Page 249 of Josephine and Clay

I peel her panties off. She’s wet. I can feel it through my pants. I want to slow this down, tell her how she smells like vanilla and summer, and that it’s fucking me up in ways I wish I had words for. But I can’t.

Her hands are everywhere, greedy, stripping me down before catching the waistband of my boxers and yanking until I almost lose my goddamn mind.

She’s all curve and muscle, pale skin ghosted by blue veins. She arches her back, feet digging into the sheets and dragging me with her.

I want to taste her everywhere. I want her to remember me under her tongue when the sun comes up, and we’re both too embarrassed to look at each other over burnt coffee. But right now she’s crawling up my chest, grabbing my jaw with both hands. I could spend the rest of the night exactly where I am and still want more.

She pulls me between her legs and fuck, I never want to be anywhere else. She’s leaking against my hand, slick and so, so ready. I press my thumb to her clit, slow circles, and she swears softly into my mouth. I do it again, just to hear what else she’ll say.

She’s a mess, nails leaving red tracks up my arms. Her pupils are blown wide, and all I want is to watch her come apart. Her hips stutter, and I slow down, pulling back just enough to make her whine.

“Want you to keep going,” she mumbles, voice rough. “Don’t tease.”

But the way she squirms tells me teasing is exactly what she wants. So I do. I drag my fingers through her, slow at first, then faster, thumb working circles as she bucks into my hand. She’s glaring at me, daring me to push her farther.

It’s too much; I’m shaking, everything from my shoulder down to the tips of my fingers burning with the need to touch all of her at once.

I move my hand lower, rub her clit with the pad of my thumb while my fingers press inside. Her heat sucks me in, making me see black stars at the edge of my vision. She hisses between her teeth, hips stuttering, then her hands flash up and grab my wrist.

“Don’t stop,” she gasps, “Clay, oh fuck…”

She shivers apart, legs locked around my shoulders, pulling me close like she’s drowning and I’m the only air. The sound she makes is half sob, half feral, and I have to fight every cell of my body not to follow her right over the edge. Her hips ride my hand through it, and the clench of her around my fingers is so strong, so immediate, that I could believe I was made just for this.

She sags against me when it’s over, kisses my mouth like she’s grateful, then licks the sweat from my upper lip. I want to say “I fucking love this”, but I’ve never been good at saying the thing I mean when it’s big and real.

Josie recovers fast as I crawl back up the bed and she pulls me down into another kiss. She pushes my boxers down the rest of the way, then grips me with both hands and just stares, like she’s memorizing me in the lamplight. The way her hand fits my cock scrambles my nervous system, makes me want to beg or laugh or drop to my knees in worship. She rubs her thumb along the shaft and spreads me slick under her palm.

“Never gets old,” she whispers. “You’re so fucking huge.”

I pretend to roll my eyes, but she’s not wrong.

I shift upright between her thighs and brace my hands on either side of her shoulders, and she uses one long, slow stroke to guide me to her. Then we’re both silent, just breathing in the ache. I have to grit my teeth so I don’t lose control and blow it on the first thrust.

She’s still, braced with her legs wrapped around my hips, waiting for me to move.

“Clay,” she begs.

I ease inside, inch by inch, letting her adjust, letting myself get used to the insane heat and pressure of her.

I can’t look at her for more than a second without risking total meltdown. My forehead drops to hers, sweat and messy hair, and we just breathe for a moment, connected all the way down.

She moves first. A little shift of her hips, the grind more than a thrust, and holy fuck, I feel it everywhere. She does it again, and then again, chasing the friction, her legs locking tighter around mine until there’s not a single centimeter between us.

I catch her rhythm, holding back for as long as I can, then harder, every movement wringing a new gasp from her lungs and a curse from mine. My hands slip down to her ass, palms fitting the round curve, fingers digging in just to keep myself anchored in reality.

She’s made for friction and hunger and wanting more. Each time I slam into her, she digs her heels in and drags me deeper.

We grind up against each other, sweat slick, shoving the headboard into the drywall. She bites my neck hard enough to bruise. I hear her swallow the sound it makes, like she’s stealing that pain just to keep the rhythm going.

I try to slow down. I want to make it last. I want to remember every second, the way her name tastes in my mouth, the way her body flexes and clamps and gives.

But that’s not the kind of story we’re built for.

Her hands tell the truth. Scrambling, greedy for more, clutching at my shoulder blades and the base of my skull, pulling me so close I can hear the grind of our teeth, the click of her jaw every time she gasps.

The pulse between us stretches tight, fragile as wet newsprint. My hips snap, and she meets me thrust for thrust, her spark catching on my every ragged exhale. The smell of sweat and vanilla floods the room, enough to erase every sensible thought I've had all day.

She smacks a hand to the wall for leverage and rides me down so hard I almost lose the plot. The headboard rattles with every collision, a frantic staccato counterpoint to our breathing. She claws my back and rakes her nails over old scars, new flesh, marking me up like she’s claiming salvage rights.