He drags the head of his cock up through my folds, nudging my clit, over and over, slow and maddening. I’m rocking against him within seconds, panting, my hands fisting in the sheets on either side of me.
It doesn’t take long before his big cock is coated in my juices, and I’m panting with need.
He drops the head back to my entrance and pushes in.
I cry out. Not from pain, though it’s a stretch. I cry out because he’s so thick and so hot and so impossibly there, and my body is trying to figure out how to take him.
“Breathe,” he tells me.
I start to pull in a breath when he thrusts inside me in one hard move that has me throwing out a punchy wail.
He stops, pausing a beat. My legs are still up, pushed back toward my shoulders by his hands behind my knees. I’ve never felt so open or so full in all my life.
For a second, neither of us breathes. Then he lets out a rough, shuddering sound.
“Fuck,” he grits out. “You feel incredible. So damned tight.”
Before I can say anything, he uses the tip of his thumb to rub on my clit in slow, easy circles.
“Keep breathing.”
I groan. Then he moves.
The first pull back punches a hard yell right out of me. The first thrust in is slow but deep, and he finds an angle that makes stars, moons, and perhaps even the sun pop behind my closed eyes.
I make these weird noises.
He hooks my legs up higher, over his forearms, and he starts working me in steady, deep strokes that have me babbling.
The headboard is knocking against the wall in time with his thrusts, and I’d be worried about the neighbors if I could form a coherent thought. My breasts are bouncing with every drive of his hips, and I watch his eyes drop to them and darken, and that’s when he speeds up.
He is gorgeous.
A wall of muscle and ink. The lines of his abs flex with every thrust, and a fine sheen of sweat forms at the hollow of his throat. His mouth is slightly open. His eyes are locked on mine like he can’t look away. The tattoo that runs from his pecs downacross his ribs is a dark, intricate pattern I want to trace with my tongue.
He looks like one of my book heroes. Like an actual, literal fantasy. And he’s inside me.
“Taking every inch. Such a good girl,” he rasps.
Oh.
Oh.
That shouldn’t do what it does to me. I’m a thirty-eight-year-old medical director, thank you very much. And yet I feel myself clench around him so hard he groans, and I feel that hot, tight coil start to gather low in my stomach.
“Say it again,” I whisper.
His eyes flash. “Good,” he grunts, “girl.”
I shatter.
The second orgasm comes over me like a wave I never saw coming. I arch under him, my mouth open in a silent cry; my whole body shakes as I pulse around him in tight, greedy contractions. My nails rake down his forearms. The headboard hits the wall twice as quick, and twice as hard, but I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t?—
“That’s it,” he pants above me. “God, that’s it, Robyn?—”
He pumps into me four more times, rough and fast, and then he drives deep and stays there in short punches. His whole body goes tight. A low, rough groan rips out of him, his head dropping back, his throat working. I watch him come, and it is the single most spectacular sight I have ever witnessed in all my years. The tendons in his neck stand out. His mouth parts on a ragged breath. His eyes squeeze shut, and his lashes look impossibly long against his cheeks.
He looks wrecked.
