Page 91 of Sweet Distraction

I’m stretched beyond full yet desperate for more. “More,” I moan.

He pushes a fraction farther. “There you go, Wills. There’s my girl taking me all in.”

My eyes roll back, and my lips part as the delicious burn intensifies. “Yes,” I gasp. “Please, yes.”

He withdraws, drenched in my arousal—the sound of it filling the room—then lifts my hips to accommodate another thrust. Then another. Each one stronger than the last. Each one dragging over nerves and gloriously fulfilling needs. Who knew I wanted that?

Sensations overload. The crest of his cock hitting that rough patch of nerves inside. The way his thumb adds the perfect friction to my clit. The feel of his strong thighs between mine. The absolute sexiness of his expression as he watches himself bury himself to the hilt inside of me.

I drown in the feel of it all. I welcome it. I revel in the sensations.

But they’re too much and not enough all at the same time. I want it to last but need it to hurry up.

“Please,” I beg.

He grips my neck and pulls me into a moan-fueled kiss that only pushes him deeper. “I need more,” I whisper. He obliges by fucking me harder, faster—our bodies slapping, his fingers digging into my hips, driving us both toward the edge.

The orgasm crashes through me with reckless abandon. There’s no other way to describe the blissful devastation it wreaks on my every muscle and nerve. My toes curl, legs shake, and pussy pulses as I cry out.

Yet he doesn’t stop, doesn’t pause this time around because he’s too busy chasing his own climax.

“Fuck,” he cries out as his hips jerk and body bucks. As his hands grip and eyes hold mine.

As the line has undoubtedly and pleasurably been crossed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Rocket

I wake up slowly.

Not from exhaustion. No, although my body feels used in all the best kinds of ways, but rather from replaying last night in my mind.

Willow standing before me, naked with those eyes of hers daring me to lose control.

The strangled moan she emitted as I pushed into her.

The sting of her teeth when she sank them into my shoulder as she came.

There was nothing calm about what happened between us. No careful seduction, no finesse.

It was hot and frantic and needy in a way that sex hasn’t been for me in . . . maybe ever.

Sex is usually pleasure. A guaranteed win. A reprieve and a reward.

But this? With Willow? Last night was hunger. Connection. Anticipation as a definite escape, but that held more meaning than normal.

And I’m not quite sure what to make of it. But one surefire way not to is to do it again.

My chuckle is sluggish as I roll over, ready to pull her into me again. Ready to lose myself in her again . . . except when I reach out, the bed’s empty.

No warm body. No long hair tangled on my pillow. Just the comforter folded back and an empty spot where she was.

Shit.

I sit up slowly, blinking against the sunlight bleeding through the curtain, and scrub a hand over my face.

I shouldn’t care. This is a classic Rocket Caldwell move—be gone in the morning to avoid attachment.