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His head lifts and he presses his brow to mine. “Want me to fuck you into this wall, Lara?”
I nod, opening my mouth to lick at his in a tease I remember used to work for him. That answering groan says it still does.
And then he’s pistoning inside me, driving full-length again and again, faster and faster. Telling me how fucking good I feel, how he loves my body, how he can’t get enough. Each word taking me closer, ramping the tension higher, until I’m there.
I cry out, spilling a string of unintelligible sounds as pleasure seizes me.
“OhmygodBenyoufeelsogoodsogoodsogood…”
“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he groans a breath before his mouth slams down on mine, and he goes tense around me… gets impossibly harder… everywhere. And then, with a roar, he comes, rocking our bodies together through his release until we’re both still.
Breathless.
Sweaty.
Smiling into each other’s eyes, because even if it was only once… it was perfect.
12
Ben
Standing with my hand over the knob of my bedroom door, I roll out my shoulders and tell myself again, it’s not going to be weird.
So what if I woke up to the memory of her taste on my tongue and my dick so hard it took thirty minutes in an ice-cold shower to talk him down.
Talk. That’s all.
Bad as he wanted it, no way was I going to jerk off to thoughts of her after expelling the demons as thoroughly as we did last night. The whole point of fucking each other senseless was?—
Okay, the point was to prove that our memories had been exaggerated. And while I don’t want to say it to her face, that one’s going down in the books as an epic fail.
At least for me.
Being with Lara?—
I rub at the ache in my chest that’s been there since she moved in but grew like it had been rolling around in gamma rays last night.
I should have known that sex between us could never just be sex.
So why was I trying to convince us both it could?
I glare down at my junk to where Big Ben is conspicuously looking away. But deep down I know he’s only part of the problem. Not even the majority of it. And I don’t even want to think about the organ truly responsible for this shitshow.
Time to sac up.
I venture into the hall, listening for any hints as to where she is. Probably sleeping. But as I pass her room, the door is half open and her bed is already made.
But then I catch the quiet click of her keyboard and follow it to the living room where she’s sitting on the couch, working on her laptop.
She’s got a pair of creamy lounge pants on and a loose top in the same stretchy fabric with a wide neck that’s nearly slipped off her shoulder. Her hair is up in one of those sexy bun things women call “messy,” and from the dozen feet away that I’m standing, I can see a hint of pink along the stretch of her neck where my face was buried last night.
I gulp. She’s still wearing me on her skin.
Not something I’d normally get off on, but this morning… well, yeah.
I clear my throat like an ass and then jut my chin at her like an even bigger one. Fuck. Finally, I choke out a hoarse, “Morning, Elliot.”
Her mouth pulls to the side as she watches me. “I made coffee.”
