Page 199 of A Million To Fall

Boston groans in response, his breath hot against me. He moves his hand between us, drawing tight, controlled circles over my clit.

I explode around him, pulsing, crying out his name as the orgasm rips through me in waves. Boston’s right there with me, hips stuttering, thrusts going shallow as he spills into me with a low, drawn-out curse.

We stay here for a long moment, our bodies still joined, breaths still uneven, my body humming with aftershocks. When my heart rate settles, I pull back, looking at him. At the way his chest rises and falls, the light sheen of sweat and steam making his skin glisten. The way his eyes stay closed, lips parted like he’s trying to catch up with his own body.

My gaze drops, trailing the lines of his still-taut muscles.

And then I notice. My brows knit slightly, confusion flickering through me.

“Oh,” I breathe. His eyes open and find mine. “I thought… you finished.”

He nods, dragging his tongue over his bottom lip, wetting it. “I did.”

I hesitate, my eyes dropping again, then rising back up. “But you’re still hard,” I mutter, stunned.

He glances down at himself. “Yeah.”

“Does it… hurt?”

I admit I don’t have a lot of experience. I’ve only ever been with one guy before Boston, and Archer was soft within seconds of his climax.

“Not really,” Boston says. “But it’s sensitive as hell.”

I clear my throat quietly, sliding off the bathroom counter in front of him. “Could you… go again? Like, right now?” I ask, cautious.

He nods.

I blink. “I didn’t think that was a thing.”

A shadow of embarrassment darkens his face. “Not exactly common, but”—he swallows hard—“turns out our bodies adapt.”

His gaze drops.

It clicks. This has something to do with Mrs. Davis, I’m sure. Her “girls’ nights.” But I won’t bring him down further.

I smile, then slowly lower myself back onto my knees.

“No, Skye, you don’t have to. This—he’ll relax in a few minutes.”

I nod, eyes turned up at him. “I know that, Boss. I want to.”

His fingers flex at his side, caught between instinct and restraint.

I pause. Consider him.

“You can tell me to stop.” I won’t be another person taking that power from him. “And I’ll stop. Right now. If you don’t want me to touch you, I won’t.”

He doesn’t move away or speak. He just studies me a moment longer, then moves his hand to my head, his fingers lacing through the strands lightly, not forcing anything, but definitely not stopping me, either.

“I’ll be gentle,” I whisper.

And this time, when I take him into my mouth again, it’s slower. Softer.

It’s not about pushing him to the edge, but about staying right here with him. About meeting only his needs.

Both the physical and emotional.

We do shower.