Page 45 of On The Edge

“Christ,” I grit out.

“You have by the time I roll this condom on you to decide.” She holds up a condom between her two fingers.

She’s not fucking playing and thank fucking God for that because I don’t have enough sense right now to think straight.

She giggles again. The sound tells me she’s still drunk, but hell if she doesn’t falter rolling the condom onto me. “What’ll it be, Mr. Navarro?” she asks, breathless. “My pussy or your hand for relief? I know which one would feel better.”

From one heartbeat to the next I have her on her back. I’m mad. At myself for trying to be respectable and failing. At her for tempting me when she shouldn’t. For me fucking caving and wanting everything about her way more than I should.

So fine.

We’ll do this.

We’ll fuck out our anger, our lack of control over this situation, our goddamn desire, and get it out of our systems.

Just this once.

Just this time.

Our lips meet in a savage union of desire where I shut out all thoughts of right or wrong—especially at how this is going to be so fucked up in the morning. And I just get lost in her.

Her skin. Her taste. Her goddamn hunger.

We shift so that I’m on my knees between her thighs. Our hands roam clumsily, laughs falling out between rapturous moans. And when I sink into her, I almost come on the spot.

She’s so fucking tight. So fucking wet. So fucking everything, that I dig my fingers into her hips to quiet her movement so I can last.

Because on a normal day, that’s not a fucking problem. But with a shit ton of alcohol and what feels like a few days of foreplay mixed in, holding out is the worst form of pleasure-pain known to man.

“Relax,” I murmur as I strum a thumb over her clit, trying to give her something to soften her more. “You’ve got to relax, Madds, so I can fit as much of my cock in you as possible.”

Her legs spread wider. That’s her response. A mewled moan and glassy eyes on me saying she trusts me—a trust I don’t fucking deserve—before trying to give me more of her by widening her thighs.

Her arousal glistens in the muted light. It coats my cock like a candy I want to lick. That I want to savor.

“You’re gorgeous.” I don’t know where that fucking came from. But it’s there and I cover it up by leaning forward and pressing my lips to hers.

I don’t say shit like that.

Not during sex. Not like this.

But my lips meet hers and swallow her gasp from the action pushing me even farther into her. I slide a hand down to her ass to hold her there, and I begin to move.

Slow at first. Gentle. Trying to let her get used to my size. To the stretch and burn mixed with the pleasure. She throws her head back, exposing her throat. I run my stubbled chin over the sensitive skin there and she tenses all around me in response, milking my cock with the contraction.

It’s a stuttered groan on my part. A need to draw this out and rush to the finish at the same time.

My head dizzies. My pulse races. My balls draw tight.

And then I begin to move. Thrust after thrust, I piston into her. A grind of the hips. A pull back out so I hit her clit.

We do this dance. Over and over. Her body moving in tune with mine until the pressure builds and the pleasure grows. All I can see is the bounce of her tits as I slam my hips against hers. My name falls from her lips.

“Touch yourself,” I tell her. Fuck if I need to be turned on any more, but I’m not complaining.

An intoxicated Maddix Hart is an uninhibited one, and hell if it isn’t sexy to watch her teeth sink into her bottom lip as she rubs her fingers back and forth over her clit.

She’s a goddamn siren, and I’m about to crash on her rocks as she moans out—her body tensing and thighs tightening against my hips. Her pussy pulses all around me, wave after wave as I slow my strokes so she can sink into her orgasm.