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I hit snooze, just in case.
I don’t have full wood, but I do have a semi, and the friction between our bodies from my movement increases my awareness of it. And of him.
An adrenaline pulse forces the age-old question: fight, flight or fuck? My heartbeat speeds up. I give his bare back the slightest brush with my hand, re-familiarizing myself with what it feels like to touch his very male body.
Admittedly, things got a little overly intimate this morning, and I’d gone a little soft for The Heir. But there is a sweetness behind all his taunts and snark that I don’t hate. My body doesn’t hate him either. If I ever manage to make the body-mind connection, I might be in some trouble here.
“You need to do something with that thing, Peach.”
His long, elegant fingers tense against my chest, telling me he’s awake and knows exactly what I’m talking about. “Like what?”
How the fuck am I supposed to know? “Why don’t you tell me what you want, and we can go from there.”
“Wanna fuck you,” he mumbles, turning to faceplant into my armpit.
My eyebrows lift. Yeah, no, I don’t see that happening. “What’s the next option?”
“Want you to suck it.”
“Next.”
“Just touch me, Drew. Fuck.”
He squirms against my side, really digging his cock in, his hips moving in short, upward thrusts.
“Are you a little fuckboy, Olivier?”
“No, that’s not how I currently identify.”
“How do you identify?” I ask, becoming more intentional with my hand on his back, slowly stroking up and down, fanning my fingers out over his ribs.
“Like a player. Most eligible bachelor. That kind of thing,” he says, grunting slightly.
“You feel more like a bitch in heat.”
“Valid,” he murmurs, continuing to thrust, dry humping my hip.
I slide my hand down to try something new. I clutch his distinctly great ass, finding it firm with some give—like a perfect peach.
And then I crack my palm against it once, hard, causing him to buck and groan. “Again,” he begs.
I do it until he stops asking for it, and when that happens, I jerk myself to the rhythm of his increasingly frantic humping.
It’s perverse what he’s doing. Needy and hot. It’s a simp move, and it’s getting me off, knowing I turn him on, too. Not that he’s ever led me to believe otherwise, but positive reinforcement has been hard to come by lately.
An intrusive and unwelcome thought has me jerking myself even more vigorously. Is he seeing Elodie tonight? Since he hadn’t gone out last night, I’m guessing yes, and I don’t fucking like the idea of it.
I get that I don’t have any justifiable reason to be jealous—I have a girlfriend, too—a real one, but she’s so intertwined with Manhattan for me, I wonder if I’m already writing her off as a loss since I’ll likely have no choice but to leave the city soon.
“Gonna come, Drew,” Olivier moans in my ear.
Jesus, his lips are right there, his hot panting breaths putting chills on my neck.
His nails dig into my chest as he works himself against me, and now that I’m back in the moment, I give his ass one more, unrequested smack.
He grunts, but this grunt doesn’t end in a short sound—it draws out into a long, agonized groan as warmth soaks my waist. “Unh, unh, unh…” he chokes out as he works himself through his release—the sounds so hot they go straight to my balls.
“Fuck.” I throw my head back and squeeze my eyes shut. “Want you to drink my come… I’m close… So fucking close.”
