“Oh,” I cried as he sank deep. “Yes. Please, Boone. Please.”
He fucked me slow and steady. Not hard. Not soft.
Just the way he knew I liked it.
My vagina pulsed around him and his perfect thrusts went jagged.
“Boone, I’m going to come again.”
Pounding at the door.
“Bartholomew Windsor, open this door!”
“Bartholomew Windsor,” I mocked. “Fuck your woman harder.”
His hands on my hips tightened, and he fucked me harder.
He did not, however, open the door.
He growled when I began to tighten around him. “There you are.”
I squeezed my eyes closed and screamed into the pillow.
My orgasm swept through me again, and I was lost.
So. Damn. Lost.
In his scent.
In his touch.
In his protectiveness.
He growled and jerked, and I felt the hot splash of his come filling me full.
He stilled, pressing deep, and I twisted my head to the side to draw a breath.
And saw his mother’s glaring eyes.
I turned away, not willing to lose the moment.
“Sweet Mary.” He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to my shoulder blade. “What have you done to me?”
“What have I done?” I giggled. “What the hell was that? No buildup? Straight to suffocation by pussy?”
“I was hungry.” He chuckled as he picked me up like I weighed nothing—I fucking loved it when he did manly things—and carried me into his bedroom.
Never once losing our connection, might I add.
He didn’t pull out of me until we were in the shower with the hot water streaming across the both of us.
“Fuck, baby,” he said. “What the hell did you do to me today?”
I turned and let the water soak my hair. “You mean the scaring the shit out of you while we watched Ida Bell? Or when I said that I was going to marry you?” I paused. “Should I get down on one knee since it’s me asking this time?”
“As far as I’m concerned,” he said, “we never got unengaged from the last time.”
He had a point.
