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And then I’m lost again, clenching around him in the most satisfying way, arching my back so that I take in more of him.
Jesse slides inside me slowly.
“It’s too good, Angel,” he says. “You’re too fucking delicious.”
“Fuck me hard,” I say, my eyelids heavy with satisfaction. “I want you to come inside me.”
Jesse lifts both my legs and rams me into the wall, manipulating my body to his will and pounding into me so hard it feels like the stairs should be shaking. I dig my fingernails into his shoulders, and he brings his mouth to mine, the kiss messy and wet and hot, our tongues colliding, battling to take more from the other.
He draws back and pounds into me, his abs flexing, glistening with sweat in the half-light from the window.
“Say you’re mine,” he says.
“W-What?”
“Say it,” he says. “Say it.”
“I’m yours, Jesse. I’m yours. This pussy belongs to you.”
He moans and drives into me, burying himself, holding me suspended as he releases inside me, filling me as I wanted him to. The pressure is too much, and I crash over the edge with him, crying out, grabbing at my breast.
Afterward, he slides his hands around my midriff and holds me, and I wrap my legs around his waist. He carries me up the stairs and toward my apartment door, but it’s locked. We collapse onto the landing together, his cock still inside me, and his lips pressed to my forehead.
“Keeping it inside,” he says. “Going to fuck you again in fifteen.”
And even that’s sexy.
I’m lost with Jesse Taylor, and I’m starting to worry that I don’t want to be found.
Thirty-Three
MARCI
I siton the edge of the bed waiting for Jesse, my belly turning over, my cheeks sore from smiling. We spent today in Prickly Poppy Bay, another adorable beach town down the coast with its own cove that overlooks the sea. We handed out samples and talked to locals about the Heartstopper, and the response was positive. I lost count of the number of people who said they planned on visiting for a burger. Prickly Poppy Bay isn’t that far from Heatstroke, and I feel success in my bones.
The shower cuts off, and Jesse emerges from the bathroom, shirtless, toweling his dark hair dry, another towel wrapped around his waist.
“I like it when you smile,” he says. “You never used to do that when I was around.”
“Are you okay?”
Tomorrow’s a big day for Jesse.
It’s the first rally since he announced he’s running for sheriff a week ago, and he’s nervous. He’s been working with a personal assistant, Greer, trying to get his affairs in order.
“Yeah,” he says. “Nervous. Never thought I would say that out loud.”
He chuckles.
“Why?”
“Not what Taylor men are supposed to say.”
“You’re going to speak in front of the citizens of Heatstroke about being their future sheriff,” I say. “Of course, you’re nervous. Anyone would be.”
“Surprisingly,” he says, “that’s not helping.” Jesse laughs and tosses the towel aside. “You suck at this ‘supportive wife’ gig.”
“Are you kidding me?”
