His liquid blue eyes came to me as he kept fucking me. “Do not come.”
“Come,” I hissed.
He pulled out.
“No!” I snapped.
He straightened, taking his feet and taking me with him, my ass in his hips, my back to his front.
I tried twisting in his arms.
Instead, I fell forward to the bed as Nick fell with me.
I tried to regain my knees and add my hands under me.
Nick used his weight to subdue me, his strong thighs to push between mine, and then he was filling me again, thrusting deep with me on my belly.
I stilled just so I could fully experience that beauty.
He didn’t still but shoved a hand under me, straight down, finger to my clit.
“Now you come,” he demanded in my ear.
I lifted my hips to get more of his cock at the same time I undulated them against his finger.
“Sebring,” I gasped.
“Come,” he ordered.
My entire body started trembling.
“Fuckin’ come,” he growled.
Shuddering under him, I came.
Spectacularly.
* * * * *
2:24 – Sunday Morning
Nick had me pressed against my car, one arm around me, his other hand in my hair at the side of my head.
“You’re a fuckin’ nut,” he muttered, looking amused.
“I am?” I asked, sounding confused.
“Olivia, you’re drivin’ home instead of sleepin’ in my bed and wakin’ up in a few hours on a Sunday, a day I think it’s a law is supposed to be lazy, which means I’ll fuck you slow then make you breakfast. And, just sayin’, I make fucking great cinnamon French toast.”
I’d had more than spaghetti from Nick, it had all been good, so I knew without a doubt he made great cinnamon French toast.
I also knew I wanted to taste it.
But what I knew most of all was that this was all I had left to hold on to in order to keep sane, smart and stay safe.
Leaving.
We could text. We could phone. We could make plans. I could eat with him. I could fuck him. We could chat.