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“Nova,” he groaned, withdrawing completely and pushing back inside me. “Your pussy was made for my dick.”
I wholly agreed, wrapping my legs around him and grabbing his perfect, toned ass to take more of it. He began to pump in and out of me with calculating, even thrust, holding my gaze with an intimacy he’d never shown me before. I held him close, moaning softly every other breath.
“Say it back,” he commanded, pushing himself deeper.
My mind scrambled to find the meaning of it. “I was made for you,” I conceded.
He repeated his motion from before, hitting a spot inside me that me digging my nails into the back of his neck.
“My pussy was made for your dick.”
“Good girl,” he praised, picking up his pace.
He set a rhythm, fucking me increasingly harder and harder, causing the headboard to create a steady beat against the wall.
I cried out, his name, something between a moan and a scream, nonsensical words fell from my mouth. He pushed me towards a brink that promised an explosive rush of pleasure. Arousal spread from my thighs to his balls.
He watched my face the entire time, as if committing every sound and expression to memory. I flew apart beneath him with a sob, clawing at him as my pussy contracted and heat turned my bones to mush. He continued to fuck me, making me come twice more before he followed once, pumping me full of his come. The bed was ruined. The comforter had wound up on the floor, sheets were saturated with come, sweat, and our juices. Both of us unable to move much than into one another, we cuddled together, him wrapping his arms around me.
I curled into his side, swathing myself in the perfect remedy for my heavy, dirty soul.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
NOVA
Rhys busied himself with packing before the sun could rise in the sky.
Tripp had gone and successfully retrieved the flash-drive the day before, and now they had to go and return it. I for one, was happy to be sitting this adventure out. I had no interest in meeting the man my father had stole the thing from, consequently wrecking people’s lives.
On an even bright note, Rhys had been humoring me for the past twenty minutes, answering whatever question I threw at him.
“Will you be changing your persona this time?”
“No. I only do that for certain jobs.”
“So, pretending to be a murderous college-aged asshole is your actual job?”
He laughed, the carefree laugh that I adored from the first time I’d ever heard it.
“I am a murderous college-aged asshole, princess.”
“Quit calling me that. You know I can’t stand it.”
“You’ll learn to accept it.”
He emerged from the bathroom, black suitcase in hand, donning another white button-down and black slacks. I was beginning to truly appreciate this sexy, dangerous business-man side of him.
“Are you really twenty-four?”
“I’m twenty-six,” he admitted.
“Twenty-six and loaded,” I waved my hand around his bedroom. “How you get so rich?”
“How did we get so rich?” he corrected my grammar with a frown. “I’m a collector.”
r /> I looked around thinking he meant of art or something, but there wasn’t anything like that in the house.
“Of what?”
