We just are.
TWENTY-NINE
BETTING ON OUR FUTURE
“Zach!”I shriek when his mouth latches onto my nipple and he sucks, hard, before biting.
Hips bucking in response, I sob as he jackhammers me into the front door.
My hands scrape over his scalp, brushing through the silky locks even as my nails burrow into the tender flesh, but I’m mindless to the discomfort I might be causing him.
“You feel like heaven,” he rumbles, pumping his cock into me.
I could be embarrassed about how much my tits jiggle, but he burrows his face between them and snarls with need.
Tipping my head back against the door, I let him have at me.
He’s angry—I get it. Tonight’s loss was a damn waste, and seeing as we’re heading into Thanksgiving, this was the last game before the holiday and the stands were busy.
A lot of people watched the Dukes suck tonight.
I’m used to comforting him after a loss, but this is the first time my body’s doing the job.
“This is so much better than beer.” I moan.
Unfortunately for me, he stills at my statement. Those jackhammer thrusts are no more.
Blinking at him, I keen, “Whyyy?”
“Beer?”
“Huh?”
“You said this is better than beer.”
I wriggle against him and dip my hand between us so I can strummy clit. He doesn’t stop me, just leans back as far as he’s able to watch gravity impale me on his cock while I flick my bean.
“Explain or I won’t start up again.”
Immediately, I clench around him. Only stopping when he hisses. “I have ways of making you move.”
“Yeah, no. What are you talking about beer for?”
“Normally, we get drunk when you lose. Tonight, we’re?—”
“Getting drunk on orgasms,” he inserts, nodding. “You’re right. Much better than beer.”
I whine, “Can you go back to fucking me? PLEASE.”
He grunts but, finally, he listens.
Moaning as I rub my clit while he hits all the good spots, it’s not long before I can feel that regular firestorm flushing through my system. My cheeks are probably glowing as I rock my head against the door, trying to hide from the tidal wave of delight that’s incoming, but there’s no shielding myself from this.
I cry out, hoarse and wretched and delirious and overwhelmed, butfuck, this feels too impossibly wonderful. Like flying without the risk of crashing.
When he finds his release, the volume of his grunts grow louder and the sheer rightness of our simultaneous orgasm is enough to make my breath hitch.
Still floating when he rests his head against my shoulder, I observe, “I’m beginning to understand. How do people get anything done?”
