Judging by his uneven breathing, I wonder if I already am.
“Just like that,” I urge as he picks up speed.
Sweat mists our skin.
Soon, the pleasure sweeps in, full and angry and too all-consuming to speak.
There’s no sense that isn’t dominated by him as he works deeper, faster, harder.
There’s no nerve untouched as he makes me feel his power, his lust, animalistic and so intense I come again shamefully fast.
I’m barely coming down, lost in sex, feeling him using me like his personal toy.
There’s just his hand in my hair, his cock pounding, and the loud, pained creak of the sofa as we almost break the thing.
No regrets.
As his hips punch faster, his free hand finds my clit. The movements are clumsy but still unspeakably good.
Another orgasm sweeps in, choking off my breath.
Because all it takes is that rough pressure to send me spiraling over the edge.
I spasm, convulse, and sputter.
And he holds me steady, never letting up his relentless rhythm, chasing my climax with more sensation. I hardly know where he begins and I end.
I just know I don’t want it any other way.
“Lena,” he gasps.
Then he stiffens, his thrusts turning wild, erratic, and I’m holding my breath.
I arch my back with a shuddering scream as he empties himself inside me.
I spend the night at Brady’s.
Good thing, too, or I would’ve passed out before I ever made it home.
That was always his plan, I suppose, but after our sex marathon on the couch and again in the shower before we finished in his bed, it didn’t feel right turning down warm sheets made like an Egyptian cotton cloud.
Also, if I went back to my house, I’d have to face Harry thoughts again, and who wants that?
Brady turned my insides into soup, and I was perfectly happy shutting out the world in favor of an escape.
Which he gave me.
Again and again and again.
By the time we finally emerge from his penthouse the next morning, I’m deliciously sore in a way I haven’t felt for ages.
He takes my hand like it’s a pure flex. And hell, after that, maybe it is.
The scary thing is that itdoesn’tscare me. My brain isn’t racing with worries or doubts as I hold hands with him while we enter his private garage to pick up his sleek white custom Range Rover.
No driver today.
Just us.
