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He settles over me, big, the weight of him making the mattress dip, and I feel him notch against me. I feel every inch. The stretch burns and makes my mouth fall open but no sound comes out.
“Breathe,” he whispers.
I let it out. He sinks further. There is a moment where I think that’s all of him and then there is more, and my hand flies to his hip. When he bottoms out I can feel him high and deep, that thick base spreading me until my thighs shake around his waist.
He stays there. Forehead to mine, but not moving. His arms are braced so he doesn’t crush me, and I can feel him throbbing, the condom a thin stupid barrier that is a necessary evil.
“You good?” he asks. Voice wrecked already.
“If you don’t move I am going to lose my mind.”
We have to be quiet, so it is all small sounds: the wet slick of it, the mattress complaining if he goes too hard, my breath punched out of me in little hitches I try to swallow. He finds a rhythm that is deep and unhurried and still somehow devastating, that thick drag on every stroke, filling me until there is no space left to think about anything except the way he is stretching me open.
“Fuck, you take it so good,” he murmurs against my mouth. “Look at you.”
He gets a hand over my mouth, and I am grateful for it because the next thrust hits that spot and my whole body tries to make noise. He stays so deep I can feel him in my stomach, that long thick shape of him.
“I’m not going to last if you keep doing that.” His voice is strained.
“Doing what.”
“That. The—fuck—that.”
Whatever I’m doing, I am not doing it on purpose. He is sweating. I can feel the tremor in his arms from holding himself in check so we don’t make too much noise. Since it turns out our son is not as heavy of a sleeper as we thought and I don’t know how much longer the play fighting excuse is going to work on him. The restraint is its own kind of filthy. Every thrust is careful and still so much, that heavy stretch, the wet sound we cannot fully hide.
He slides a hand down and finds my clit, rubbing in time, and I almost ruin the quiet anyway. I come like that, shaking, biting his hand, clenching down on that thick cock until he can’t move through how hard I’m clamped down around him.
He works me through it in tiny rolls of his hips, whispering filth in my ear, and then he is moving again, a little sloppier, chasing it.
“Simon—”
“I know. I know.” He kisses me. “Just be good for me. Let me use you. Just one more second, I’m almost there. Fuck. You were made for me.”
He buries himself to the hilt and goes still, a broken sound punched into my neck, cock kicking inside me so hard I can feel it even through the latex. He holds there, shaking, and I run my hands down his back until his breathing starts to come back.
He pulls out carefully. The condom is extremely unsexy now that it’s…that—he holds the base, grimaces, ties it, and I watch him do the walk of shame to the bathroom trash.
He comes back, drops onto the bed, and immediately reaches for me. I throw a leg over his, still buzzing, a little sore in that full, used way that means I am going to feel him tomorrow.
He smiles against my temple. “I do good?”
“You’re always good. That’s why we are out of condoms.”
He laughs and pulls the blanket higher over us. “Get some sleep, sweet girl.”
Chapter thirty-one
Simon
My phone won’t stop vibrating in my pocket, buzzing like it’s trying to claw its way out. I try to ignore it, but I already know it’s Veronica. The rapid-fire pattern of texts and calls gives her away every time—the same desperate barrage she used to pull when we were together and I ignored her on the Fourth of July because I was with Theo.
It’s Thanksgiving, so of course she knows I’m with my kid. She still doesn’t know I’m back with Blaire, but she knows it’s a holiday, that I’m probably around Theo and Blaire, and that she needs to make this about her.
“Hey Si!” Blaire’s voice carries from the master bathroom, where she’s finishing her hair. “Did you pack an extra set of clothes for Theo? And make sure he goes potty before we leave—last thing we need is an accident in the car. Oh, and please don’t let me forget to actually grab the food from the fridge!”
“On it!” I call back, glancing around the living room. Theo’s standing in the middle of the rug, barefoot and scowling.
“I can’t find my shoes,” he announces, like this is somehow my fault.
