With a soft chuckle, I lean forward and kiss him. “Good thing we already said, ‘I do,’ isn’t it?”
“Too right,” he groans, his hands shoving into my pants to get at my bare skin. “God, I hate your fucking clothes right now.”
Laughing, I push my way off him. “Then let’s get rid of them.”
His eyes dark, he licks his lower lip as he watches me strip. “We should make a rule. No clothes in the house.”
Still chuckling, I nod at his gray sweatpants that do nothing to conceal his raging hard-on. “You’re breaking your own rule, then.”
He lifts his hips and shoves down his sweatpants, leaving his long, hard dick bare and ready for me. As he kicks his pants off his feet, he grips his cock at the base, thrusting up into his own hand, and I can’t help drooling at the image he makes sitting there, staring at me as I finish undressing, so hard and impatient he’s fucking his own fist. Sloooowly. Each stroke is agonizingly slow. He’s holding back, as evidenced by the set of his jaw and the way the tendons in his neck pop out.
Damn, he makes a pretty picture with that messy blond hair, those piercing blue eyes hazy with lust and longing.
“I love when you look at me like that,” I tell him.
“Like what?” he grinds out.
He knows how he looks at me. But he wants me to say it.
“Like you can’t wait to fuck me.”
He grunts, a low, sexy sound. “I’m hard almost twenty-four seven. I always can’t wait to fuck you.”
I grab a condom from the side table—no one comes over, so we basically have a stash in every room because he’s telling the truth about always wanting to fuck me—and rip it open. He holds himself steady as I roll it on, letting out a soft groan of pleasure at the feel of my hands on him.
Then I climb back into his lap, line myself up, and sink down.
Slooooow.
Just like he was stroking himself. I take my sweet, sweet time, savoring the stretch, the way he splits me open, the way his fingers tighten on my hips, and I know he wants to slam me down at the same time he punches his hips up.
But he doesn’t.
He loves this sweet torture as much as I do.
Once I’m fully impaled, we pause, both of us panting like we’ve just run a marathon. But we’re just getting started.
He breaks first. With his eyes locked on mine, he lifts me enough so he can start pumping into me. Still slow. Super slow. Deliciously, painfully slow.
I want this to last forever. But I also want him to speed up. It’s a dilemma, and there are no solutions. But even though I’m on top, I’m in no position to make demands. He’s setting the pace, controlling my body as much as his, and I cling to his shoulders, letting him take charge, loving our give and take, the way he follows my lead with music, and the way I can give up control to him with sex.
We’re a perfect fit. And now that we’re here, like this, with everything falling into place, I can’t imagine life without him.
Good thing I don’t have to.
His pace speeds up, and beautiful, filthy words start spilling from his lips. “You feel so fucking amazing. I could live and die happy if I did nothing but this all day, every day. I never want to stop fucking your tight little pussy. This pussy owns me. I can’t believe you’re mine. I love you. I love you. I love you.”
It’s a chant that never stops as he plows into me harder, faster, and all I can do is babble incoherently in response, my own arousal ratcheting higher with every thrust, every declaration of love.
“I love you,” I scream as I come, and he pulls me down, grinding up into me, his dick pulsing inside me in time with my own orgasm, my thighs shaking and my body slumping over his.
Sweet baby Jesus, this man might be the death of me. But it’ll be a fantastic way to go.
I’m back in Delores’s office a week later, still riding the high from the last show after Stephanie Fowler published her piece on us. Sure, it’s a smaller local paper, but it’s still good press. And that’s the first really solid good press I’ve had in way too long to think about.