His Forbidden Love (Manhattan Billionaires #2) - Ava Ryan Page 0,45

thighs around my waist. I enter her in one sharp thrust that makes us both cry out as though we’ve been shocked by the same bolt of electricity.

I tense as my head falls back and the pleasure washes over me in suffocating waves. She arches into me, imprinting my chest with the hard points of her nipples as her eyes roll closed. Her body is the absolute perfect fit for mine, made by the universe with me in mind. She’s snug. Hot. Creamy. If only I could grow another set of hands or two, I’d gladly hang on to her voluptuous thighs, ass, jiggling breasts and swinging hair at the same time. As it is, I hold her close with one arm and plant the other hand on the mirror behind her to support myself. I note with passing interest that the guy in the mirror bears no resemblance to the man I shaved with this morning. This guy? He looks as though he’s in pain, with a flushed face, grimacing mouth and eyes like the possessed.

But I am possessed, aren’t I? I’ve been possessed since the day I met her.

I begin to move in strokes that are focused and sharp. Relentless. She seems to like it, judging from her enthusiastic noises. When I find a spot that makes her yell a little bit louder, I stick to it. I take a fistful of her hair and pull it. I duck my head, find the sensitive tendon where neck meets shoulder and bite it. She squeals. Laughs. Frees up a hand to smack me on the ass.

The guy in the mirror is sweaty and red-faced now, clearly circling a heart attack if he continues at this rate for much longer. But I can’t stop. Can’t hold her tight enough. Can’t fuck her hard enough. Can’t get enough of her scent, the feel of her or her absolute abandon.

Most of all, I can’t shake the feeling that today, with her, I’m experiencing something profound. Becoming part of something extraordinary. And that maybe there was a secret part of me that knew it would be like this with Ally the second I saw her in those yellow scrubs.

She digs her short nails into my left butt cheek as she tenses, and her cries reach a high-pitched crescendo. The sound, naturally, gives me the minute push I need to soar off the cliff with her. Ecstasy slams through me, taking my breath with it as it goes. I stiffen and shout her name roughly a thousand times. I make sure to tighten my hold around her waist, because I need something to anchor me to earth as the pleasure takes over. I keep my face pressed to her neck, riding it out and murmuring God knows what to her in broken syllables.

And when I finally catch my breath enough to open my eyes and raise my head, I’m startled to see all the wild exuberance on the face of that guy in the mirror. The tears in his eyes? That’s more like it. Because this kind of unreasonable joy on the heels of a divorce is the most terrifying thing imaginable. And I already know that the excruciating pain I experienced when my marriage collapsed will seem like a bee sting compared to what I’ll feel if things with Ally don’t work out.

12

Ally

“I’m just going to, ah, run to the bathroom.”

The sound of Dr. Jamison’s—Michael’s—husky voice in my ear catches me by surprise. I haven’t quite caught my breath yet, nor have the aftershocks completely subsided. I’m floating in that glorious postcoital void where your body feels as though it consists entirely of glittering golden butterflies. My legs have taken possession of Michael’s waist and seem reluctant to let him go. Similarly, my throbbing pussy, satisfied though she is at the moment, isn’t fully prepared to say goodbye to his stellar dick.

On the other hand, my ass is starting to throb from sitting on the hard console, and I’m sure he’s ready to ditch the condom. So I release him from my death grip down below and unwrap my arms from his broad shoulders.

He pulls free and steps back, keeping his head ducked as he runs his hands over his face and through his rumpled hair before turning away. I watch him, wanting to say something airy and unconcerned. The kind of thing that Cosmopolitan magazine teaches sophisticated twenty-first-century women to say after illicit encounters like the one we just shared. Unfortunately, that