“Give yourself a second,” he said.
“But I don’t want a second.”
He laughed low in his throat, this rough, rumbly sound that made me clench around him. “Fuck…let me look at you. Let me tell you what I see.”
My breath hitched as he just slightly thrust—just to get deeper, just to hold me closer, tighter.
“I see a beautiful woman who’s been taken for granted.”
He pulled out just to thrust in again.
“A fuckinggorgeouswoman who should get whatever she asks for and had a douchebag ex who didn’t deserve her.”
Thrust again. I moaned, sobbed maybe.
“A perfect woman who…” —thrust— “…needs to be fucked…” —thrust— “…licked…” —thrust— “…and filled all night and treated like a goddamn queen.”
I was going to cry. Not sad crying, not breakup crying. Just…no one had ever talked to me like that, not once. Dirty and perfect.
“Nash—” His name came out garbled and desperate.
“I got you, baby,” he said. “Gonna give you everything you deserve.”
Then he reached out and pulled me into his arms.
I didn’t know we got there…but somehow, I was in his lap now, setting the pace, his legs stretched out. My knees found the mattress and I sank down deeper. Nash moaned in my ear, his big hands on my back, keeping me safe.
“Come on,” he said. “Take what you want. You deserve it.”
I did.
Oh…I did.
I raised myself up…let myself drop, taking him fully. Did it again.
“Fuck, you feel good,” he groaned. “Can’t imagine someone letting you go.”
That did it.
Something cracked open in my chest — warm and aching and completely undone — and I stopped thinking about performing, stopped thinking about being good enough, stopped thinking about anything except the solid weight of him underneath me and his hands on my back and the way he was looking at me like I was something worth keeping.
I found my rhythm.
Slow at first, then deeper, chasing the feeling that had been building since the bar, since the barstool, since the moment he’d looked at me in the low light and saidyou look different than usualin that voice that meant something else entirely.
“There she is,” Nash breathed. His hands slid down to my hips. “That’s it, sunshine. Just like that.”
“Nash—”
“I know.” His forehead dropped to my shoulder. “Fuck, I know.”
I put my hands on his chest and pushed him back so he was lying on the bed.
Then I really, really took what I wanted.
I started riding him hard—one hand splayed out across his chest, the other in my hair, my head tilted back. I didn’t even look at him, just felt—felt the way he leaned into my pace rather than trying to set his own, the way he held my hips. His hands wandered up to tweak my breasts, hanging onto them when I squeezed tight around him.
“Fuck,” he cursed. “Your pussy is fuckin’ unreal, sunshine.”
