My heart thunders against my ribs and blood rushes in my ears.
Every nerve tingles and flares to life.
So fucking close.
When it hits, it blindsides me.
My vision goes dark, then bright white as I drop my face into the pillow, my body pulsing and squeezing around him as he continues to drive into me, pleasure coursing through every part of my body as my knees tremble and threaten to give out.
He slides one hand around my stomach to hold me steady, but then his fingers slip lower and find my clit, swirling around it, dragging out the orgasm, keeping it going as he pumps into me like a madman and finally releases a strangled cry, coming deep inside me in hot spurts.
Fuck…
His fingers stop, my body sags, and I collapse forward, unable to hold myself up anymore. He pants behind me and reaches up to untie my wrists, letting me fall fully into the bed. He collapses behind me and moves my braids over my shoulder, pressing a kiss to the back of my neck.
My lungs burn.
Every muscle quivers.
My pussy spasms.
Gage drags me back against him so I can feel every inch of his body, hot and slick and still hard as hell pressing between my ass cheeks, those metal balls digging into my flesh.
He doesn’t say anything.
He doesn’t need to, because he just proved his point.
Letting Gage take control was fucking incredible…
And I hate it.
13
BISHOP
Most women would probably be thrilled to wake in the strong, tattooed arms of a man like Gage Newhart, who just fucked her into an orgasm-coma, but I’m not most women.
After everything he did to me, his hold on me, keeping me pressed against his body suddenly feels too restrictive.
Like I’m being suffocated by all the muscle and that spicy rich leathery scent.
Because you’re unhinged.
I let this man tie me up, but having him hold me after sex is enough to make my chest tighten painfully around my lungs.
Too close.
Too intense.
Too intimate.
It’s too much…everything.
There’s a reason I don’t do this. Why I don’t allow myself to actually care about anyone I’m with. Because it always ends up feeling like I’m going to implode with the weight of what that might mean.
Caring about someone means worrying about them, and I already have enough to worry about to fill ten lifetimes. Maybe twenty now that Satriano is back.
I don’t have room for Gage Newhart and his expectations of me.
