Page 46 of On One Condition

Ledger

I can’t say that I saw much of the inside of Connor’s as we pushed our way toward the first open door and empty space we came to, but I’ll thank who the fuck ever Connor is for having clean bathrooms and plenty of sturdy counter spaces.

Because the place doesn’t matter right now.

Only the moment does.

We’re on each other the minute the door slams at our backs, and I reach with one hand to lock it.

Our lips and our hands are in a battle to prove which one of us can claim more.

I’ve never felt like this before. The need. The want. The goddamn all-consuming desire. It owns me. It fuels me. It drowns me in everything that is Asher Wells.

The faint trace of salt on her neck as I lick my tongue up its line. The sound of her mewls as I grab her ass and grind against her. The taste of her kiss—it’s wine and hunger and . . . everything I craved but never knew I needed.

I pull her tank top up and one cup of her bra down, eager to feel her skin. Impatient to suck on the pink of her nipple and make her moan.

And fuck does she taste good when I dip my head and do just that.

“Ledger,” she begs between kisses.

My cock aches in that painfully pleasureful way where the anticipation owns my every action and reaction.

Her.

I just need her.

To be in her.

To have her.

To fucking claim her.

And when I shove my pants down my hips and she wraps her hands around my cock, my eyes roll back in my head and a groan falls from my lips.

Jesus.

If her hand on my cock renders me momentarily incapacitated, what is the feel of her pussy wrapped around me going to do?

“Asher.” A nip on her lips. Another step backward to the counter. “God, yes.” She strokes her hand up and over the crest of my dick, smearing the drop on the tip.

I’ve never wanted somebody so goddamn bad in my life and, as much as my mind tells me to slow down—to revel in the softness of her body, the curve of her hips, the high everything about her gives me—my libido says fuck that.

It focuses on the heat of her pussy as I slide my fingers under her skirt and between her thighs. Christ, she’s soaking.

It fixates on her heavy-lidded eyes locked on mine as she takes a step back with her skirt hiked up around her hips and one breast still exposed and shoves those panties down and off one ankle.

It obsesses over the scent of her—her flowery perfume mixed with her undeniable arousal—and I know from here on out, every time I smell roses, I’ll also smell her.

It concentrates on the way she scoots her ass back on the ledge of the counter, braces her hands behind her, spreads her thighs, and gives me the most beautiful goddamn sight I’ve ever seen. Asher Wells, open, wet, and waiting for me.

I slip the condom on without breaking stride, my gaze never leaving her—from her eyes firing with desire, to her lips bruised from my kisses, to the glistening pink of her pussy.

She’s fucking perfection.

And when she reaches out to grab my cock and guide it into her, I know I’m a lost goddamn cause.

Because one push in, the first sensation of her squeezing around me, and I won’t be able to stop until I’m panting and emptied.