Page 49 of Hold You Close
She rakes them down either side of my spine and down over my ass.
“Tell me.” Already my body is beginning to move of its own accord.
She tilts her hips and pulls me in deeper. “I want you to fuck me, you son of a bitch.”
I would have laughed at the name-calling if I wasn’t so out of my mind with need. It was just like her to try for the last word, even as she was doing exactly what I said she would.
The thought makes me almost delirious as I move inside her—I brought the high and mighty London Parish to her knees. I made her want me. I made her beg. She hates me, and here she is in my bed, naked and sweaty and panting my name, whispering the sweetest words I’ve ever heard out of her mouth.
“Oh, God, Ian, what are you doing to me?”
“Making you come again.” I’ve changed the angle slightly so I can give her more of what she needs. Listening to her body is easy. She moves freely and unabashedly, taking what she wants and unafraid to show how much she’s enjoying it. It’s such a contrast from the way she is in everyday life—and so fucking hot to me.
I don’t want a lifeless blow-up doll in my bed, no matter how gorgeous she is. Give me London every time—feisty, greedy, passionate, playful. I remember that even as a shy seventeen-year-old girl, she’d been surprisingly fearless in bed, so much so that I told her I didn’t believe she was a virgin. She swore she was, but said I made it easy for her to get carried away. The memory nearly makes me lose control.
“Yes, yes, yes,” she breathes, her heels digging into the backs of my thighs as I fuck her harder and faster. “Right there, just like that.”
Good thing, because the next few seconds has me going stiff as a board over her, groaning way too loudly as my cock throbs again and again. Thank fuck she comes right then too, her hands tight on my ass as her body spasms around me.
We probably woke up the kids.
Possibly even the neighbors’ kids.
Possibly even the kids two time zones and seven states across the country.
I don’t care. Worth it.
Eleven
London
Oh, dear.
Oh, calamity.
Oh, my God.
I’m lying beneath Ian, crushed by his warm bare chest, his skin covered with a light sheen of sweat, just like mine is.
I want to tell him to get off me. I want to tell him I can’t breathe. I want to tell him what we just did is a mistake and can’t ever happen again—and I need to say it before he does.
“Ian. Move.” I shove at his giant slab of a muscular torso. “I need air.”
“Oh. Sorry.” He lifts himself off me, pulling out and rolling onto his back.
I stay on my back too, still trying to catch my breath. I’m not quite sure how that just happened. Hadn’t I gone to sleep on the couch in order to avoid this very problem?
Ugh, now I was one of them—those stupid, flighty girls who can’t resist Ian’s charms or his body or his big stupid dick.
His big, stupid, magical dick.
I squeeze my eyes shut and force myself not to think about it. Not its size or its talent or the way it felt pulsing deep inside me. Because its owner is not good for me. Those fantasies I had earlier in the night were just that—fantasies. Clearly I let them work me up a little too much, so much that I was unable to resist Ian’s advances. He’s probably laughing at me inside his head, congratulating himself on yet another conquest.
I sit up. “This was a mistake.”
He looks at me. “It was?”
“Wasn’t it?” I risk a glance at his face, but can’t read his expression in the dark.
