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I blink awake. Donovan is there. I can just make out his silhouette in the dim light, standing by my bed, but it’s too dark to make out his expression.
“Hey,” I say, “everything okay?”
“Don’t say anything,” he says.
“What—?”
But I don’t get to finish my question, because my words are silenced with Donovan’s mouth on mine.
His lips are surprisingly soft, but his kiss is rough and demanding. He invites himself in my mouth, opening me up, and when he swipes his tongue over mine, I feel the lick as if it ran down the center of my body and straight to my cock.
He lowers himself onto my bed, his legs straddling mine, and his hands slip over my chest. I only wear briefs to sleep, and he takes advantage of the full access he has to my body, his fingers sliding down my chest, clutching my sides.
I hear myself moan, but at the same time, I know I need to slow this down. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
When his eyes meet mine, however, there’s intense clarity in them. “Stop. Talking,” he repeats, and his mouth closes over mine once more.
I can’t hold myself back anymore. I reach under his shirt and feel the heat of his bare skin. I need it against mine. I yank his shirt over his head and pull him flush against me.
Donovan doesn’t feel like Nadine, or any of the women I’ve been with. They were softness, and curves, and bodies I had to be gentle with. Precious bodies that I could break without trying. Women I wanted to cherish, to worship, to handle with care.
Donovan is hard, and muscled, and I’m not afraid to grip him too hard. I want to hurt him; and I want him to hurt me. My roughness is met with equal passion and our mouths collide as his body rocks against me—all warm steel, rutting.
The blankets get pushed to the side and we lose our clothes in the darkness. He settles between my legs and I feel him, the hardness of him. When he eases inside of me, he feels so good that I can’t breathe.
I feel like I’ve been ripped apart. As though he’s unzipped me, straight down the middle, and now all this aching and longing that I’ve carried around inside of me for so many years comes spilling out.
I can’t contain it—I dig my fingers into him, my nails, feverish with need.
I’m so close to him now—we’re one, the same—rocking, moaning, sweating, our bodies slick and sliding together. He’s buried deep, his body tight against me, and I hump against his hip, diamond-hard and aching for friction.
“That’s it, Hotshot,” he growls in my ear, his voice dark velvet. He grips the back of my neck and demands: “Give me everything.”
When I release, it’s with a low groan.
Only it’s not against Donovan’s body—it’s on the mattress.
I blink awake to find my face buried in my pillow, a damp spot on the place where I bit into it. I’m on my stomach, and I must have been humping the mattress underneath me, because my sheets are twisted around my legs, my erection has popped free from my briefs, and a pearly streak of cum stains the bed underneath me.
Fear whips through me, until I realize—thank God, I’m alone. It’s still nighttime, Donovan is still asleep in his room, the door closed. My misdemeanors went unnoticed.
By anyone except me, anyway.
“Fuck,” I groan into the pillow.
10
Donovan
When I shuffle out of my bedroom in the morning, feeling half like a zombie, I’m greeted by Jason’s too bright smile.
“How’re you feeling, champ?” He asks.
“It’s too early for your good mood,” I grumble. “Turn it down a couple notches.”
He points to the counter. “Advil, orange juice, toast, and my own personal hangover cure. Don’t worry about it. Just drink it.”
“If this is whale semen, I’m going to kill you.”
