“I want your fingers. Inside me. Now.”
A dark, satisfied sound rumbled in his chest. “Since you asked so nicely.”
He didn’t tease. Not there. One long, thick finger pressed into me, filling me in one smooth, relentless stroke. My mouth fell open on a silent cry, my breath catching in my throat. The sensation was so intense, so shockingly intimate, I saw stars.
“Oh, my…,” I choked out, my hips bucking against his hand.
“Tight,” he growled, his forehead dropping to my shoulder. He began to move, a slow, deep pump that dragged against every sensitive nerve inside me. “So fucking tight and wet for me. You feel that? You feel how perfectly you take me?”
I could only nod, my world narrowing to the feel of him inside me, and the coiling tension low in my belly. Then he added a second.
The stretch was too much; it was equal parts pleasure and pain that made me gasp. He curled his fingers, stroking a spot deep inside, and my legs started to tremble.
It was a brutal, perfect rhythm. In and out, his fingers fucking me while his thumb worked my clit in firm, circular motions.
His mouth moved down my jaw, hot and hungry, then assaulted my throat with open-mouthed kisses and gentle nips. Every bite, every suck sent another shockwave straight to where his hand worked me.
“That’s it,” he urged, his breath hot against my skin. His pace increased, his fingers driving deeper, faster. “Come on, baby. Let go. I want to feel you come on my hand. I want to watch you fall apart because of me.”
His words were the final push. The coil snapped, and a hot explosion started in my pussy and radiated out to my fingertips, my toes, the roots of my hair. My back bowed off the couch, a raw, broken cry tearing from my throat as I came, my inner muscles clenching and fluttering around his fingers.
He didn’t stop through. He fucked me through the pleasure, his fingers milking every last shudder, every last pulse of ecstasy until I was a trembling, oversensitive mess.
Slowly, gently, he withdrew his hand, and I went boneless against the cushions, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
He watched me, his eyes dark and intense, tracking every flicker of sensation that crossed my face as I came down from the high.
He leaned down and pressed his lips to mine.
“You are so fucking beautiful when you come,” he said, brushing a stray strand of hair from my damp forehead. “That was just the beginning, Harlow.” His hand, the one that had been inside me, rested on my thigh, his grip firm. “I’m not done with you.”
His phone shattered the moment, buzzing against the coffee table.
Owen’s head dropped to my shoulder with a groan. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Ignore it,” I whispered.
“I can’t.” But he didn’t move. His lips found the curve of my neck, pressing a kiss there, making my toes curl. The phone buzzed again, insistent.
“It might be important.”
“It’s not.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know I don’t care.”
His teeth grazed my collarbone. The phone went silent. For three beautiful seconds, I thought we’d won.
Then it started again.
Owen swore under his breath and pushed himself up on one arm. He grabbed the phone, and I watched his expression shift as he read the screen.
His jaw tightened.
“It’s Jax.”
Two words. That’s all it took for my chest to constrict, for the warm, liquid feeling in my limbs to crystallize into something cold and brittle. I knew what came next. I’d seen this movie before, the part where Owen remembered all the reasons this was a mistake, where the walls went back up, and he retreated behind that frustrating, noble sense of loyalty.
