Page 279 of Manhattan Bossholes

“Want me to help?” I asked.

“Yes,” she breathed, her hands falling away as I guided the head of my cock to slide up her thigh, teasing her gently. She moaned, her fingers curling into the comforter. I parted her legs further, leaning down between them to press my mouth to her clit. I let my tongue drag through her folds, then focused my attention, listening to the way her breathing changed, feeling the muscles in her thighs clench against my face.

“That’s it,” she hissed. “There…yes! Oh God!”

Her hips bucked, and I pressed her down into the bed, holding her steady despite how much she writhed. The sounds of her pleasure filled the room as she climbed toward her next orgasm, and my cock ached, throbbing with the need to sink into her soft, slick heat.

I alternated between flicking my tongue quickly and running tight, slow circles around her clit. She tugged at my hair, guiding me. It didn’t take long to drive her over the edge, and she trembled as she came undone. I climbed up her body, sliding home, fucking her through the rest of her orgasm and into another. Natasha’s legs wound around my waist, arching, taking, demanding as her moans grew more and more uncontrolled.

It was so good.

She was so good.

If I’d known sex with Natasha would be like this, I’d have asked her out after our first fight in the coffee shop. I jerked my hips forward, driving into her once more, gripping her hips to anchor me. Natasha cried out with each thrust, her sounds spurring me on as I filled her over and over. She was like a siren, begging me for more, and I answered, fucking her harder as I chased my own climax. I came with a sudden, explosive shudder, the pleasure ripping through me.

Fuck! She was addicting.

I didn’t know how I was ever going to be fully sated. I rolled off Natasha, stretching out on my back. I reached my arm out, and she rolled into my side.

“Wow,” she mumbled. “I don’t usually come that quickly. Or repeatedly.”

I chuckled. “Maybe I’m just that good.”

“Or maybe it’s been just as long for you as it’s been for me,” she said. “And we’re both a little desperate.”

I hummed, thinking back to the last woman I’d slept with. “I honestly can’t even remember the name of the last woman I brought home.”

“Oh,” she said.

“Not because there’s been so many of them,” I corrected, not wanting to give her the wrong impression. “Or because I don’t care to learn their names. I just mean…I haven’t been with anyone for a while. Relationships are a low priority for me.”

She hummed quietly. I wasn’t sure I’d explained it right, but who cared about the last woman I’d brought home?

They didn’t matter.

None of them had ever made me feel the way Natasha did.

16

NATASHA

“Don’t get up yet,” Trent whispered against the back of my neck, his breath warm and his voice thick with sleep. His arms snaked around me, holding me flush against his broad chest. His body radiated warmth, and I leaned into it, basking in the feeling of being cuddled. “I just want to hold you for a minute.”

It had been too long since I’d been held like this. So long, in fact, that it made my chest ache just thinking about it. All my memories of Fisher had been tainted ever since I’d realized the kind of person he really was, so I didn’t even bother trying to remember him like this. I dated some since that breakup, but with all the jobs I’d been juggling, I hadn’t had time for much more than a couple of flings. It was easy to forget how nice it was to be wanted by another person.

“What time is it?” I asked. My phone had disappeared somewhere—in the living room probably—but sunlight peeked in through Trent’s dark curtains, so I knew it must be morning.

“Don’t worry about that just now,” he said, snuggling against me.

I sighed contentedly. I did my best to fill my life with work and Stacy and furniture, but no matter how much I crammed into my day, nothing came close to replicating this kind of intimate connection with another person. I was still cautious about getting close to people, about giving them the ability to let me down, to hurt me, but I’d forgotten how badly I needed this connection until I’d spent the night in Trent’s arms—his deliciously toned arms.

“This is a really long minute,” I teased, kissing the forearm that dangled over my shoulder.

He let out a grumble, nipping at my neck. “Did I say a minute? I meant five,” he countered. I felt the scruff of his facial hair brushing against my back and squirmed.

“You okay?”

“Tickles,” I whispered.