Page 35 of Egg Me On
The pain gave way to pleasure as he bottomed out, his hips flush against my ass, his cock throbbing inside me. He paused, giving me time to adjust, his breathing ragged against my neck. I could feel the tremors running through his body as he fought for control.
"Move," I gasped, pushing back to take him impossibly deeper. "Please, Cash, fuck me. Show me you don’t believe him. You don’t think this is wrong."
Something in him snapped. He pulled back almost to the tip, then slammed forward with enough force to drive me hard against the wall. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed obscenely in the tiled room, but I was beyond caring, beyond anything but the perfect rhythm he found—hard and deep and relentless.
His lips crashed against mine, and I wrapped my arms around his neck, unable to do anything but cling to him as he fucked me wildly.
His breathing punctuated each thrust, occasionally breaking on a low, possessive growl that sent electricity racing through my veins. One hand left my hip, snaking between us to wrap around my neglected cock, stroking in time with his thrusts.
I spread my legs, taking him deeper, harder, my body singing with pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. The dual stimulation of his cock hitting that perfect spot inside me and his hand working my shaft drove me rapidly toward the edge.
"Close," I warned, voice breaking on the word. "So close, Cash."
His pace became punishing, his hips snapping against mine with enough force to drive me up onto my toes. His hand tightened around my cock, thumb swiping over the sensitive head on each upstroke.
The tension inside me snapped like an overstretched wire. I came with a muffled cry, spilling over his hand and onto the tile wall in hot pulses that seemed to go on forever. My body clenched around his cock in rhythmic waves, drawing him deeper, my fingers digging into his shoulders.
Cash thrust once, twice more, then buried himself to the hilt with a strangled groan against my neck, his body going rigid as he followed me over the edge. I felt the pulse of his release deep inside me, hot and slick.
For long moments, we stayed like that, joined and panting, his weight pressed against my back, pinning me to the wall. His heart hammered against my spine, his breath hot and damp against my neck. Slowly, the world began to reassemble itself around us—the hum of the fluorescent lights, the distant sounds of the shop, the cold press of tile against my overheated skin.
Cash eased out of me with surprising gentleness, one hand steadying me as he dropped my legs to the ground and I winced at the emptiness he left behind.
Our eyes met, and for one suspended moment, everything else fell away. Leo's anger, the shop, the world outside this bathroom. Just us, and whatever this was between us that defied easy definition.
Then Cash looked away, breaking the spell, and the cold reality of what we'd just done came rushing back. He still hadn’t explained things to me. He just kept shifting gears from theintense sexual closeness to this cool silence so fast it gave me whiplash.
The water ran cold over my hands, numbing my fingers as I mechanically washed away the evidence of what we'd just done. The mirror above the sink reflected our awkward choreography—me at one basin, Cash at another, both of us focused on the mundane task of cleaning up as if the world might end if we acknowledged what had just happened. The space between us, barely two feet of industrial bathroom tile, felt wider than the Grand Canyon. I sneaked glances at him through the mirror, searching for any hint of what he was thinking, but his face had returned to that unreadable mask, jaw set, eyes downcast, shoulders rigid with tension I longed to ease but didn't know how.
I adjusted my clothes, wincing slightly at the pleasant soreness that reminded me of his urgency, his need, his possession. My shirt was rumpled, hair a disaster from where his fingers had gripped it. Cash looked equally wrecked—lips still swollen, a flush lingering high on his cheekbones, stubble burn reddening his jaw where I'd rubbed against him. Physical evidence of our connection that stood in stark contrast to the emotional chasm widening between us.
Minutes earlier, he'd been inside me, gripping me like he never wanted to let go. Now he wouldn't even meet my eyes.
The soap dispenser wheezed as Cash pressed it again, working up a lather with methodical precision. His movements were measured, controlled, nothing like the desperate urgency thathad possessed him before. I watched his hands and tried to reconcile their tenderness with his current distance.
"That was..." I started, then faltered, unsure how to finish. Intense? Amazing? Terrifying in its implications? “Hot.”
Cash grunted, a non-committal sound that could have meant anything or nothing. His eyes remained fixed on his hands as he rinsed them, watching the water swirl down the drain as if it contained the secrets of the universe.
The silence stretched between us, broken only by the steady drip of the leaky faucet and the distant sounds of the shop floor. I could still hear Liv's laugh, Dylan's deeper voice responding. Life continued outside this bathroom as if nothing world-altering had happened inside it. As if Cash hadn't just fucked me against the wall with an intensity that had made my knees buckle and my heart crack open.
"Your brother's an asshole," I said finally, desperate to break the silence with something, anything.
Cash's lips twitched, almost a smile but not quite. "Yeah."
One word. Just one. But it felt like a victory after the wall of silence he'd erected. I pushed further.
"You okay? After what he said?"
His shoulders tensed slightly, the movement barely perceptible. Then he shrugged.
I turned off my faucet, grabbing a paper towel to dry my hands. My reflection stared back at me, cheeks still flushed, eyes too bright, looking altogether too vulnerable for a man my age. Cash continued to wash his hands, the water running long after all traces of soap had disappeared.
What the hell were we doing? Was this just some adrenaline-fueled response to his brother's appearance? A way to stake his claim, to rebel? Or was it something more, something deeper that he couldn't articulate?
I studied his profile in the mirror—the strong jaw, the slight furrow between his brows, the tight set of his mouth. He looked... troubled. Conflicted. And suddenly I needed to know, needed words where actions weren't enough, needed confirmation that I wasn't just a convenient body, a warm mouth, a tight ass for him to lose himself in when emotions ran high.
"Is this just sex?" The words emerged softer than I'd intended, small but steady in the quiet bathroom.
