She looked to him, mouth tight, eyes holding unhidden anger and frustration, both, he suspected, for herself but aimed at him for her mental health.
“You’re of my world. You get it.”
“I know of Tom Leary, Olivia,” he probed gently. “He’s of your world too.”
She gave a slight toss of her head that if their situation was not as intense as it was would have been fucking adorable. Enough to make him laugh or at least smile.
Instead, it just registered as fucking adorable, which was bad enough.
“He’s in my world. There’s a difference.”
“I get that,” he muttered.
She glared at him, too dignified to fight when she knew she was beaten.
He held her glare and it was fucking adorable too.
His eyes dropped to her mouth.
“Fuck, I want you to ride me hard right now.”
He watched her lips part.
His gaze cut up.
Anger and frustration gone, hunger all there was in her expression.
She felt him hard against her thigh.
And she wanted that too.
His hold loosened. “Climb on, Olivia.”
There was no war as to who would be on top, not this time. Necessity dictated she take the top unless he wanted her on the floor (and in that room he would absolutely not take her there) or again at the wall and he was in the mood to watch.
But they were them. The war was had, this being who got to pull and tug what piece of clothing on the other.
But he got her skirt up, her panties off and she got his cock out.
Then she got it in her.
She could have the top.
But he was taking control.
And he did. To her eyes widening, her cunt soaking, his hand fisted in her hair, his other arm around her waist driving her down on him as he thrust up.
He shoved her head to his, their foreheads colliding.
She held on to his shoulders, as he moved her on him, moving under her, Olivia bucking through the ride, their gazes locked.
“Sebring,” she breathed.
That was the first time she gave him that.
He liked his name on her lips when his cock was inside her way too much. So he angled his head and took her mouth.
They kissed.