Page 115 of Nash
"Nash." Tears streak down my temples. "Please."
He lifts his mouth from my breast. Looks at me. His eyes are dark, his jaw set, his composure cracked but holding. The hand on my throat tightens one degree.
"Tell me what you need."
"I need to come. Please let me come. Please. I can't hold it anymore, Nash. I can't. It's everywhere. It's in my chest and my thighs and my teeth. I—"
"Whose are you?"
"Yours."
"Say it again."
"I'm yours. I'm yours, Nash, I'm yours, please—"
He turns the vibrator to its highest setting, drives his cock deep, and says, "Now."
The orgasm splits me open. My back arches off the bed so hard that only my head and heels are touching. My pussy clamps around his cock in contractions that come one after another relentlessly. Each one pulls a sound from my throat that's raw, animal, shaking through my entire body. The vibrator extends it, pushes it further, the waves cresting and cresting without breaking. Nash fucks me through every single one, his rhythm hard, deep, his cock hitting the spot that makes each contraction sharper.
He comes with me. I feel his cock pulse inside me, thick, hot, and his groan against my neck is the first sound he's made all night that sounds broken. His hips stutter as his hand loosens on my throat and cradles my jaw. The vibrator clicks off. His body covers mine, heavy, warm, shaking.
The aftershocks roll for a long time. My pussy keeps clenching around his softening cock in diminishing pulses. At random intervals, my body twitches. My face is wet. My chest is heaving. His forehead is pressed against mine, his breath ragged.
"I can't move," I say. "Again. I can't move again. This is becoming a pattern. You've broken me. I am a broken woman.My legs don't work. My brain doesn't work. I think you've rewired my entire nervous system."
He pulls out slowly, and I feel every inch of the withdrawal.
"Your dick has magical powers," I say into the pillow. "I need you to understand that. Your cock is enchanted. It should be studied. Scientists should be involved. There should be a peer-reviewed journal dedicated exclusively to whatever you just did to me."
His chest shakes against my back.
"I'm serious. I am DEAD serious. This is not a bit. I am making a scientific observation. Your penis has supernatural properties. Frankie should investigate. Maybe it's witchcraft. Maybe that's why you got the membership here. Vesper is just a front for men with magical dicks."
He laughs. A real laugh, low and full, his face buried in my hair, his arms tightening around me. The sound rumbles through his chest into mine, and I feel it in my ribs, my stomach, my heart.
"I love you," he says.
The words are quiet. Pressed into my hair. Almost lost in the laugh, except they aren't lost at all because they land in my chest like a grenade that detonates into warmth instead of shrapnel.
I go still. My whole body goes still.
"What?" My voice comes out small.
"I love you, Ruby." He says it again, clearer this time, his mouth against the back of my neck. "I've loved you since before I knew what to do with it."
The tears come without warning. My face crumples against the pillow, and the sob that comes out of me is ugly, wet, graceless, nothing like the performance tears I deploy when I want attention. These are the real ones. The ones I keep locked in a drawer labeled DO NOT OPEN because opening them meansadmitting I wanted this, I needed this, and I've been terrified that wanting it would make it disappear.
"I love you too," I say through the tears, snot and all. My voice is wrecked. "I love you so much it scares me and I've loved you since the first time you flexed your jaw at me across a clubhouse yard. I hate that I'm crying and I hate that I have snot on the pillow. I love you, Nash, I love you, I—"
He turns me over and pulls me against his chest. I press my face into him, crying harder, gripping his shoulders, and he holds me. He holds all of it. The tears, the snot, the shaking, and the words I've been carrying for months that finally found their way out in a soundproofed room at a sex club after the most intense orgasm of my life.
"I've got you," he says against my hair. "I'm right here."
I cry until the tears run out. Then I breathe. His heartbeat under my ear, steady, constant, is the metronome that holds the structure while I fall apart. When I finally pull back, my face feels swollen, my mascara is destroyed, and there is definitely snot on his chest.
"I just told you I love you while covered in bodily fluids in a sex club," I say. "That's peak romance. Hallmark should be calling any minute."
He wipes my face with his thumb. His eyes are soft. The softest I've ever seen them.
