Page 84 of Tripped Up

Wyatt lets out a growl. “Don’t play with me, Elsy.”

“Should I change into another one? I have so many, you know.”

Before I can so much as blink, he grabs me by the hips, yanking me down the bed. He manhandles me onto my belly, then pulls down my panties and buries his head between my legs.

He’s not gentle or sweet. No, he dives in like he’s starved, eating me out with a vengeance. A hand slips around to rub at my clit, hard and demanding. The scrape of his stubble between my thighs sends me climbing higher and higher. My hips lift, desperate for more as I grind against his fingers.

He grabs my ass, stroking the flesh there before he smacks me, the sharp crack echoing in the room, punctuated by my pants and moans. Need grips me by the throat as I squirm, wanting more. He spanks me again, the sting blooming into pleasure as he licks through my slick folds.

But it’s not enough.

“Fuck me.” My words come out on a pant.

He stills behind me. “Elsy…”

“Wyatt, I need you. Fuck me.”

“Are you sure?” He pulls back, running a finger over my entrance, stopping short of pushing in. “We don’t have to.”

Over my shoulder, I glare at him. “If you aren’t inside me in the next five seconds…”

He swallows, hurrying to his nightstand, and pulling out a condom and a bottle of lube. His clothes go flying before he suits up and slicks his fingers with the lube.

We’ve already had the talk about condoms; he’s allergic to latex, so he uses polyurethane, which means extra lube. Both of our test results came back negative, but since I’m not on birth control, condoms are required. And frankly, even if I were on birth control, I’d probably still insist on them. It’s not a trust thing; it’s an anxiety brain thing. I know I’d be obsessing over getting my period every month, poised to freak out at any slight deviation in my cycle. The last thing I want is a pregnancy scare in a brand-new relationship.

Wyatt maneuvers behind me, his hands on my hips. He presses a kiss on the back of my shoulder. “You feeling good?”

“I’ll feel better once you fuck me,” I snap, twitching my ass back.

The head of his cock notches against my entrance and I press against his thick length. He lets me take the lead, lets me use him like my own personal toy, until my ass rests against his thighs.

His thick length stretches me to my breaking point. The sensation of fullness is nearly overwhelming. Draping his body over mine, he rests his hands on either side of mine, his thighs bracketing my legs. He cages me in, enveloping me in his embrace.

“Fuck, Els.” His shuddery breath in my ear sends a shiver down my spine. “You feel so good.”

I have no words. I clench around him, his cock buried deep inside of me, and his rattling groan reverberates through his chest and into me.

Turning my head, I meet his lips in a heated kiss. He licks into my mouth, his tongue plunging in. He tastes like me, and I let out a soft whimper that has him smiling into the kiss.

“I fucking love you,” he whispers.

Lifting off his cock, I drive my hips back to take him inside me again. “You mean you love fucking me.”

“That, too.” He gives me another kiss before he lifts himself off me, his hands moving to my hips for balance.

“Then get to it.”

He laughs! He actually fucking laughs while he’s buried balls deep inside of me.

“Oh, Elsy,” he says, his smile audible. “Don’t ever change.”

With that, he pulls back and slams home again. Arousal coils within me as he fucks me with even, measured strokes. He sets one hand on my upper back, applying steady pressure until I drop onto my forearms to bury my face in the pillows.

This man treats me like a queen, my pleasure his priority, but he doesn’t treat me like a delicate flower. Or like I’ll break. No, he treats me like his equal.

Because I am. Just because he’s a millionaire hockey player doesn’t mean he’s better than me or that he’s more important than I am. We’re the same, he and I. We’re just people—people who have anxiety, people who have fought from the brink of panic, people who have loved and lost and learned.

And as Wyatt fucks me, his hands touching every part of me, I know it goes beyond the physicality. He’s touching my soul, too. He’s touching my heart.