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It’s heady and humbling and makes me wild to please her. Worship her with my mouth and my dick and hands.
To show her that I’ll never let her down . . . I’ll never let her go.
I slide my hands up her smooth legs and bury my head between her thighs. She gasps when I press my mouth against her smooth, bare skin—nuzzling and lapping at her hot flesh in deep, slow licks. Her clit is firm and swelled when I encase it with my lips, sucking until her back arches and her hands tug at my hair.
“Connor, please,” she begs in a whisper. “Oh God, I need you.”
I lift up to my knees, giving my dick a few swift strokes because she likes to watch me do that. I rub the head up and down against her, groaning at the warm wetness, and then I press inside her.
Violet curves her back when I slide home, lifting her hips, letting me sink in deeper. I roll my hips, rubbing her clit with my pelvis, dragging one of those high-pitched little whimpers from her throat that make me crazy.
I brace my elbows on either side of her head and mold our bodies together—giving her my weight. I can feel her heart pounding against my chest, in the same rhythm as mine. Our noses brush and our breaths mingle but we don’t kiss. We look into each other’s eyes, breathing the same air.
And it’s so fucking intense.
I’m so deep inside her, her delicate muscles gripping me.
“Connor. . .”
My hips move faster—harder—in long slow jabs. I want to dip my head and feast on her breasts, suckle her until she moans. I want to kiss her mouth and give her my tongue. I want to let go and fuck her quick and rough until we’re both coming, good and glorious, at the same time.
But I don’t want to stop looking at her.
Soaking up every beautiful expression, watching those gorgeous brown eyes darken with need and adoration. Letting her see me, all of me, and all the things I feel for her.
Violet bites her lip, and her feet brace on the bed, lifting her hips—fucking herself up onto me.
“Connor. . .” she keens because she’s close. I can feel the flutter around me, the rhythmic clasping as she starts to go over the edge.
“Not yet,” I gasp, pumping smoothly.
“Please—” she grasps at my shoulders, my back.
“Not yet. If you come you’re going to take me with you and I don’t want it to end yet.”
“It’s so good,” she pants.
“Not yet, not yet.”
I’m groaning, because she’s tighter now, squeezing down all around me.
“Please,” she gasps.
Violet grabs for my hand and presses it over her mouth—sealing her lips and the sharp, soaked cry that seeps out behind my palm.
Then she’s gone. Her eyes roll closed and her neck arches—her pussy contracts and her lips open on a silent scream as she loses herself in the cresting white heat of sensation.
And she pulls me right over with her, like I knew she would.
I press my face into her neck, inhaling the delicate flowery scent of her perfume—and pounding into her in blissful, wild thrusts. My mind goes blank and heat claws up my spine as pure, perfect ecstasy tears its way through me.
For several moments neither of us move. I love not using condoms with her—love being able to stay inside her just like this—where she’s wet and hot and sticky with me.
I swallow hard and raise my head from Vi’s shoulder.
“Are you okay?”
Her eyes remain closed and her voice is drowsy.
“I don’t know. I think I might be dead. Or I died and came back. Either. Both.”
And I laugh. Because every piece and part and moment with her is so insanely good.
Eventually, I roll over onto my back and Violet cuddles in against me—her leg draped over my hip, her arm across my stomach, using my chest as her pillow.
She mumbles a warning. “Don’t fall asleep. You have to take me home.”
I haven’t had the chance to talk to the boys yet about Violet spending the night. I think they’ll be fine with it, but since she’s the first woman I’ve brought into their lives since the divorce, it feels like a conversation I should have with them.
“I won’t.” I give her a reassuring squeeze. “Just going to . . . rest my eyes for a minute.”
* * *
“Connor! Connor, wake up—it’s morning!”
What feels like five minutes later, Violet’s panicked voice drags me awake.
Because in the history of the world, “eye resting” has never worked out the way it’s supposed to—even for doctors.
I clear the sleep from my throat and run a hand through my hair.
“Yeah, I’m up.”
The distinct sounds of life—the hum of the television, the closing of drawers, and the clatter of spoons against breakfast bowls—floats up to us from the kitchen.
