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I shake my head. “Not tonight. Tonight, you’re going to hold those perfect tits together for me and let me fuck them.” A moan comes from her still open mouth, low and throaty and perfect. “But first, you’re going to get me wet, sweet girl. Just going to lay there and relax and be everything I need, love.”
A half-moan, half-cry works out of her lips, her back bowing slightly at my words.
Mine, mine, mine echoes like a chant in my brain.
Chapter 42
NOW
Paloma
He’s intoxicating above me, all masculine and dominant. Another breath punches out of me as his hand ghosts over the spot I need him most. I feel like my entire body is throbbing, like I am a heartbeat in his hands.
And now, he’s making a mess of me. He keeps my thigh pressed open into the bed—using it to steady himself as he mouths hungrily over my breasts.
“Has anyone ever told you how good you are?” he says, pulling back as he slides up my body, fingertips still swirling over the hardened peak of my nipple. “How you deserve to be worshipped like this?”
He slots his dick between my breasts where I’m still pushing them together, sliding slowly between them as I stare up at him in awe. The mass of his body is held off me but hovering so large and looming, like an ancient god to be worshiped.
Only, I feel worshipped by him.
“God, P,” he grunts out. “Thought about this. For three fucking years.” His breath huffs, blowing a few curls away from his eyes. “I’m always thinking about you. Always.”
Again, his words tangle in vulnerability and heat—a mix that makes me mewl and restlessly grind into the air. He moves his body, using one arm planted at his side to keep his weight off me, the other reaching between my legs to cup me.
The position has him leaned back, giving me a perfect view of his soft chest, sparsely covered in dark brown curls. Everything about him is intoxicatingly powerful.
My moan is mirror-shattering, wanton, arguably unsexy—but he closes his eyes like he’s hearing a symphony.
“That’s it, P.” His fingers pet against the seam of my lips, parting me with an expert touch—he’s spent years learning my body, watching my every breath, to play me so easily.
Like fucking poetry.
“That’s all I want, love—to make you feel good. Ride my fingers.”
I do, watching him the same way he watches me. It’s so intense immediately, as it always has been beneath his careful, calloused hands.
His mouth pours words over me like he’s writing them in ink across my body. So good for me, love and Ahh—no, P, not yet. Hold it, in such a firm voice I can’t help but obey.
“Please, Bennett, please let me—”
“Fuck,” he grunts, tossing his head back, the muscles of his neck thick and tensed as his hips stutter, his come spilling messily between my breasts. Just seeing him completely undone makes me unravel faster, mouth opening on a low, breathy cry.
He shifts off me, curling around me entirely as he continues to fuck me with his thick fingers, my body building up and up. His mouth makes a new home by my ear, whispering sweet words, talking me all the way through it as I come hard—harder than in the hotel room, more vulnerable, but not rocked by the emotions the way I had been then.
No—now I feel warm, weightless, and whole. Like nothing bad ever happened to me. It’s just me and Bennett, as if we’ve always been together, this close, with no pain.
“Good?” he asks, pressing a kiss to my cheeks and then the corner of my mouth. I smile, skin flushed as he checks me over almost obsessively. “Words, Paloma.”
“Good.”
He carries me to my bathroom, running the shower with one hand as he sets me carefully on my feet. But he still cradles me close, his other palm steady on the back of my head, keeping me pressed to his chest.
We shower and he washes my hair, gentle as always.
“I’ve missed this,” I say, vulnerable and soft in his arms. My fingers play against his chest as he quietly tilts my head with a gentle command of Lean back, P.
“You know how I feel about your hair,” he says, with an almost smoky chuckle. His voice is still thick, raspy in a way that has my body heating up, ready for him again. “I think about it all the time, imagine it in my hands, against my skin.” He holds a hand at my forehead, attempting to keep water from my eyes as he washes away the conditioner he’d carefully combed through my strands.
