Page 336 of End Game

Soon, her body ripples as she comes again.

She’s glistening with sweat, and her eyes have gone hazy.

“You are so fucking perfect,” I manage to rasp.

An almost evil smile crosses her mouth before her hand wraps around me.

My eyes close.

“Fuck.”

She takes her time again.

She’s not deliberately withholding or edging, but she’s exploring what happens when she sets the pace.

When she finally lifts her hips and lowers herself onto me, I have to pull against the belt again because my body is apparently convinced that if I strain hard enough, physics might reconsider.

Cami slowly sheaths me inside her, settling fully over me.

My head presses back into the pillow.

“Fuck, baby.”

She doesn't move immediately—she just sits there, watching me.

Then her hips roll once. Slowly.

I groan.

Her eyes darken.

Oh, she's enjoying this way too much.

She does it again.

“You're having fun.”

“Yes.”

At least she's honest.

I laugh, but the sound turns into a curse when she rolls her hips again.

Normally this is where my hands would be on her waist.

Or her ass.

Where I'd be helping her move, controlling some of the rhythm even when she's technically on top.

I never realized how much I do that.

Tonight, I can't.

Cami sets the pace.

Slow at first—grinding more than bouncing. Using the angle for herself.

And I let her.