Page 85 of Over the Limit

His praise is music to my ears. It’s now that I go to work. With my lips and my two hands in a synchronized series of actions. A twist of my hand at the base of his shaft while my lips suck at his tip. Over and over. Then a deep swallow of his cock to start a new rhythm.

His taste owns me. His groans even more so.

And when he comes, when the warm spurt of come hits the back of my throat and his hands tighten in my hair, my own body aches with want for him.

“Blair. Now. Come here,” he demands and hauls me up to straddle him. His lips find mine. He doesn’t say a word about his taste being on my lips because he’s too damn consumed with the moment, with the desire coursing through him, and with me.

All he wants is to be closer. To feel me. To need me. It’s in his touch. In the hurried movements. In the repetition of my name as he holds my head still and kisses me breathless.

He’s hard again. I don’t know how. I don’t question it because he’s moving my pajama shorts to the side and urging my hips to sink down on him until I’m so full I can’t lower any more.

Jesus. Christ.

This man. He feels . . . incredible. He makes me feel incredible.

He grabs the globes of my ass and with his lips still fused to mine, urges me to move up and down.

To ride him.

To see how much more of him I can take with each and every rise and fall onto him.

It’s bliss. The slide of his cock over every sensitized nerve inside as I move on him.

It’s urgency. His fingers digging into my flesh, urging me to move faster, harder, to take him deeper.

It’s everything I didn’t know I needed and everything I’ll forever miss if I lose him. I grind over him as his tongue licks against mine.

It’s Lachlan.

Just Lachlan.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Lachlan

The early morning sun streams through her window and lights up her room. It’s a mishmash of the person I’m beginning to know. Sophisticated in the sleek power suits hanging in her open closet, but then there’s a stuffed unicorn taking up residence in the far chair across the room.

She too has pictures of her family in here but from what I saw last night, the only constant in them besides her are her mum and dad. Everyone else changes.

She has jewelry strewn across her dresser and just like she said, a hurricane vase is filled with corks and bottle caps. Are there any corks in there from our time together yet? Her hamper is overflowing and her bag from the last race is unpacked and tucked in the corner.

And then there’s a canvas propped against the dresser that catches my eye.

At first, I think it’s a painting she’s bought until I look closer.

It’s one of hers. It has to be because it’s our night at the golf course. The shooting star. The crooked tree we almost hit. The golf cart in the foreground with snack wrappers on the ground near its tires.

I’m not sure why seeing it is so satisfying to me, but it is. She paints things that make her feel good.

Isn’t that what she said?

My smile remains as I turn my head on my pillow and study her.

The bedhead with strands falling across her face. The lightest row of freckles across the bridge of her nose. The tan lines on her shoulder from her bathing suit. Those lips parted and full.

Jesus.

At the mere sight of her, every part of me wants, and I don’t know what to do or how to process it.