Page 106 of Saved By the CEO

Andrew watches my face as he moves, like he’s learning me all over again in a different language. Every sound I make changes something in him. His rhythm. His grip. The angle of his hips.

I wrap one leg higher around his waist, and he sinks deeper.

The sound that leaves me is not dignified.

“That’s it, baby,” he whispers.

He lowers his mouth to my neck as his rhythm starts to fray. Not completely, but enough that I feel it. Enough that the bed shifts beneath us, that the sheets twist under my back, that one of his hands tightens on my hip like he is holding himself together by force.

I touch him. My hands move over his shoulders, down his back, feeling the hard shift of muscle beneath warm skin. When my nails drag lightly over him, his rhythm falters even more.

There.

I do it again.

A rough sound breaks from his throat, and pride, reckless and bright, blooms in my chest.

His mouth finds mine, harder now. Less careful. I meet him there, kissing him back with weeks of wanting, waiting.

His hand slips between us, his fingers finding my clit, and the first touch sends a bright shock through me. I gasp into his mouth.

“Is that good?” he murmurs.

I laugh once, breathless. “Stupid question.”

His mouth curves against mine.

The pressure starts building low in my belly. A heat gathering and gathering until I can’t focus on anything except the press of him inside me and the perfect rhythm of his hand. My fingers dig into his back. The headboard gives a soft knock against the wall, and a distant part of me hopes his neighbors are either asleep or extremely sex-positive.

“I’m gonna come,” I whisper.

Andrew’s breath turns ragged.

“Good,” he says, and the word sounds wrecked. “Come for me.”

That does it.

I break.

It rolls through me hard and deep, my body clenching around him as pleasure drags me under. I hear myself cry out, feel his mouth at my jaw, his hand on my hip, his body still moving through it, drawing it out until I’m shaking beneath him.

A few seconds later, his rhythm stutters.

He drops his face into the crook of my neck, and he comes with a broken groan, his body going tense over mine.

For a while, neither of us moves.

We just lie there, breathing.

His weight is heavy and warm on top of me, and I don’t want him to move. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Eventually, he shifts enough to keep from crushing me, but he doesn’t go far. One arm stays wrapped around my waist, his forehead pressed against the side of my neck.

“Holy fucking shit,” I whisper.

His breath tickles my skin.

“Yeah,” he says. “Holy fucking shit.”

TWENTY-SEVEN