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“Please fuck me.” She closed her legs around his waist again, digging her heels into his ass. “Fuck me hard, Gordon, and don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
Satisfaction rocked him, and he thrust inside of her, finding heaven in one stroke. Without even pausing to savor the moment, he moved inside of her. Fast. Hard. Relentlessly. She was with him every step of the way, meeting him thrust for thrust. His balls tightened, threatening him with an impending orgasm, but he held back.
He needed to make her scream some more.
“Don’t you fucking come,” he growled, biting down on her shoulder as he fucked her. Reaching between them, he pressed two fingers to her clit and rubbed her, knowing it would make it even harder for her to hold back. “Not yet.”
“I…I have to…I need…” She punched his shoulder hard and choked back a sob. Hard enough to hurt him, even. He couldn’t help but be impressed. “God, I’m going to die. Please.”
He kissed her, not granting permission, yet increasing the pressure of his fingers with each stroke. The whole time he touched her, he fucked her in smooth, hard, steady strokes. It was torture, but of the best kind. The best he’d ever had. Tiny pinpricks of pain shot over his shoulders where she dug into him, definitely drawing blood.
He bit down on her lip and then pulled back, flicking his tongue over the gentle love bite. She whimpered and squeezed her eyes shut, ragged breaths escaping her.
“You want to let go?” he asked, pumping his hips. He lifted her up so he could enter her deeper, hitting her G-spot with the next stroke. She convulsed around him, punching his shoulders with both fists this time and releasing a big sob. “You want my permission to come, baby? All you have to do is ask me nicely, and I’ll let you. Go on. Ask me.”
“Can I come, please?” she cried, frustration and need ringing out through her voice with crystal clear clarity. “Please.”
“Yes.” He sank into her all the way, his fingers biting into her ass as he pulled out. “Right fucking now,” he demanded, thrusting into her hard.
She cried out and arched her neck, her mouth open in a perfect O shape as she climaxed. He moved inside of her as she came down, seeking his own pleasure. One thrust, two, and then bam. She grabbed his ass and smacked it hard, stinging like a bitch.
He came harder than ever before, stars exploding behind his closed lids, and he collapsed on top of her. “Holy fucking shit.”
She let out a small laugh, curling her hands around him and hugging him close. “Yeah. Very much so.”
When she closed her arms around him, holding him close, that weird feeling in his chest struck again. Something that felt a lot like…happiness.
Which didn’t make any sense. Hell, he barely even knew her. He should be satisfied. Tired. Replete. But not fucking happy to be held by her.
That was dangerous, enemy territory, right there.
One night. One fun, amazing session of sex, was all they’d agreed upon. No matter how wonderful it had felt, it was all he was going to get from her. Easy. No strings. No feelings. No happiness.
Gritting his teeth, he pushed off of her and crossed the room to the adjoining bathroom. Once he stepped foot inside, he closed the door firmly behind him. While glaring at himself in the mirror, he dropped the condom in the bathroom trash.
Shaking his head, he muttered, “Keep your shit together, Waybrook.”
The scar on his shoulder, where he’d been shot and almost killed, drew his eye. That was life. You lived. You fought. You died. No one remembered you after you left.
Especially not pretty little princesses with the world at their fingertips.
Chapter Six
The next morning, Isabelle woke up alone, and her dress was folded neatly on the foot of the bed. Her shoes were lined up by the door, her underthings were set neatly beside her dress…and Gordon was nowhere to be seen. After they’d made love three times last night, he’d behaved completely normal.
The domineering man he’d proven to be in the bedroom had given away to the charming, cocky one she’d come to know so well. He’d even curled up with her in bed and slept beside her. Or…she thought he had, anyway.
Had he snuck out of bed last night?
The door opened, and there was a scuffling sound. “No! Don’t go in—”
A woof sounded, followed by a ball of brown and white fur flying across the room. Isabelle barely had time to yank the comforter up to her chin before a vibrating furball leaped onto the bed, and landed directly on her stomach.
She let out an undignified, “Oof.”
Gordon bolted across the room. He wore a pair of dark blue jeans and nothing else. The sun was starting to rise, so it silhouetted his perfect body quite…well, perfectly. “Georgie—bad boy!”
“Georgie?” Isabelle asked, choking on the name. The dog—Gordon’s dog, the man she’d slept with—shared the same name as the man her parents wanted her to marry? The irony was too much. “That’s his name?”
