So sexy that she’s carrying my baby.
My bairn.
My kid.
Jeez, if I wasn’t already fucking her, I would want to fuck her ...
Her thighs wrap around my hips, urging me closer, her breath coming in short, broken gasps that only make me sink deeper intothis moment. My pelvis slams into her—the desk rattling—everything shaking. I watch as a pen rolls across the surface and falls off the other side ...
She arches into me, chest pressing to mine, her mouth hot and hungry as she chases the rhythm like she can’t get enough. Our kiss is a tangle of tongues.
Wet. Hot. Kisses . . .
Her boobs bounce as I fuck her, and I lean forward, pressing a kiss to her collarbone, then lower, unable to stop myself from brushing my lips over the curve of her breast. Her sharp intake of breath stokes something primal in me, like a lit match to gasoline.
Mine.
“I love you,” I groan, because I can’tnotsay it.
She tilts her head back, ponytail hanging down her back. “I love you too.”
I love you.
Love you.
Love you.
Every beat of my body answers with ayes, yes, yes.
Her hands grip my shoulders, fingers curling tight like she’s anchoring herself, like she needs to feel every inch of me pressed into her, around her,withher. I brace my arms on either side of her, my head dipping to rest against hers, and we move together in perfect, fevered rhythm—no hesitation, no holding back.
Fuck, she feels good; fuck, she feels good ...
The room filled with friction and breathless gasps. The creak of the desk beneath us. Things falling to the floor as it shakes.
The sharp sting of her nails on my back. The slide of her lips along my jaw, my neck, my name whispered like a prayer.
Callum.
“Callum,oh God, Callum . . .”
A fucking symphony. Music to my cock.
Every stupid thing I’ve done in the past and every woman I’ve banged that didn’t give a shit about me—none of that matters.
My eyes close as I thrust, entire body tingling. Balls. Legs.
We fall—together.
It hits me in waves. Every heartbeat pounding like a drum beneath my ribs. Her body softening against mine. Our chests rising and falling in sync, like we’re still finding the rhythm even now, even in the quiet.
The room is a wreck. Desk half cleared. Clothes scattered. One of her earrings glinting on the floor like a little silver casualty of war.
I press a kiss to her shoulder, her cheek, her lips.
Her smile is lazy and a little dazed.
“We’re gonna have to fix that desk,” she murmurs, breath still uneven.
