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The chair isn't designed for two. There's no space for her knees.
But she makes it work. She presses her hands into my shoulders. Shifts forward.
Her cunt brushes my cock.
Her eyes fix on mine.
She drives over me.
Slowly. Impossibly slowly.
So I feel every inch of her sweet softness.
Fuck.
She groans as I fill her.
Her eyes close. Her head falls to her side. Her fingers curl into my shoulders.
So fucking beautiful.
So fucking perfect.
Then she shifts her hips forward. Just enough her clit rubs my pubic bone.
Just enough she drives me out of my fucking mind.
I keep one hand on her hip. Bring the other to her chest. Toy with her nipple as she rides me.
The soft circles she likes.
Then harder ones.
Again and again.
As she rocks against me again and again.
Fuck, that feels too good. I'm too close. And I need to make her come again first.
I press my hand into her back. Pull her closer.
For a moment, I soak in the feeling of her skin against mine.
Then I bring my mouth to her chest. Take her nipple into my mouth.
She groans as I scrape my teeth against her tender flesh.
"Fuck, Ollie." Her hand knots in my hair. She tugs as I do it again. As she rocks forward, driving her cunt against my cock.
Fuck, she feels good.
Like home.
She does it again.
Again.
Again.
Finds the rhythm.
The speed.
Exactly what she needs to move closer and closer.
But I'm a greedy bastard. I want more.
I bring my thumb to her clit. Rub her exactly where she needs me.
Her groan gets lower. Harder.
She's moves faster.
Harder.
A few more rolls of her hips and she's there.
She rocks through her orgasm, pulsing against my cock, pulling me closer.
Taking me deeper.
Groaning as she comes on my cock.
Her breath catches. "Fuck." She straightens. "That's… fuck." She pushes her palm into my chest. Rises off me. "Counter. Now."
Fuck yeah.
I follow her to the counter.
Bend her over the plastic.
She grabs onto the opposite edge. Shifts her hips. Offering herself to me. "Fuck me, Oliver."
No teasing, no testing. Fast and hard.
I hold her steady as I drive into her.
Again and again.
Until she's panting and groaning and writhing.
"Touch yourself, angel. I want to come with you." My fingers dig into her hips, holding her in place. "I've got you."
She nods. Slips her hand between her legs.
Then she's rubbing herself, her eyes closed, her lips parting with groan after groan.
I drive into her with those same steady thrusts.
Hard and deep.
Enough, she shakes against the counter.
Enough, her groans bounce around the room.
Closer and closer—
Then she's there, pulsing around me again, pulling my body into hers.
With my next thrust, I come.
I groan her name, my nails digging into her hips, my cock pulsing inside her.
Pleasure spills through my senses. Commands every ounce of my attention. That deep, perfect satisfaction. Only deeper and more intense than ever.
Because it's with her.
I work her until I've spilled every drop. Then I slow. Untangle our bodies.
Take care of the condom.
She looks up at me with a hazy smile.
I wrap my arms around her. Hold her until she melts into my chest.
I know better than to invite Luna to sleep in my bed.
But I do it anyway.
She knows better than to say yes.
But she does it anyway.
She brushes her teeth, washes her face, changes into one of my old t-shirts and a pair of my boxers. And she falls asleep in my arms.
It's too risky. It's stupid.
It's completely impossible to say no.
Chapter Thirty
Oliver
For the first time in forever, I sleep late. Wake rested. Easy. Peaceful.
It's a beautiful day. Blue sky, bright sun, soft breeze.
Morning light falls through the window, casting Luna in an angelic glow. With the short, silver hair, she really does look like an angel. Some spitfire pixie who takes orders from no one, higher power included.
Who is not at all interested in the task of saving my soul.
Is she?
That's a lot to ask. I'm not putting it on her. I'm not letting myself believe that's possible.
She's beautiful, smart, feisty, sexy as hell—
And dealing with her own shit. She isn't here to save me. I don't fantasize about shit like that.
Not usually.
Maybe it doesn't have to be black and white. I can lean on her sometimes. Talk to her. Listen.
Her chest rises and falls with her breath.
The breeze rustles her short hair.
This is the same Luna I've known for years. The fifth grader who rolled her eyes when I asked if she wanted to bake cookies.
Why? I like cookies because I'm a girl? I'll have you know I don't enjoy pastries of any kind.
The seventh grader who informed me I'd look much cuter if I wore tighter jeans. Baggy isn't your look.
The high schooler who showed up early in her homecoming dress. Trying not to cry, because she didn't want to ruin the day for Daisy. Because she didn't want to let her stupid ex-boyfriend ruin it for both of them. What kind of asshole dumps her the day before homecoming? She'd have worn a different dress if she knew she'd be single.
