Page 12 of The Family Friend

Harriet doesn't stop. Her hand twists at the base in a rhythm that matches her mouth, slick, filthy sounds filling the small space between our beds and bouncing off the ceiling.

The single bathroom door stands half-open across the room. Everything else in this pressure-cooker attic stays quiet except us—the faint creak of the old floorboards under my shifting weight, the wet glide of her tongue, my own ragged breathing that I can't seem to control.

My fingers find her hair, threading through the silky strands, feeling the way she moves, the subtle bob of her head, the heat of her scalp against my palm.

She hums around me, a low, pleased vibration that shoots straight up my spine and explodes behind my eyes. My hips jerk once before I lock them down hard, muscles burning with the effort.

Can't wake the house. Can't stop this either.

God, I don't want to stop. If this is how I go, buried in her mouth while the lake laps at the shore outside, I'll die happy.

Her eyes lift to mine in the thin moonlight slicing through the window, pupils blown wide, lashes casting shadows on her flushed cheeks. That look—half challenge, half raw hunger—twists something deep in my chest and makes my cock throb against her tongue.

My pulse thuds in my ears, a deafening drum that drowns out everything but the wet heat of her, the soft press of her breasts against my thigh, the way her nipples have tightened into needy little peaks I can just make out in the dim light.

"Ride my cock, baby. Please."

The words fall out before I can cage them. Need claws at me, raw and immediate, scraping every rational thought to shreds until only her remains.

Harriet pulls off with a wet pop that shouldn't sound so filthy but does, a thin string of saliva connecting her swollen lower lip to the flushed head of my cock for one torturous second before it breaks.

She sits back on her heels between my spread thighs, lips shiny and parted, and smirks. Harriet looks flushed, her small breasts rising and falling with each quick breath, nipples begging for my mouth.

Harriet hooks her fingers under the hem of her nightgown. Cotton whispers as it slides up and over her head, the fabric dragging over her skin with a soft rasp.

No panties underneath. Just smooth skin and soft curves catching the faint light. My mouth goes dry, throat clicking.

My chest tightens with something sharper than lust, a decade of quiet longing crashing over me all at once. Harriet. My Harriet. How the hell did I get this lucky?

Harriet swings one leg over my hips. Her knees bracket my thighs, the warm, smooth skin of her inner thighs brushing against me.

She reaches between us, wraps her small hand around my cock—still wet from her mouth—and wedges it in front of her. The first press of her pussy against the head makes my jaw lock tight, her heat so scalding it borders on pain.

Goddammit.

The stretch is exquisite torture, her walls fluttering and resisting before yielding another inch. Every shallow breath she takes scrapes raw against my ears, her exhales trembling.

The heat of her pussy envelops me in slow, devastating pulses, her arousal dripping down my shaft in hot rivulets that make my balls draw tight. I fist the sheets until the fabric bites into my palms, knuckles white, every muscle locked against another savage need to slam upward and split her open in one brutal thrust.

Slow, Donovan. Don't you fucking hurt her. But Christ, it feels like every tight, rippling inch of her was waiting just for me.

When she's finally seated, her ass flush against my thighs, her clit grinding against my pelvis, we freeze. The faint creak of the mattress beneath us is the only sound besides the frantic hammer of my pulse in my temples. The burn of that perfect stretch radiates through my groin like liquid fire.

Harriet begins to move. Tiny, testing rolls of her hips that drag her swollen clit along my pelvis with every downward glide.

Her palms brace on my chest, nails biting crescents into my skin that sting in the sweetest way, grounding me while her brown eyes go glassy and heavy. I can't look away from her face—the way her lips part on every exhale, the flush crawling up her throat, the sheer concentration as she works herself on my cock.

Her pussy grips me so tightly. The bed frame only sighs beneath us. No telltale thump against the wall.

The restraint is driving me out of my goddamn mind.

I surge upright without warning. The sudden shift in angle punches a sharp gasp from her lungs, her walls fluttering wildly around me. My mouth latches onto the soft skin just above her left breast, sucking hard enough to bruise, pulling blood to the surface until I know she'll wear my mark for days.

The primitive satisfaction that floods me is almost violent. I switch to her other breast, tongue laving the stiff peak before I draw it deep into my mouth, teeth grazing just enough to make her arch and cry out.

"Heath."

Her tits fill my palms perfectly as I knead them, thumbs flicking the sensitive buds until she's trembling. The motion grinds her clit harder against me, and her pace fractures—hips snapping faster, chasing the friction.