His forehead on mine. His breath on my lips. Eyes open. Both of us looking. Both of us staying.
"You feel so good," I said. The words inadequate. Everything I had was inadequate for this. "You feel—Liam—"
"I know. I've got you."
"I know you do."
The pleasure built.
A heat that started behind my sternum and spread outward—through my stomach, down my thighs, into my throat. His handtightened us. His strokes getting faster. His breath coming in short, ragged gasps that matched my own.
"I'm close," I whispered.
"Me too."
His eyes held mine. Green and dark and open.
I let go.
The orgasm hit like a wave break—sudden, total, annihilating.
My body going rigid against his, a sound tearing from my chest that I'd never made before—half his name, half something wordless. I felt myself spill between us—onto his stomach, his chest—warm and real and mine.
The sight of me—the sound, the heat—pulled him over. I felt it beneath me. His body arching, his grip tightening on my hip, his cock pulsing against mine.
The sound of Liam Moore surrendering everything he'd been carrying. The anger. The armor. The performance of not caring.
All of it. Gone. Spilling between us. Mixing with mine. The mess warm on his chest and my stomach and neither of us moving to address it.
I collapsed forward. He caught me.
Both of us breathing hard. Both of us wrecked.
My face in his neck. His hand in my hair. His heartbeat against my ribs—or mine against his. I couldn't tell anymore. Didn't want to.
I drifted off in the warmth of him and after sometime I heard him.
"We have a race tomorrow."
"I know."
"We should sleep."
"Yeah."
I giggled. Quiet, vibrating against his throat.
We cleaned up with a hotel towel and got under the covers.
I pressed my back against his chest. His arm around my waist. His semi-hard dick against my ass where it should be.
"Liam?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For sitting with me on the bus."
"That's what you're thanking me for?"
