Shuddering, I let my hands come up to cup his shoulders where I squeezed him gently. Not to soothe, more for my own pleasure. Just to be able to touch him. To be able to be so tactile with him.
I had permission, free rein to hold him and caress him like I had in no other part of my life, and it felt good.
Fuck, it felt so, so good.
“Is this going to mess with your mindset for tomorrow?”
The suddenness of the question had me blinking when he whispered the words against my mouth.
“W-What?” I whispered back, stuttering because I wasn’t sure I understood what the hell he was saying.
It was like being offered two bites of heaven and stopping halfway through the first one.
I muffled a groan when he pecked my lips then pressed his forehead to mine. “Tell me to stop and I will. I don’t want to fuck with your head when you need to be in the zone for the race tomorrow.”
“If you’d cared about that, then would you have come at all?” I rasped.
“I care, I care so fucking much you wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he ground out, “but I’m a selfish bastard. I had to see you before I leave.”
My eyes flared wide. “You’re leaving?”
“Yes. No choice.”
My heart stuttered in my chest, and I hated that I had no right to ask why. To tell him to stay. That he had to stay for my final race. I had no rights at all.
Needing to avoid those thoughts, I closed my eyes and whispered, “Kiss me.” That was all the answer I was capable of giving.
He released a groan, then connected with me. This was the Adam I loved. He could be an ass, cold, unfeeling. Then he could make me burn, but he could also be considerate. He could stop, even though he was close to getting his way, and ask if my head was in the game.
I loved him for that.
But he had no need to fear, because my head was in the game. Always. Impromptu healing not included, of course. And the only way it wouldn’t be tomorrow was if he didn’t fuck me tonight. Then I’d be thinking about what might have been, and the last thing I needed was to be tossing and turning all night.
My hands dropped to his ass, and my fingers dug into the tense muscles. He was trim and lithe, lean and hard, and he felt fucking amazing in my palms.
He grunted as his cock rubbed against my belly, the silken feel of the Lycra yoga pants making him stifle a groan as he bent down and pressed a kiss to my shoulder, which was mostly bare except for the straps of my cami and sports bra against my skin.
“You smell glorious,” he whispered.
“I smell sweaty.” I’d just been doing yoga, for God’s sake.
He shook his head, his nose dragging along the curve. “No. You smell like mine.”
Then he spun me around and surprised the hell out of me by shoving me backward until I was pushed into the wall, not against the bed, but the wall.
With a moan, I let him drag my yoga pants and panties down, and didn’t care when he bounced back up and cocked my leg over his hip.
With him grinding into me, I released a high-pitched groan as his cock collided with my heat. The wet tip rubbing against molten hot tissues, flesh that needed him with as much hunger as he needed me.
I tilted my pelvis up and forward, rocking it so I could feel the friction, and even though he’d barely touched me, I let out a short, sharp scream as a small swell of release surged inside me.
“Fuck,” he ground out into my throat as he sucked and licked me there.
I didn’t care that live, on international TV, those marks might be visible.
I just loved the suction, the pressure, and with his dick against my clit, I had no choice but to drop my head back, to let the sensations flood through me like a river that had broken its banks.
When he notched the tip inside me, I didn’t even fight. Just used my angle against the wall to lift my other leg, and I half climbed him like a damn monkey as I took advantage of his strength.
He held me aloft easily, and now that I was in his hold like this, he slowly began to push into me.