He moves faster, chasing the edge with no pretense of control. "Fuck," he groans. "Gonna come, Sophie. I'm—" He tries to pull out, but I lock my legs around him and dig my heels into his ass, holding him flush.
"No, inside," I gasp, clinging to him. "I want it. I'm on birth control."
He stares, wild-eyed, like he's never heard anything hotter in his life. "Goddamn you," he groans, making this sound that's so primal and possessive, it almost scares me.
He grinds himself so deep I swear he's in my stomach, and then he's shuddering, his whole body locked tight against mine as he comes inside me. The sensation is unreal—heat, fullness, a kind of tidal wave that leaves me even more desperate for him.
He doesn't move for a second, just clings to me, his breath rough and broken in my hair. His heart is a wild, heavy drum against my chest, the sound bigger than anything I've ever heard.
I cling just as tightly, terrified and elated and…perfect for the first time in my life. I want to say something, anything, but the words are jammed in my throat, crowded out by the ache in my chest.
He finally lifts his head, his lips at my ear. "Sophie," he whispers. It's just one word, spoken so softly it almost breaks me.
I squeeze my eyes shut to hide the tears welling there. My hands fist in his shirt, and I rest my head on his shoulder, not sure how I'm ever supposed to let him go now.
Chapter Seven
Harlan
Putting on a hot pink leotard is a special kind of hell. Doing it at five in the morning while a savage ballerina watches with a smile on her face is something else altogether.
"You're enjoying this way too much," I mutter, trying to make room for my balls in the goddamn thing. It's an impossible task, though. Either my shaft is crushed by the crotch of it, or my balls are twisted.
"Oh, I'm absolutely enjoying this," Sophie says, beaming at me.
My soul shrivels when she stretches across the bed to grab a shopping bag.
"What's that?"
"The rest of your outfit."
Fuck my motherfucking life.
"I'm going to spank you, ballerina."
"Big talk for a man with a wedgie," she taunts, one brow arched.
I swear to Christ, as soon as this is over, I'm fucking her through the mattress. I don't care if we break the bed. So long as she can't talk when I'm finished with her, I'll be satisfied.
She tosses the bag at me.
I don't know why I even bother hesitating. It's not like it's going to change whatever is inside the damn thing. It's also not like hesitating will change reality. And the reality is this: I'm not backing down. Not now. Not ever. Not even if my balls are being crushed by a hot pink leotard I borrowed from a Drag Queen I met at a sports store.
I reach inside the bag, my hand coming into contact with a lump of itchy fabric.
Oh, fuck my life…
"A tutu. Seriously?" I growl, yanking it out of the bag.
"Yes, seriously." Her gaze settles on my crotch. "I've been practicing in the ballroom on the first floor. You definitely can't wear just that all the way down there. You'll be arrested for public indecency and whatever it's called when your dick assaults everyone's eyes."
"It's called public indecency," I growl.
"No, this is worse," she says, shaking her head. "Your dick is right there. Like…right there."
She is so getting spanked for this.
"You aren't even hard right now."
