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“Oliver…” Hannah says my name like I’ve never heard it before, a raw, desperate sound that consumes me. She’s hot and wet and tight andperfect, and I want this to last forever.
My grip on her hips tightens as I grind my pelvis into hers. We’re sweaty and messy and desperate, racing toward the peak together. My entire body tenses, refusing to orgasm until she does.
She rises until I totally slip out and then sinks down again.
“We couldn’t do this on the kitchen counter.”
I groan. “Please tell me you’re not cooking more food.”
Hannah laughs and shakes her head, circling her hips. My hands wander over every inch of her skin I can reach, letting go of her hips and tracing her ribs until I reach her bouncing breasts. My mouth surrounds one nipple, sucking and biting. She moans, her inner muscles fluttering around me. She’s so wet I can hear it. Feel it.
My fingers slip between our bodies, finding her clit and rubbing it. Her walls clench around me in a grip so tight it’s almost painful. And she lifts her neck and kisses me, which I’m not expecting. The tangle of our tongues is just as filthy as the rest of us, an unorganized jumble of lips and mouths. Biting and sucking and tasting, as I fuck her through her orgasm. And then I find my own release, the foreign feeling of releasing inside of her pushing it longer and longer. Carnal and primal and possessive.
My mouth moves from her lips to her neck, nipping at the skin. Knowing I’m probably leaving marks and not caring at all.
Possessiveness isn’t my thing.
It always seemed like a trait of insecure men. But according to a document filed in some office in Nevada, Hannah Garner is mine.
And I’m pleased by that fact.
Proud of it.
Possessiveof it.
Hannah moves first, lifting off me and rolling onto the bed beside me. Her breathing is still rapid, but her eyes are hazy and satisfied. She exhales, running a hand through her hair. “I need a shower.”
I lean down and kiss her forehead, the affection just as natural as fucking her. “I’ll start dinner.”
“You mean order takeout?”
“Do you have more of everything?”
“Well, yeah. But it will take a while to make and then cook, so…”
“Just tell me what to do first.”
“The chicken has to be roasted. I already chopped the veggies. They’re in the fridge.”
“Okay.” I roll off the bed, pulling on a pair of joggers.
Hannah stands too, and I catch a glimpse of the white liquid trickling down the inside of her thigh before she disappears into the bathroom. That same proud surge returns.
Immediately followed by dread.
If I love her, I should let her go.
* * *
We end up out on the patio after finishing dinner, which turned out better than either of us expected. The bar was low, after the charred pan.
This has become our nightly routine for the past few evenings, sitting on the outdoor couch looking up at the sky. Usually huddled under a blanket. Tonight, it’s a little warmer. There’s a hint of spring in the air.
I take a sip of whiskey as I stare at the skyline, savoring the smoky burn as it slides down my throat.
I’m a multi-billionaire. I could go anywhere. Buy everything. Experience anything. And there’s nowhere else I’d rather be than exactly where I am right now.
“Want any?” I hold the glass out to Hannah.
