Page 47 of On One Condition

“Now. Right now.” She writhes her hips against me so that my tip just enters her. “Please.”

Done.

With one hand on my cock and the other on the back of her neck, I hold her in place as I push my way into every glorious inch of her.

Jesus. Fucking. Christ.

“Ash.” It’s all I can manage before I brand my lips to hers in a piss-poor attempt to distract me momentarily.

It doesn’t work.

The taste of her.

The feel of her.

Simply put, her.

I begin to move.

Slowly at first.

The sweet push in. God, yes. The pleasurable pull out. Don’t ever stop. A thrust back in. Harder. A grind against her. Ledger.

Her mouth meets mine again. The frenzy of our kiss before has nothing on the violent desire this time. Her teeth nip and her nails scrape.

And I’m lost.

To the moment.

To her.

I dig my fingers into her hips to hold her still while I lose all control.

The pace I set is punishing and yet her murmurs, her moans, her tightening of her muscles around me, egg me on in a way I’ve never known.

My mind goes blank. My balls draw tight. My cock swells and hardens.

And for a few seconds, I’m in that tumbling freefall of pleasure that hurts so good it edges on painful as I thrust into her over and over and empty every last ounce of myself into her.

I’m exhausted. I’m exhilarated. I already want to do it all over again.

She’s like that first hit of cocaine. One taste, and you’re addicted.

That’s the only thing I can compare it to. Her to.

My forehead is on her shoulder. Her legs are wrapped around my waist. Our hearts beat a violent staccato against one another’s.

The rasp of our labored breathing fills the space, only second to the sounds of the bar filtering in through the locked door.

Fucking Christ. I try and shake the fog of climax—the haze of Asher—from my head, but I have a feeling she’s always been there somehow, in some way.

This wasn’t exactly how I wanted this to happen, a quick fuck in a bar bathroom. But I saw that asshole with his hands on her and then her anger toward me and . . . and then she kissed me.

I lean back, brace my hands on the counter on either side of her thighs, and look up to find her staring at me, expression hidden by the dimness of the room. It’s as if the sexual tension has been temporarily sated, and now we’re left in that awkward space where the past may be the past, but it sure as hell can’t continue to be ignored.

“Asher . . .” I don’t even know where to start. How to start.

Her smile is soft, but her body language reads differently. Almost as if she’s uncertain. Almost as if she regrets what just happened.