Page 54 of Threaded Lies

My hips rock back and forth, pulsing around him, milking him, begging him for more.

More everything. Him. His cock. This moment. This feeling.

“Fuck, Row.” He leans forward as his cock surges as far as it can be within me. He rests his head on my shoulder, hands cupping my ass to hold me still, as he pistons his hips at a relentless pace. His whole body tightens. He groans out my name, his lips kissing on my skin as his own climax hits him.

We lie there, his weight on me and his lips pressed against my skin as our hearts decelerate.

This is so much more than sex.

The thought hits me out of nowhere as the orgasmic haze abates.

So much more than sex.

EIGHTEEN

Holden

Rowan walks into her family room wearing nothing more than my shirt. Her long, tan legs peek out from beneath it with toes painted red. Her hair is a mess and her cheeks are flushed, and I feel settled for the first time in what feels like weeks.

That’s what good sex will do for you, Knight.

But even I know it’s more than that. I might not want to admit it to myself but the lie lingers like the scent of her does on my skin. It’s undeniable and addictive as fuck.

I’m sitting on her couch with my pants unbuttoned, shirt off, and the taste of her still on my tongue.

Not that I mind in the least.

I study her. Her full lips. Her mussy hair. Her curious eyes.

“This doesn’t mean you’re forgiven, you know.”

“Nothing is as simple as that when it comes to you,” I say as she takes a seat on the table in front of me. My eyes are drawn to her parted thighs and everything the shadow of my shirt is hiding.

Everything I want to taste and then taste again.

She shifts and the ring on her finger catches light so that prisms dance all over the room. I narrow my brows, which must give her insight to what I’m upset about because she shifts so that her hand is resting between her hip and the table.

When I look back up, Rowan has her eyebrows lifted. “Yes?”

“Just thinking.” Get that fucking thing off your finger.

“About?”

“Chadwick Williams.” The words sound like a swear.

“What about him?” she asks beneath sex-drugged lids, and I forgive her for taunting me and dragging this on.

I’ll start easy. “Please tell me he wasn’t your first.”

Rowan stares at me with much the same expression I probably have right now and then bursts out laughing. “Who I lost my virginity to is none of your damn business, just like yours isn’t mine.”

“Penelope Piccadilly. I was sixteen years old, she was seventeen.”

“Piccadilly? As in—”

“Yes, as in Piccadilly Circus in London.” My smile is reminiscent. “We did it on her family room floor while her parents were on vacation.”

“If her parents were on vacation, then why not use her bed?” She chuckles.