AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Is this what you want?” The hand not rubbing my clit comes up, wrapping around my neck, holding me tighter to him. “Me losing my mind over you?”
“Yes,” I cry out. “Don’t hold back. I want you, Callan. I want you, I want you, I want you.”
“God, Layla. What you do to me.”
I can feel his heart pounding against my back. His breath panting against my neck. His words rattling my soul.
Holding my neck, his other hand bands around my hip, and then I’m pinned against him as he pistons in and out of me. But it’s not deep enough, and he feels that. He wants to hold me, and he wants to feel me, but we both want it deeper. With a growl of frustration, he releases me, and I tumble forward, my hands planting into the bed.
“Who do you belong to?” He grunts against my back, his teeth scraping along my spine. “Who owns this?” He spanks my ass and then cups my pussy, shoving two fingers deep inside me. My eyes roll back in my head, and I beg for more, whimpering at his force. At his possession.
He’s not simply fucking me, he’s infusing me with him.
His fingers pump in and out of my pussy at the same pace his cock pumps in and out of my ass. It’s the most overwhelming, mind-bending, soul-flaying, body-consuming thing that’s ever happened to me.
With every thrust of his fingers, the base of his thumb rubs my clit, coaxing every part of me to the edge. I don’t expect it. My orgasm surges forth out of the abyss of pleasure I’m already encapsulated in. But it strikes like a missile, direct and deadly, leaving behind a shuddering, disjointed, uncontained woman.
I scream and then drop forward to smother it, my face in the blanket, my hands clawing and tearing. Callan follows me, a roar climbing past his lips and shredding through the air. His fingers slide back to my clit, rubbing me as his cock pulses in my ass.
And with it, somehow, I come again. It’s almost too much, but I don’t care because I want us to come together like this. I want him to feel what I’m feeling. I moan and writhe all the while he fills my ass, and I fucking love every second of it.
He collapses against my back, still inside me, rolling us to the side so he doesn’t crush me. We’re still as he holds me, panting, unable to catch our breaths. His face nuzzles against my sweat-coated neck.
“Layla.”
It’s all he says, but the veneration in his voice says all the words he can’t.
I feel his hand against my ass, and then he’s pulling himself out of me. I whimper, but before the sting can register, he’s swooping me up into his arms and carrying me bride-style into the bathroom. He walks us straight into the shower and sets me gently down on the marble bench he has in here. I shiver against the cold of the stone, but then he’s turning on the hot water and swooping back in, standing me up and drawing me to him, holding me close.
“Are you okay?”
Suddenly drowsy, I sag against him. “That was…”
His hands run over my hair, and he pulls my face back. Our foreheads meet, and our eyes lock. “You are…”
I smile, and so does he, and then he’s kissing me.
He didn’t fuck my ass and then roll over and fall asleep or go off to his dude-bros to gather high fives. He’s caring for me. Holding me. Speaking soft words against my lips and washing my body with gentle strokes of his hands.
And when he’s done with all that and we’re back in his bed and I’m wrapped up in his arms and I start to drift into that perfect space between awake and asleep, he murmurs those words again, “Stay with me.”
And I fall into the most beautiful, peaceful, contented sleep I’ve ever had. Praying that nothing tears us apart.
30
I’m going to tell you a secret I never want Callan to find out about. I’ve met Greyson Monroe a few times, but I’ve never actually spoken more than a few words to him here or there. So he doesn’t know that I grew up with a poster of him on my bedroom wall.
I’ve been a fan of his music since I was a teenager.
I didn’t listen much to Central Square—another secret, though Callan knows and finds it hilarious—but Greyson Monroe as a solo artist? Yeah, I crushed, and I crushed hard. Even now, when he opens the door to the warehouse he and Fallon live in, I get a slight childhood, fangirl rush.
“Layla!” He greets me with a huge smile, the way his friends have whenever they see me. “Glad you could make it. Come on in.”
“Thanks,” I say, stepping over the threshold and surreptitiously glancing around.
I’m in Greyson Monroe’s home. It’s one thing to meet someone a few times, but it’s something else entirely to be invited into their home. I sort of want to take covert pics, but that’s creepy, so I won’t. I did call Stella on my way over here to brag, though. She sent me a pic of her middle finger, and I mentally high-fived myself for that.
The entire first floor, which is freaking massive, is almost like warehouse space. There is a giant staircase in the middle of the floor, but I don’t hear any noise. “Where is everyone?”
