the dim light as I pull it away, her lashes wet, eyes glassy. I press a kiss to each fluttering eyelid.
“Hey,” I whisper. “You with me?”
She nods, silent, dazed, absolutely beautiful.
She’s got that look—the one she probably doesn’t even know she wears. All soft and undone and open. And I feel it. Right in my chest. Like something sharp and sweet just split me open.
I stroke a thumb across her cheekbone, then tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re incredible, you know that?”
I lean in and kiss her slow. When I pull back, I stay close, forehead pressed to hers.
And the words slip out before I can stop them.
“Let’s get out of here.”
She blinks. “What?”
“I’m serious,” I say. “Just you and me. Somewhere warm. Somewhere private. Call it an engagement moon, call it whatever you want—I just want time with you. No work. No obligations. Just us.”
She searches my face, like she’s not sure I really mean it.
But I do. “So?” I ask softly. “What do you say, Hart? You and me. Some sun, maybe a beach. No clothes required.”
That earns a laugh. A real one. It bubbles out of her, breathless and bright.
“I think I’d like that,” she says.
And I swear, I could kiss her forever.
17
OLIVE
Red Carpet
It’s the kind of weekend people write about in novels—lazy, sun-soaked, and soaked in other ways too.
Ash and I barely leave the house. We don’t need to. We order takeout like the responsible adults we’re pretending not to be—pad thai, dumplings, pizza, ice cream straight from the tub. He insists on feeding me the last bite of everything, grinning like it’s a love language.
The pool becomes our second bed. We float side by side, limbs touching, Ash occasionally dunking me just to hear me shriek. Then pulling me back, all slick skin and dripping hair and whispered apologies pressed into the curve of my neck.
And then there’s the sex.
Hot. Slow. Lazy. Urgent. Up against the kitchen counter while waiting for our food to arrive. In the shower after a swim. On the bed, in the bed, practically under the bed at one point when we somehow both fell off laughing.
