His forehead drops onto mine. “Sloane.”
“Mm.”
I stroke slow, tightening at the head, where he responds most. He is hot and heavy in my hand and the way his whole body tenses when I twist my wrist is something I could get addicted to. He breathes through his teeth, clearly fighting the urge to finish right now.
“If you keep doing that?—”
“Right.” I let go. “Nightstand?”
He reaches across me, fumbles the drawer — pulls it too hard, catches, yanks it again — and the small embarrassed noise he makes is cute. He comes back with a foil square and starts to open it, but he’s too worked up and his hands are fumbling.
I take the foil square from him. “I thought hockey players were good with their hands…”
As he laughs, I tear it open with my teeth, because I have always wanted to do that and never had an occasion, and I roll it onto him myself, stroking down his full length, while he watches my face and his breath goes ragged.
“Lie down,” I say.
He lies down.
“I want you inside me.” It comes out raw, nothing careful about it.
His hands find my hips. “Say that again.”
“I want you inside me.”
I climb on top of him, my knees on either side of his hips, and I take him in my hand and line us up and look down at him. The whole time, he’s looking up at me like I’m the only thing in the room.
I sink down.
The stretch is —God.
It’s been a long time, or he’s a lot, or both, and I take him slow, inch by inch. As I breathe through it, his hands slide up my thighs and grip hard, his eyes not leaving my face, and when I’m all the way down, the fullness is so much I have to stop for a second.
“You okay?” he says, his fingers tight on my thighs.
“You could have warned me.”
“About what?”
“About what,”I say, and his whole face breaks open with a laugh.
His hands slide to my hips and I roll, turning the laugh into a gasp on both ends. His fingers tighten, and I plant my palms on his chest and start to move. Slow at first, finding a rhythm, rising until I nearly lose him, sinking back down until he’s buried to the hilt.
He lets me set the pace and watches me with this expression I have no name for — wrecked, wide open, nothing managed. His jaw is tight, his chest flushed, his stomach muscles clenching every time I sink down.
Then I shift the angle and gasp —there, right there— and he locks on it immediately.
He rises to meet me from underneath, his hips snapping up to match mine, and the new depth reaches a place that makes me dig my nails into his chest. Every time he hits that spot I feel it in my spine, in my teeth, everywhere at once.
“There—” I gasp, unable to finish.
“Yeah.”
“Don’t—”
“I won’t.”
He lifts a hand from my waist and brings his thumb to my mouth, and I bite the side of it. Then that hand slides down between us and his thumb finds my clit, circling while I ride him, and I can feel everything coming up faster than I can manage it.
