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Tonight, he knows we’re short on time.
That we’re taking a huge fucking risk.
When his thumb presses against my clit, I don’t care about any of that, too high on this feeling to push him away.
He covers my mouth with his, swallowing my cries as he thrusts a finger inside, then another, his motions relentless.
“Do you know what sound I love even more?”
“What’s that?”
“The sound of your wet cunt, knowing it’s fucking drenched for me, and only me.”
Hooking my leg around his waist, my eyes roll into the back of my head, body aching for release.
“Say it, Esme. Tell me I’m the only one who makes you feel like this.” His wild gaze locks with mine. “Because you’re the only one who makes me feel like this.”
“Like what?” I circle my hips in time with his ministrations.
“Like I’m losing all bloody control.” He buries his head in the crook of my neck, teeth clamping onto my skin.
Exhilaration jolts my core, and it only gets stronger the harder Creed bites me. I should tell him to stop. That it’s too much. That he’s going to leave a mark.
And that’s probably why he’s doing it.
After being tortured all day by watching Jameson hold my hand, brush his fingers against my skin, feather light kisses to my temple, he needs to stake his claim.
Needs to mark me as his.
Despite how wrong this is, I want him to do just that. Want his mark on me. Inside me. Everywhere.
“And I’m loving every second of it,” he rasps, his thick erection pressing against my stomach, straining to be set free.
I trail my hand down his chest, reveling in the sensation of his rippling muscles before sliding it into his sweatpants. When I wrap my fingers around his cock, thumb teasing the tip, smoothing the bit of pre-cum that escaped, he releases a hiss of pleasure.
But it’s short-lived, his entire body suddenly becoming rigid.
I don’t have a chance to ask what’s wrong before he pushes away, eyes panicked, breathing shallow.
Then footsteps echo nearby, and I dart my head toward the living room just as Marius comes into view. Adrenaline replaces the lust that consumed me mere seconds ago.
Maybe he won’t see us. Maybe he’ll keep walking, head out to the patio for some fresh air.
But as luck would have it, he heads straight for the kitchen, stopping dead in his tracks when he sees us.
“Marius,” I say in a voice that bears little resemblance to my own. “What are you doing up? Are you having trouble sleeping?”
“No,” he draws out, his gaze ping-ponging between Creed and me. “Just came to grab a water.” He walks to the refrigerator and retrieves a bottle, suspicious eyes never leaving us.
Marius isn’t an idiot. All it takes is a cursory glance at our disheveled appearance to realize he walked in on something.
Or almost walked in on something if Creed’s sharp hearing hadn’t picked up his soft footfalls.
Between our labored breathing, flushed complexions, and kiss-swollen lips, not to mention what I can only assume to be teeth marks on my neck, it’s more than apparent he caught us with our hands in the proverbial cookie jar.
Or nearly caught us with our hands down each other’s pants.
“Me, too.”
