Page 88 of Then You Happened
Fuuuuck. There’s no walking away now.
“I was going to the bar.”
“Okay.” Confusion etches the lines of her face as she opens the door a few inches wider.
“Tell me to go to the bar, Tate,” I demand.
“Go to the bar, Jack.” Her voice is flat. Unemotional.
“Mean it.”
“But I don’t mean it.”
“What?” I ask in reflex when I like her answer perfectly fucking well.
“I don’t want you to go to the bar, Jack,” she says and then does something completely unexpected. She pulls her tank top over her head. Those handful-size tits with pink nipples tighten when the breeze hits them.
Like a jackass, I just stand there and stare at her. At Tate. At the woman I want but have known since day one that I should walk away from.
I’m screwed.
With her eyes locked on mine, she pushes her shorts down until they fall to her feet.
The curve of her hips. The tight strip of hair atop her pussy. The shuddered breath she emits that tells me she feels every bit as fucking taken aback by this as I do.
So fucking screwed.
“You should go to the bar, Jack.” The suggestive smile on her lips tells me she doesn’t mean a goddamn word she says.
And I’m going to enjoy every unexpected minute of it.
“FUCK THE BAR,” I mutter the moment we crash into each other.
We’re a frenzy of lips and tongues and me pulling off my shirt and her undoing my pants as we crash into the wall at her back.
There is no time for patience. No time for foreplay.
Only an urgency to be buried in that tight, wet pussy of hers that feels like Heaven and tells me it will haunt me like Hell and will take me every goddamn place between.
There is only insanity in the desperation to feel her again, to have her again, to fucking claim her again.
Seconds pass in ragged breaths. Each one panted a second too long until I can be buried in her.
Her back pinned against the wall. My hands on her waist, lifting her so that she can wrap her calves around my hips.
She curls her hand around my cock, and as good as that feels, it has nothing on when she arches her hips and rubs it up and down her slit.
Wet doesn’t even begin to describe how fucking drenched she is.
Tight doesn’t explain the resistance I feel when I lower her down onto me.
Fucking ecstasy doesn’t hold a damn candle to what it feels like to be buried in her balls deep.
“Christ, Tate.”
“Soooo good.”
She clenches her muscles around my dick and pulls me in tighter, and I swear to fucking God, any less of a man would have come on the spot.
