Page 98 of On The Edge

“Mm-hmm.”

I yelp when his teeth nip my shoulder. “I need words, Madds. Yes, Cruz, fuck me with your hard cock. Yes, Cruz, give me every goddamn inch. Yes, Cruz, make a mess of me. Yes, Cruz, fuck me so hard that when I leave this room, all I can think about is being fucked again.”

His words . . . they’re like lightning in a dark sky—energized and electrifying. “Yes.” It’s hard to swallow over the desire and need that’s building. “Please.”

He pushes his way into me oh, so slowly. The testing of his restraint demonstrated by the tightening of his fingers on the column of my throat and the hiss of his breath.

“Fucking hell,” he groans out as he seats himself fully into me. The delicious burn of him fitting into me, stretching me is still present even after all this time.

A mewl is in my throat when his free hand grips the side of my hip and holds tight as he begins to move into me. Out of me till just the tip remains. Then back in again.

He’s the guilty pleasure I never knew existed and now wonder how I’ll ever live without. It’s his words. It’s his actions. It’s the feel of his cock teasing each and every nerve within. It’s the grip of his hands on my skin that say I’m his. That he’s mine. That he’s controlling every ounce of pleasure until there is no control left.

Just bliss.

Just him.

Just us.

Just the way we seemingly fit perfect together.

I’m completely aware that the only reason I’m afforded the time for these thoughts to hit me is because Cruz is being selfless. He’s taking this as slowly as he can—to give my body the time it needs to build my own orgasm—when I know he could push himself to the brink and be done without caring about me . . . as I’d grown accustomed to with my ex.

But I need him. Want him. Want to feel his desperation surge. His restraint snap.

I wiggle my ass against him, drawing a groan. “Yes, Cruz,” I utter, knowing his hand can feel the vibration of my words. “Make a mess of me.”

His chuckle has me tightening around him and the weight of his hand on my throat like a necklace growing heavier. “You sure? Once I—”

“Fuck me. Now. Hard. Deep. Just . . . now.”

And before I can even finish the word, Cruz slaps his pelvis against my ass, driving himself as deep as he can inside me until he bottoms out.

It’s heaven when he’s in me and hell when he pulls out. But he does it over and over, an onslaught of sensations I can’t imagine never knowing again.

Desire.

Bliss.

Undeniable pleasure.

He fucks me hard. Hips pistoning, hands tightening, and his own feral groan rumbling somewhere deep within.

My vision goes white. My body’s a mess of contradictions as my orgasm slams into me. Sure, I was expecting it, felt it building brick by brick, but I’ve never been so fucking turned on before in my life, and I can only surmise that is why.

Because it has nothing to do with the feelings rioting through me. The ones that have fluttered about every time our eyes have met tonight. The ones that just took fucking flight right along with that orgasm.

“Maddix.” It’s the sexist groan I’ve ever heard as Cruz comes. His hips jerk. His fingers tense. His forehead rests, landing in the middle of my neck as his ragged breathing fills the room around us. Our bodies are connected in every way possible—our hearts frantic, our breaths coming out in pants, our muscles pliant.

“Mine,” he murmurs and then presses his lips to the skin of my shoulder while my heart stumbles over that single syllable. “Just fucking mine.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Cruz

Maddix laughs at something someone says and it’s impossible to look away. Even standing in a circle with the who’s who of Hollywood, it’s Madds who holds my attention.

How the fuck can she not when what happened in the trophy room earlier owns my goddamn mind? How can it not?