34
Robyn
My knees are at my ears.
I didn’t know I had this kind of flexibility, but here we are. Ridge is above me, and the headboard has been slamming against the wall for so long that I’m certain there’s a permanent dent in the plaster. I’ll need to send my neighbors a fruit basket or something.
All I can think about is my orgasm…my third one for the night. He’s been relentless. There’s no other word for it. Whatever happened to him today, whatever stress he carried through my front door, he’s working it out of his system one orgasm at a time, and I’m reaping the benefits in ways I didn’t think possible. His hips snap forward, hitting that perfect angle, and I make a sound from deep inside.
Everything inside me draws tight and then tighter still. My eyes go wide, and the air seizes in my lungs.
Then my body lets go, and all at once, muscles convulsing around him in waves. I shout his name, my nails digging into his back. He groans, getting that look in his eyes I’ve come to know.Then he growls my name, and I swear my orgasm surges all over again.
My heels dig into his back. I thrust up, meeting him halfway.
He holds himself up on his elbows. His eyes go slitted, and the muscles on either side of his neck stand out.
He’s beautiful as he comes. He’s just plain beautiful in every masculine way imaginable.
He keeps moving, gentler now, working me through the aftershocks until I’m shaking.
Then he leans in and kisses me softly. I cup his face, kissing him back. Some of his weight is pressing down on me.
Then he shifts off me, gripping my hips and flipping me over.
I throw a hand up between us, gasping. “Two minutes.”
I laugh.
He does too, and rolls off me. I let my legs collapse onto the mattress and flop back against the pillows, sweaty and boneless and probably grinning like an idiot at the ceiling.
After a minute of heavy breathing, I say, “That was intense. Did you have a stressful day?”
“I really don’t want to talk about it.”
“Fair enough.”
We lie there in silence. I can hear his breathing slowing next to me, can feel the heat of him along the length of my arm.
“So,” I say, trying to fill the silence, “you’re nearly done at the hospital?”
“Yep.”
“And our arrangement will be over?” I sound wistful.
I cringe internally because that sounded like I was asking for more.
Was I asking for more?
Shit. I might be.
Please, God, don’t let him think I am.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I’m afraid so.”
“Do I detect a hint of disappointment?”
I want to kick myself. Why can’t I stop talking? What is wrong with me tonight? Multiple orgasms have apparently dissolved whatever filter I usually maintain between thought and speech.
