Pinned. Helpless.
Exactly where I want to be.
This is what I've been missing my whole life. This power, this strength, this relentless energy that only comes from fucking an athlete. He's not just strong. He'sconditioned. Built for endurance. He can keep this pace up probably longer than I can stay conscious.
My head is bobbing back and forth with the force of his thrusts, and I'm struggling to stay upright, my hands scrabbling for purchase on his chest, on his shoulders, anywhere I can hold on.
The room fills with the sound of skin slapping against skin, my breathless moans, his grunts of effort. It's obscene and perfect, and I never want it to end.
I'm not controlling anything anymore. Not the pace, not the angle, not even the sounds spilling out of me. Ace has takenover completely, and all I can do is hold on and take it, let him use me, let him fuck me like he owns me.
"Yes," I gasp, the word barely coherent. "Fuck, yes. Harder.Harder. Just like that. Don't stop. Don't—"
He adjusts his angle slightly, and suddenly he's nailing my prostate with every thrust, and I'm gone. Lost. Floating somewhere outside my body where nothing exists except the pleasure building and building and building.
His hand wraps around my cock, and I nearly scream.
The dual sensation of his cock inside me, pounding that spot that makes me see my maker, and his hand on my cock, stroking in time with his thrusts, is too much. Way too much. I can't take it, can't process it, can't do anything but feel.
"Close," he grunts, the single word taking visible effort, his rhythm faltering slightly.
That's all the warning I get before my orgasm crashes over me like a tidal wave, sudden and devastating, ripping through me with a force that makes my whole body seize up.
I come with a shout, cum spilling all over his chest, his stomach, reaching his chin, painting him mine. My cock pulses in his grip, wave after wave, and I can't stop, can't control it, just ride it out while he fucks me through it.
Through the haze of pleasure, I watch Ace's face contort, his rhythm stuttering, becoming erratic, and then he's coming too, his hips jerking up one last time, burying himself as deep as he can go, his cock pulsing inside me as he fills the condom.
I collapse on top of him, boneless and spent, my full weight pressing him into the mattress. I'm pretty sure I won't be able to move for a week. Maybe a month.
Which is fine. Perfect, actually. This is exactly where I want to be.
And just as I think I can't possibly feel any better, Ace's arm comes around me, holding me close, his hand stroking lazy patterns on my back—up and down my spine, over my shoulder blades, soothing and grounding.
His other hand threads through my hair, fingers gentle against my scalp.
We lie there, breathing hard, hearts pounding in sync, our bodies still connected, his softening cock still inside me.
I don't know if you can be addicted to a person. But if you can, this man is my drug of choice.
CHAPTER 23
DEVON
"NO." I PLANT my hands on my hips, glaring at Wall like he's just suggested we burn down the building. "The mistletoe goes by the door."
Wall crosses his massive arms, unmoved. "You want to ambush people the second they arrive? That's not festive; that's aggressive."
"It'sstrategic."
"It's annoying."
Becker appears between us, holding up both hands like a referee. "Guys, guys. You're both wrong. The mistletoe needs to be scattered. Create pockets of romance throughout the space. It's calledatmosphere."
I turn to stare at him. "Pockets of romance? What are you, an interior designer?"
"I have vision."
Wall sighs, looking at the ceiling like he's praying for patience. "We have two dozen mistletoe sprigs. We could cover every surface in this bar and still have leftovers."
