Page 63 of Hard to Score

And when I begin to move, that reality has never been more apparent.

Jesus Christ.

There is no beauty in our sex. No gentleness. No sweet words. There is only pure, unadulterated need. Only desire melding with greed. There is only hunger for more.

Just more.

Of her.

Of me.

Of us.

It’s her fingernails scoring my skin. It’s her teeth sinking into my collarbone. It’s her heels digging into my hips.

It takes every ounce of my control to hold on, to ensure she climaxes.

“Drew,” she pants as her breath grows shallow and her pussy tightens.

I pick up the pace.

“Drew.” Now a moan as her fingers grip tighter.

She emits a strangled cry as she locks her ankles above my ass and bucks her hips against mine.

I can feel her orgasm. Its tight hold around my cock. The way her muscles pulsate around me. The way her arousal drips down my balls.

And fuck. It’s enough to push me over the edge.

Not that it would take much though, because I was holding on by a very thin thread, and thank fuck it just snapped.

I lose thought. I forget about being gentle. I can only focus on the tidal wave of fucking sensation that’s so hot it edges on painful, and the only way to soothe its singe is to come. I thrust into her a couple more times before I lose all sense of reality, before I become lost to the moment.

To her.

And the last thought that crosses my mind before I lose myself to the madness she’s drawn from me is this—I understand it now.

I get why men would go to war for this. Over this. To save this.

With a shake of my head, I laugh out loud as I drag my lips over hers one more time before setting her down and stepping back to look at her. At her lips swollen, her hair wild, and her eyes alive.

And I worry at what lengths I’ll go to do the same. There’s something about Brexton Kincade.

And it scares the fuck out of me.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

BREXTON

I LOOK AT THE TEXT again on my phone and try not to be angered by it.

Drew: I have to cancel tonight. I’m sorry. Something came up unexpectedly.

I type my single-word answer and stare at it for a beat, grateful that tone can’t be inferred in a text. Or maybe I wish he could hear it. The disappointment. The sadness. The frustration. I glance around my living room—to the candles lit and the dinner being kept warm—and hate that I deflate before I hit send.

Me: Sure.

Drew: Thanks for understanding.