Hard Pass by Sara Ney Page 0,67

good—maybe I’ll even come.”

It would suck if she didn’t; no dude wants to bang someone and have them not have their own happy ending. “Do you want to get out and go to the bedroom? I have lube…”

Whatever she wants.

“No—don’t you dare stop.” Her head tips back, neck exposed to the delicious sunlight. “Feels so fucking good.”

Okay then.

I thrust, and thrust, and fuck her good, thighs pumping into her, water thrashing around us, her gorgeous tits jiggling—the sight of them is so goddamn sexy I want to reach out and touch them, but I can’t since I’m holding her steady.

“So good,” she groans, moaning. “Yeah, fuck me.”

Shit, Miranda is a dirty talker, something I never would have guessed.

“You like that baby?” I taunt, banging into her harder.

“Yes, your big dick feels incredible.”

Your big dick feels incredible—a sentence I’m likely going to replay over and over in my mind when I’m alone in bed later.

Or maybe I won’t be? For once, I’m not dreading the after.

The telltale sign of an orgasm tingles inside my balls and I can’t help but ask, “Are you close?”

Do not be the guy who comes before her, do not be the guy who comes before her, do not…

“Yes, but fuck me harder.”

Shit—how am I going to fuck her harder and not come until after she does?

I’m screwed—literally.

Somehow, I manage it. Fight through the intense vibration of her pussy clenching around me, fight through her loud, whiney “Oh god, oh GOD!” before bearing down and driving myself into her once, twice—then coming myself with a shudder far more dramatic than I’d prefer.

Like a damn amateur.

Miranda wraps her arms around my neck, kissing my shoulder, fingers at the nape of my neck playing with my hair.

17

Miranda

Noah is feeding me at the kitchen counter a half hour later, both of us dry, dressed, and tired—yet hungry enough for a late lunch. I watch as Noah fusses behind the door of a giant, stainless steel refrigerator, hauling out a bowl of cut-up fruit, turkey meat, and mayo for us.

For me.

“What are we doing with that?” I point to the mayonnaise, not seeing any bread hanging around.

“I just dip the meat in it.”

“Like—with a knife?”

“No.” He laughs. “Like a savage. You cool with that?”

His house, his rules, and I like both, so I lick my lips. “You’re the boss.”

He eyes me as he twists the jar lid off, muscles straining, drawing my attention.

I just had sex with this big, beautiful man.

Me.

Miranda Jane Pressinger.

It’s not like I haven’t had sex before, but somehow this feels different. Special? As if Noah and I have reached a new phase in our new relationship—an unspoken bond, an agreement after the drama happening the past few days.

I feel close to him.

Protective.

Glancing around, I do my darnedest not to gawk at his house, but it’s difficult. He is only a few years older than me and lives in a house he owns. Compared to my dinky apartment, this is a palace. Compared to any apartment, this is a palace.

Shiny stone countertops. Expensive stainless steel appliances. Expansive windows. Custom furniture. Miles and miles of hardwood floors.

“I also have some leftover pizza. Should I warm that up?”

Leftover pizza? “Um, that’s my favorite.”

He sets about tossing the slices on a plate, setting it in the microwave, zapping the cheesy goodness a few minutes, my stomach grumbling in the process. I content myself with watching him fuss, getting me a water with ice. Adding a lemon.

Adorable.

Melts my heart and I ask one more time, “Are you sure you don’t need me to help you?” My mother didn’t teach me to sit idly by while someone waits on me hand and foot, unless it’s at a restaurant, and even then, occasionally, I feel guilty.

“I owe you one,” he says simply.

“You owe me nothing.”

“After those articles came out—”

“Noah, that was not your fault. Those things they wrote about us were not your fault—or mine. You have to let it go.”

I have. Why can’t he?

“What is the point of staying upset about it?” I pop a piece of strawberry in my mouth and chew. “It will drive you nuts.”

He rests both hands on the counter, leaning forward. “Dwelling on things seems to be my thing.” He shrugs, standing up straight once the microwave dings. “I have a history of not…letting things slide. They…” He pauses again. “Weigh on me.”

I study him: his face, the determined set of his mouth, the frustrated slashes of his brows.

I want to tell him that worrying and letting things