Page 301 of A Taste of Vanilla

“Christ, Halston.”

“Again.”

He gives it to me again. Then again. Deep, measured strokes at first, each one making my breath catch, my nails scrape down his back, and my hips lift to meet him. His hand leaves my throat and slides down my body, over my breast, my ribs, my waist, until his thumb finds exactly where I need him.

I cry out.

“That’s it,” he says. “Let me hear you.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You’re wet, tight, and arguing with me while I’m fucking your cunt. I think I’m being very patient.”

The laugh that breaks out of me turns into a moan when he thrusts harder.

“That was mean.”

His mouth finds my jaw. “You asked for it.”

His pace builds, no longer careful. Every thrust lands deep and angled, the piercing dragging over nerves that make my thoughts scatter. His hips snap against mine with enough force that the mattress shifts beneath us. One hand grips my thigh, pushing it higher, opening me wider, while the other braces beside my head. His breathing turns rough, almost ragged, and every sound he makes seems to vibrate through my bones.

I am loud.

Warren nips at my jaw. “Louder, beautiful.”

He shifts my leg higher, almost over his shoulder, and the angle changes so sharply I gasp his name.

“There?”

“Yes. There. Don’t stop.”

His rhythm turns slower, heavier, filthier, like he wants me to feel every single part of him.

He looks down at where we are joined, and his hips stutter.

I flush. “What?”

“You should see yourself.”

“I’m a little busy.”

“You look like you were made to take me, Hal.”

My body clenches, and his head drops.

“Fuck. What else do you like, Halston?” His thumb presses tight circles against me. “Being opened up like this? Being watched? Knowing I can feel every time your body gives me an answer your mouth is too proud to give?”

I grip his forearm. “Yes.”

“Tell me one.”

My brain is a bonfire. “What?”

“One thing you want.”

“You.”

“That’s not specific.”