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Some part of me recognizes that he’s trying to be a gentleman. That he’s giving me the option of an orgasm without reciprocation. Like he’s trying to prove something.
But wanton me doesn’t want a gentleman. ‘I’m not.’
His eyebrows jump as I thread my fingers through his hair and tug him the rest of the way down. My kiss isn’t as gentle as his. My touch not as patient.
I plant my feet on the mattress and bridge upward, flipping on top of him and whipping his shirt off me in one motion.
‘Jesus.’ As Thomas gazes at my breasts, I worry about once again being too aggressive.
I pause, bare-chested above him. ‘Too much?’
In answer he crunches up, latching his lips to one nipple, his hand pinching the other.
My hands cradling his head, my voice keens as he lavishes attention on each breast. When I raise up on my knees, Thomas yanks his boxer briefs down, both of us falling into a passionate synchronization.
His dick bounces against my backside.
I don’t even take the time to pull down my panties. Instead, I tug the gusset to one side and position the tip of his hard-on where I need him.
Thomas grabs my hips and thrusts up from beneath me, the spike of pleasure arching my back.
I undulate, each sway bringing me closer to release. Closer to a man I’d thought out of reach. The man whose grumpy facade hides surprising kindness.
His hands wrap around my waist, his biceps straining as he lifts and slams me down, my knees barely skimming the mattress.
‘Oh. My. God.’ My words punctuated every time he drops me onto him.
‘Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.’ Thomas’s chant harmonizes with mine.
Until the rhythm turns animalistic, our bodies taking over as release nears.
Thomas drops his shoulders back to the mattress, arches up and thrusts deep inside me, setting off an eruption of pleasure that leaves me soundlessly screaming. His fingers tighten, bruising my hips as he stills, my orgasm having spurred on his own.
After what feels like an eternity, I collapse on top of him, Thomas’s hands trailing up and down my back.
‘How was that for aggression?’ His voice hoarse from exertion.
I huff out a small laugh, thinking that, just as I’ve only ever acted wanton with Thomas, it’d be nice if he only ever acts playful with me. ‘You win.’
The rumble of his own laugh lulling me into oblivion.
Waking only for a moment when Thomas cursed Mike Hunt.
23
THOMAS
If my brother ever knew that I left the arms of a warm, well-spent woman to debate whether or not Cinderella and Prince Charming really loved each other with a six-year-old, I’d never hear the end of it.
Poor Gus-Gus the mouse struggles up the stairs with a key. I gesture to the TV. ‘But how can they love each other when they never talked.’
Mary frowns at me from her side of the couch. ‘They talked.’
‘When?’
She shrugs. ‘While they were dancing.’
‘Why didn’t we hear them?’
