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But he’s not even close to done.
Already, I’ve come twice, but maybe he’s looking for a world record, here.
In his moonlight drenched bedroom, Alec looks like an animal, his face rigid with raw concentration as he plunges his hardness inside me, slow, steady, deep, hard.
“You feel so fucking good,” he breathes against my ear. “Come for me again.”
Even if I wanted to—and I do—don’t know that I physically can …
But even as I’m thinking that, I feel the fire building inside me again.
The tension is overwhelming, sensations bursting through me, making it impossible to hold them back another second. I fall against him, crushing my mouth to his and kissing him with abandon, the world going dark and blurry around me.
He rips his mouth free, grabs my hips, and stares into my eyes with those enchanted, Oz-like eyes of his.
“There you go,” he growls, pulling my hips into his and pushing deeper inside me. “Come with me.”
I meet his thrust with an explosion of pleasure, my eyes rolling back to the sky, fireworks exploding behind my eyelids. More screaming. The only indication that he’s enjoying himself comes when he lets out a low groan and releases inside me, gripping my hips and tensing around me, the veins in his neck and arms tense and throbbing.
“My God …” The words are a soft breath, more to himself than to me.
My scream fades to a whimper, and just when I think he’s done, he rocks into me, stroking my swollen clit in new ways and I’m coming again. This time, I can’t find the voice to scream anymore. I let the smaller ripples lap over me, like a stream, and moan in absolute, blissful pleasure.
I collapse against his chest, my body heaving. I feel like a completely boneless mass as I settle into him, resting my cheek on his collarbone as small aftershocks course through my body.
“Holy shit,” I say, shell-shocked. I’ve come before, sure. Even twice and three times in a single experience. But this man has basically turned me into an orgasm-machine, where I don’t think I can stop this, even if I tried.
It occurs to me in that haze of lust that I’ve broken through a barrier and can never go back again: I’ve had sex with Alec Mansfield.
I wanted closure tonight.
What I got was so much more …
Either way, it’s over now.
We can’t do this again.
Except … the way he’s looking at me makes me think it’s not even close to being over. The insatiable yet curious intensity washing over his handsome face suggests we might just
be getting started—at least in his mind.
He doesn’t let me go. He lifts me, still impaled on his cock, and turns me over, licking at my throat, igniting another round of … hate sex.
I’ll worry about the consequences tomorrow.
6
Alec
That was the most vivid, fucked-up dream I’ve ever had.
That’s what I’m thinking as I roll over on my mattress, my eyelids pried open by the morning sun slashing through the blinds.
Rubbing my eyes with the heels of my hands, I try to wake up enough to figure out what time it is. It’s got to be late morning, and I don’t remember setting my alarm last night. I said I’d go into the ER early today, covering for another doctor.
I reach out a hand, groping on the hardwood floor. That’s where I usually leave my phone when I go to bed.
Only it’s not there.
I haven’t been at the Maine Medical Center long enough to be able to get away with being late. I might have charmed Dr. Burns during the interview, but he’s not the kind of guy who’ll take any kind of unprofessionalism from a new hire.
I sit up in bed, and at the same time, I hear something—a female groan from somewhere underneath the sheets beside me.
Unless that wasn’t a dream.
Of course it was. It had to have been. No way in hell could that have happened.
But as I push aside the sheets and spot the waterfall of blonde hair, it all comes back to me.
It did happen.
Despite it feeling like some kind of fever dream, too good to have been real—it was.
“Stassi?” I say, groggy.
She lets out another little mumble and rolls on her side.
I sit there, slack-jawed, every last touch, stroke, kiss cycling through my mind—all of those things, done with Anastasia Hutton.
My dream girl.
Clarification—my dream girl who has forever hated everything about me.
Our clothes are in random piles around the room, draped over boxes, tossed on the floor. I locate my slacks on the ground. A suspiciously rectangular bulge tells me I never bothered to take my phone out of the pocket—rare for me. Reaching, I grab it and check the time.
It’s 8:30 AM. and my shift starts in half an hour.
“Shit,” I mumble.
I leave the bed in a whirlwind, grab a quick shower, and throw on a fresh change of clothes. When I get back, Stassi’s still there, sleeping peacefully. She might have said she hated me last night. Over and over again, if I remember correctly. But right now, she looks so much like an angel. I don’t want to wake her. Selfishly, I want to hold onto this good feeling as long as I can. Once she’s up, there’ll be no telling how she’s going to react. For all I know, she’ll be sucker punched with regret for taking things too far. But in my defense, it wasn’t like I planned any of it. All I wanted was to see her gorgeous face, catch up, and offer a long-overdue apology.
