Page 83 of Dead Girls Don’t Forget

His breath hitched against my neck. "You keep doing that and I'm going to lose what's left of my self-control."

"Then maybe stop talking," I whispered.

My body already had ideas of its own. I pressed my thighs together against the ache and moved back against him again. His hand slid inside my shorts. I pushed back into the touch, making it clear I wanted more. His fingers found me easily, sliding through the wetness in slow circles that made my breath catch hard in my throat.

“You’re so wet,” he murmured, a low rumble building in his chest.

He dipped a finger inside me, then back to my clit, unhurried, like he was testing how far he could take me. I kept my eyes closed and let him work, floating in that hazy space between sleep and need. Everything felt muted and sharp at the same time.

“I need you,” I breathed, clumsy as I shoved my shorts down and kicked them off the bed.

He stilled for half a second, then pushed his boxers down. He settled in behind me again, the hard length of him sliding between my thighs, through the wet heat there. Each slow stroke brushed exactly where I needed him most. He didn’t push inside. He just kept moving like that — letting me feel every inch of him, making me ask for it.

I tilted my hips back, trying to catch him. He held still.

“Say you want it.”

“Jackson.” My voice broke. “Please. Fuck me.”

A low rumble answered me. He adjusted, found the angle, and pushed in. The stretch made me bite down on my lip as he filled me inch by inch, pulling me tight against his chest, his arm locking across my middle.

He started to move. Shallow at first, then deeper with every stroke. Soft sounds kept leaving my throat as his hand slid between my legs again, finding the same rhythm that made it impossible to think of anything else.

“I can’t get enough of you,” he rasped against my neck.

His next thrust went deeper. The hand under my head shifted, fingers finding my breast, my nipple tightening under his touch, while the other kept working between my legs in the same relentless rhythm.

It still wasn’t enough.

I lifted my top leg, hooking it back over his thigh to open myself wider. He took the invitation immediately, driving deeper. His thrusts grew harder, more urgent.

When his teeth closed gently on the muscle at my nape, something inside me snapped. My hips pushed back against him without thought.

He felt it. In one smooth motion, he rolled me onto my stomach, pulled my hips up, and slid back into me from behind. The new angle made me moan into the pillow as he drove in deep, one hand braced beside my head, the other gripping my hip to hold me steady.

His mouth found my neck again, a slow drag of his tongue before his teeth closed down.

I came hard, clenching around him, face buried in the pillow to muffle the sound.

He kept going, chasing his own release with rough, deep strokes until he groaned low against my hair and spilled inside me, hips locked tight.

Afterward he lowered himself over me carefully, then rolled us onto our sides without pulling out. His hand traced slow circles on my hip as our breathing gradually evened out.

I was almost asleep again when I felt him give a small, testing thrust, still half-hard inside me. A soft sound slipped from my throat.

“Go back to sleep, baby,” he murmured against my hair. “I’ve got you.”

I did, with him still buried deep inside me.

The next conscious thing was a phone ringing.

I was on my stomach now, Jackson half on top of me, still draped along my back, his face buried against the side of my neck. I groaned and shifted under his weight, not ready to leave the warmth of it.

The phone kept ringing. He stirred behind me, slow at first.

“Get your damn phone,” I mumbled into the pillow.

It had to be early. The light at the window was barely there, just a faint grey starting to bleed into the room.