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Dick hard or not, having this potentially last chance or not…I can’t do this. Not when she’s exhausted. Not when she’s been through too much.
“Don’t play the staid and moral hero now,” she murmurs, lips curving, eyes staying closed, hand lifting, pushing lightly at my chest.
I laugh quietly, remembering another time when she said that, another lifetime.
But I don’t move.
Which, I know, is why she pushes hard enough at my chest to roll me to my back.
Which, I know, is why she clambers on top of me, ungraceful for a change, but grace doesn’t matter one fucking bit when she’s grabbing my cock and lifting her hips, and?—
Thank you, hockey gods.
She slides my dick right inside that tight wet heat.
Her rhythm is slow and lazy and I’m on such a hair trigger that I want to grip her hips, coax her to go faster, to flip her to her back, thrust hard and fast and deep like a rutting animal.
But…
I stay there with her on top of me, the lazy and unhurried grinding killing me, but knowing it’s making her feel good, and that’s enough.
I can withstand any amount of torture for her.
Even leaving her.
Even hurting her.
A bolt of shame cuts through me and I almost push her off, almost run right the fuck out of this room.
But then she leans down, one of her palms resting on my chest, her other coming to my cheek. “It’s only ever been you, Stefan,” she murmurs.
And I find I can’t lie back, can’t be patient.
Not when those words sew themselves into my soul.
I buck up and reverse our positions, start pounding into her.
And…
She takes it. She loves it. Wrapping her legs around me in turn, meeting me thrust for thrust.
Clamping tight.
Coming apart, my name on her lips.
And…I stop thinking—or stop thinking of anything other than the feel of her pussy fluttering, the sound of her moans, the way her body feels beneath me.
And I let myself fall.
Twenty-Six
Brit
I should be sleeping.
I’m exhausted and pleasured and haven’t had nearly enough sleep the last few nights.
But instead, I’m lying here, my mind twisting.
