Page 90 of Lucky Shot

“Lie back,” I tell him.

He lifts his eyebrows. “A woman who takes control. I like it.”

“A woman who wants to watch you come. And one who wants to take advantage of every single inch you give me.”

“Babe, I’m all yours.”

He lies back as I straddle his thighs but holds his cock in one hand to position it for me. There’s something about him like this, watching me, anticipating what I’ll feel like when I’m wrapped around him, when he’s filling me, that empowers me.

I line up his cock and sink down about an inch onto it. My body shudders at the sensation and my own anticipation.

“That’s fucking right. Christ,” he groans as he holds tight to his restraint. His free hand reaches out to dig his fingers into my hip and hold on like it’s his lifeline tethering his control from snapping.

I lower myself, inch by torturous inch, watching him the whole time.

His teeth bite into his bottom lip. The tendons in his neck grow taut. Both hands are on my hips now, and they tighten as they guide. His chest hitches and breathing grows shallow.

“Yes. Like that. Take that cock. Just. Like. That.”

I stop when he bottoms out in me. When the stretch turns to a burn and I feel fuller than I’ve ever felt before. My nerves hum from the crest of his cock hitting that rough patch of nerves inside.

“God. You feel amazing,” I murmur, lost in the moment and the sensations.

He reaches out, cups the back of my neck, and meets my mouth halfway as he kisses me again. This time though, the hunger is more intoxicating on his tongue, the desire more violent.

The action seats him even farther inside of me, but the kiss swallows my cry out in pleasure.

I’ve never been this turned on with so little foreplay before. I’ve always needed multiple points of stimulation—fingers or a toy working my clit while a cock works my G-spot—but not this time. Not with Hardy.

It’s like the weeks of sparring and staring and innuendos have been one long, extended bout of foreplay, and so I don’t need more now.

I just need him. The feel of his hips between my thighs. The roughness of his hands on my hips. The hardness of his cock inside of me. The all-consuming look in his eyes as if he’s daring me and begging me to finish this.

And I’m definitely willing to own that.

I begin to rock over him. At first, he keeps our kiss going but soon, it becomes too much to kiss and fuck at the same time. The pleasure is too intense. The bliss burns too bright.

I move over him. Up. Down. Grind of my hips. Then I start it all over again.

I slow down the pace. I pick it back up. I move and adjust to get him to be right where I need him—all the while his eyes are on me, and his hands coax me.

My body begins to sing with the pressure and the pleasure until the coil in my lower belly winds so tight I beg for it to snap. For it to singe and sear and ignite the million tiny nerves inside of me.

“Right there,” he says. “Keep going.” He groans and rolls his hips up to meet mine. “Keep your eyes on me. I want to watch you. Just like that.”

I begin to rock harder, needing more friction, needing it faster, needing it harder.

“Please,” I cry out. “Yes. There. Right there.”

Hardy tightens his grip and takes charge, pistoning his hips into me—over and over, harder and harder, faster and faster.

Lightning strikes.

“Eyes on me.”

The orgasm slams into me with a violence I don’t expect and a potency I can’t comprehend.

“Keep them right on me.”