Page 82 of Real Regrets

I don’t have to make a single decision. He’s controlling everything, the same way he seems to manage each aspect of his life.

I never want him to stop. But my body is also desperate for release, the pleasure I’m chasing hovering just out of reach.

My hands explore up and down his back, feeling muscle and tendon shift beneath my fingers as he moves above me. His mouth drops to mine and we’re kissing again, his tongue taking my mouth with the same skilled assault as his cock fills my pussy.

His pelvis grinds against mine, stimulating every sensitive spot. Pleasure crashes through me, sudden and consuming and incredible, as I spasm around him.

I lose all sense of time or place or self, catapulted into a personal nirvana.

I’m still floating in clouds of bliss when Oliver flips me over, his hands lifting my hips up and back before I’m spread open by his hard cock again. I gasp, readjusting to the new position and realizing he didn’t come during my explosive orgasm.

Everything is ultra-sensitive, the pleasure of him stretching me again even sharper and more intense. The angle is different and deeper, and Oliver takes full advantage. With each stroke he almost totally withdraws, a slow drag that feels like I can feel every ridge and vein even through the barrier of the condom. Then he fills me all over again, stretching me until I take every inch.

My body is beginning to build toward another peak faster than I would have thought possible. My breathing is ragged, heat trickling through me in endless streams. Sweat dampens my skin.

“You’re close to coming again.” Oliver groans the words, arousal deepening them to a low growl. “I can feel it.”

I moan, my hands fisting the soft fabric of my comforter as he pulls out completely, sliding around my opening and gliding against my clit. Teasing me with the promise of more pleasure.

I don’t know how he hasn’t come yet. His dick is so rigid it barely moves as I arch my back and rub against him, trying to force more friction. Trying to get him back inside of me.

Oliver’s hands leave my hips and run up the sides of my abdomen, leaving trails of goosebumps in their wake as he explores my body. One hand grazes the hard point of my nipple and I jolt at the fresh rush of pleasure.

Then his hands are back on my hips, sliding down to spread my legs open wider for him. Cool air brushes the wetness that’s gathered there, feeding the relentless ache. A second orgasm no longer sounds impossible. It feels inevitable.

He slams into me again, suddenly and forcefully enough it feels like taking him for the first time all over again.

“The only way I’ll ever see you getting fucked is ifI’mthe one fucking you, Hannah.”

There’s a dark possessiveness in the words, an undercurrent of intensity I’m not expecting. I picture what he sees, me spread and desperate for him. The complete opposite of taunting him about bathroom bar sex with another man.

I moan and whimper as he sets a punishing pace, pounding into me over and over again until I’m careening over a cliff into blissful oblivion. I come again, clenching around the hard length of his cock as he continues to rock inside of me.

Tremors quake through me as mindless pleasure washes over me with the force of a tsunami, pulling me under in endless waves. I’m barely aware enough to feel the jerk inside as he ejaculates, finally finding his own release.

I collapse onto the soft cotton of my bedspread, feeling like a towel that was just wrung out. There’s a satisfied hum running through my body as I roll onto my back, luxuriating in a completely relaxed state.

I run a hand through my hair, brushing blonde strands out of my eyes and away from my face. My breathing begins to slow, desperate pants turning rhythmic and easy, as I watch Oliver lean over and grab a tissue off the bedside table.

He removes the condom, wraps it, and then tosses it into the trash. Even flaccid, his dick is impressive. My pussy is swollen and satisfied, but there’s a fresh pulse between my legs, remembering how that long, thick length felt inside of me.

I can tell he’s unsure what to say or do. That he’s preparing to leave and walk down the hall to the guest room.

It’s what he should do. What I shouldwanthim to do.

But before my eyes flutter closed, I whisper, “You can stay.”

It’s not really an invitation. Because invitations serve a purpose, and I’m not sure what the point of him staying is. I’m exhausted, and I’m not the one who flew five hours and is three hours ahead. All we’ll do is sleep. And I should want the bed to myself. I like my space; it’s why I live alone.

So I’m surprised when the dip of the mattress sends a small thrill through me. When the sound of his breath is soothing instead of annoying.

Even with my eyes closed, I can sense him moving. A few seconds later, the cashmere blanket I keep at the bottom of my bed is draped over my body, the soft fibers lightly brushing my bare skin.

There’s a delicate, fragile flicker in my chest. Waking up married to a stranger is one of the scarier things that’s ever happened to me. But right now, I feel safer than I ever have.

And it’s all Oliver Kensington’s fault.

CHAPTERSIXTEEN

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