Page 126 of Josephine and Clay

“Jeez fuck, Josie.”

His whole body is trembling. He gets a knee up on the bed and for a weird second his face changes. He makes a clumsy swipe at his eyes, like he’s stunned he can even feel this much.

Then he’s kissing me again, and the taste of me on his tongue is so filthy and right I dig my nails into his shoulder to keep from melting through the mattress.

“I want it so bad,” he grits.

He lines up, rocks the tip against me, not quite pushing in.

“Please, just fuck me,” I whine, humiliated at how far gone I am, how I’m begging him in a voice I barely recognize.

He pushes in, more than I even thought I could take, filling me with this sick, mindless gratitude. Each thrust is violent, necessary; he pounds into me like he’s chiseling away the last layer between us, the final resistance.

But it’s still not enough.

I push gently at his chest until he gets the message, rolling carefully onto his back with a strained curse when his leg catches wrong against the mattress.

“Easy,” I murmur automatically.

He grabs my waist. “Don’t start being nice to me now.”

His eyes go black as oil. He grabs my hips and guides me down, gingerly at first, and then our bodies just click. A slick socket, perfect fit. The fullness is maddening, an ache that begs to be stoked, so I do, grinding down and rolling my pelvis, greedy for another crash of pleasure.

My hair falls forward, curtaining him, and he just stares up at me, helpless, awed. I’m shaking, skin oversensitized. His cock hits spots inside me that make my vision pop white, like a migraine set to ecstasy. I ride him hard, palms pressed to his chest, the muscle relentless under my fingers, and he surrenders to me, lets me use him, rock myself raw against him.

He keeps his hands on my ass, kneading, sometimes trailing up my sides just to worship the bones, the flex, the animal of me.

He starts talking, words coming out in a blur.

“So fucking beautiful, Josie. You’re unreal. You’re fire, you’re…” he breaks off, biting his own skin at the bicep, like he can’t stand it.

Each thrust is a punch of pleasure, and I’m soaking him, soaking myself, bare nerves exposed to the world.

We crash together, chaos and need and sweat and the staccato slap of skin. I look down at him, his face slack with wanting, chest heaving, collarbone sharp as a blade. Everything I am is connected to him through this one sweet, grinding axis.

He’s close. I can feel it in the way his abs seize, the way his cock pulses and swells inside me.

I want him to lose it, nothing between us except heat and panic and the need to finish so brutally it erases everything else.

He starts to break, all hoarse, digging his nails into my hips like he’ll leave permanent crescents. I want that. I want him to mark me, cut me out of symmetry, make me feel this later on.

He tenses beneath me, one hand gripping my hip hard while the muscles in his injured leg visibly spasm from the strain of holding himself together, but I dig in, riding him harder. I want to break him open. I want to force him to let go.

It’s so fucked and greedy, so perfect. I clamp down and move in a way that I know will push him over, and his face contorts, eyes squeezed shut and mouth open in a silent scream.

His cock throbs, then he’s coming, flooding me, spasming so violently I almost fall off him. I grind through it, milking him, savor every shudder, letting the wildness shake us apart. There’s so much of it it leaks out around him, down our thighs, a mess I want to stay tangled in forever.

I topple forward, both of us panting, sweat slick and faintly trembling. My forehead lands on his shoulder, the perfect pillow. A stunned, battered silence settles in, like the room’s still ringing from a gunshot no one heard but us.

He strokes my back, clumsy and delicate, as if I’m precious or newly hatched.

“Holy fuck, Josie,” he whispers. “I thought I was gonna black out.”

I can’t even speak, just nuzzle into his chest, my body humming, half electrocuted. My heart is doing dangerous things, like it knows it’s not supposed to belong to anyone, least of all this beautiful, impossible boy.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Clay