Page 302 of A Taste of Vanilla
“I want you deeper.”
He makes a sound almost like a growl, and then his hand leaves my thigh, slides beneath my lower back, and tilts my hips. The next thrust steals every bit of air I have.
“Like that?” he asks.
I nod frantically.
“Words.”
“Yes, like that. Exactly like that.”
He keeps me there, held open and lifted, each stroke deeper, rougher, my fingers twisting in the sheets.
“Eyes on me, baby.”
I try.
I fail.
His hand returns to my throat, still light, but enough to hold my attention on him.
“I’ve got you. Take what you need from me.”
“I—I’m close,” I moan.
The second orgasm hits even harder, rolling through me in waves that make my back arch and my body clamp down around him. I cry out his name, then something much less articulate. Probably illegal in several countries. Warren loses the last of his control, his rhythm breaking as his hand fists the sheet beside my head. His mouth drops to my neck, teeth grazing skin as he drives into me with a rough, helpless groan.
“Halston,” he says, and there’s so much in it. Want. Love. Need. The edge of restraint. “I’m going to come.”
“Yes.”
His hips stutter.
I drag my nails down his back. “Come for me.”
He comes with my name against my throat, deep inside of me, the sound of it rough and beautiful enough to make my eyes burn. For a few seconds, the only thing I know is his weight, hisheartbeat, the heat of him, and the way his body still trembles over mine like I have undone him as completely as he has undone me.
After, he does not collapse.
Not fully, anyway.
He lowers himself carefully, shifting enough not to crush me, and kisses my temple. My cheek, the corner of my mouth. His breathing is still ragged, and mine is worse.
The room smells like sex, warm skin, whiskey, and the faint vanilla of my soap.
Very classy.
Also very slutty.
A balanced brand identity.
“You okay?” he asks.
I take inventory: body, heart, pain, dignity.
“Yeah.”
His hand moves over my hair, smoothing it back from my damp forehead. “Pain?”
