Page 20 of Bound Hearts

“You like that, sweetheart? Watching me use your body?” I grit out.

Her lips part open in an O shape. Probably because of the way I talk to her, but there is something about her, and I let go with new hesitation.

“Don’t stop.”

A sheen of sweat begins to release as I continue to fuck her hard.

Her moans and my groans could probably be heard down the hall.

“So fucking good,” she mumbles as she presses the side of her face against the duvet.

When we both finally roar an orgasm, I’m not sure either one of us felt as though we still had our feet on this planet.

And that’s a pretty damn good way to spend the night.

We laugh as she digs a spoon into the tiramisu, still in its foil tin, both of us sprawled on my sofa. Her bare feet are tucked beneath her, arm draped over the backrest. My button-down shirt hangs perfectly on her—easy access, sure, but honestly, it looks like it was made for her.

“Thank you for pulling strings. This is a perfect addition to New Year’s.” She begins to suck the spoon, and it is a reminder of how talented her mouth can be.

I dig into a bite of coconut cream pie. We needed dessert options, so I ordered late-night Italian and snagged the last pie from the all-night diner around the corner. It’s New Year’s Eve—money opens doors.

For the past hour, conversation has flowed effortlessly—no awkward pauses, no need to think about what comes next.

“We also need replenishments,” I point out.

“That’s right. You are going to hold me captive here.”

“Nah, if I were to do that, then the handcuffs would have already been out.”

She laughs, sets down the dessert on the side table, and swaps it for the bottle of champagne I opened earlier. There hasn’t been any need to impress, only let go, and that’s why we ditched glasses and have been slowly drinking straight from the bottle.

Sutton lifts the bottle to toast while I set down my box of pie. “To your random bottle of champagne from somebody who was trying to get in your good books, and you just left it all alone in your fridge long ago.” It floats out of her mouth before she takes a sip, then hands me the champagne.

“It was a prize from a raffle at some charity event. Haven’t had a need to open it. Like I say, my place is… mine. Other than the occasional guys' night here, it’s a place where I decompress.”

“Sounds lonely,” she says simply.

“Nah. I’m doing fine.” I drink from the bottle.

“I get it. I do. I follow my routine, and having an apartment is a piece of that. Kind of like wheels turning, but I’m not a hundred percent sure where it’s leading or when. I mean, there are certain life events that adults think about, but I have time.”

“You do.” I sound absentminded.

Me? There are people who believe I have to check off certain milestones sooner rather than later.

She pokes my side with her toe, her eyes warm, lips pressed in an angelic smile. Fingers tangled in her messy hair, she looks effortlessly sexy. “Hey… what’s on your mind? Don’t let it get to you. This is your place to decompress, remember?”

My chin lifts slightly at the awe of her reading my mind so easily.

“If that’s the case, then I would say you in my bed is part of my relaxation space.”

She turns coy, mischief lighting her eyes as she takes the bottle from my hand, sips, then leans across to set it down—her body brushing against mine. She swings a leg over, straddling me, arms winding around my neck, our eyes locked.

“Funny thing. I’ll gladly be part of the equation, since you seem to have the same effect on me,” she whispers.

I rumble a devilish chuckle before she slams her lips on mine.

“Sofa then bed, I don’t care. I’m going to fuck you until you can’t feel your body,” I warn her before she purrs that agreement I love hearing.