He’s thick and slick and throbbing, pumping himself as he straddles my thighs. One hand grips the base of his cock, the other braced against the headboard. His eyes burn into mine, locked there like he’s trying to brand this moment into both of us.
And then it happens.
He comes in thick, hot streams across my chest—long ropes of it painting my bare breasts, glistening on my flushed skin. His head tips back as a ragged moan tears from his throat, muscles flexed, abs tight, the most erotic, goddamn perfect thing I’ve ever seen.
I can’t look away.
My legs are still spread. My chest is rising and falling like I’ve just run a marathon. But I feel powerful. Wanted. Worshipped.
He finally meets my eyes again, still panting.
And I can’t help it—I smile, the words tumbling out of my mouth.
“That was so incredibly hot.”
28
HUNTER
Friends with benefits.
That’s what she said.
That’s all she wants.
And yet…I’m lying here, cock in hand, chest heaving, staring at the literal embodiment of my every wet dream in the flesh—naked, flushed, and marked with me. All I can think is,that?
That didnotfeel like friends with benefits sex.
That felt like soul-feasting, earth-shattering,life-alteringsex.
If this is what post-nut clarity is supposed to be, then all it’s doing isclarifyingthat I’ve got to fix the lie I told this woman—this sweet, dirty-mouthed goddess who just destroyed me—and figure out how to keep her.
Permanently.
"You okay?" she asks through a lazy giggle, her voice all honey and bliss.
"Yeah," I murmur, still catching my breath. "You look hot like that."
She’s reclined like a sin-soaked painting, flushed and glistening, hair a mess, thighs parted—still wearing a wicked grin.
And then, just to fully fry the last functioning cell in my brain, she reaches down and grabs hold of my dick. Gives it a gentle squeeze.
“Still some left,” she teases, watching as the last drops spill onto her stomach.
Holy. Hell.
I groan low in my throat, grinning like an idiot. “You’re trouble.”
“You like trouble,” she murmurs.
Damn right I do.
I slip off the bed and grab the a washcloth from her bathroom. Carefully, I kneel between her thighs, warm washcloth in hand, and start to wipe her down.
Slow. Gentle. Worshipful.
She watches me through hooded eyes, her lips parting on a quiet sigh as I clean her stomach, her thighs, and her breasts with reverence that borders on spiritual.
