Jerking my hands from her body, I attack my belt and button, yanking down my zipper and freeing my flesh. It’s a relief and a torment. Just like being inside her is. It’s the perfect description. Satisfaction and unrelenting greed for more. Always more with her.
Digging in my back pocket, I remove my wallet and a condom before tossing the billfold on the counter. In seconds, I have the latex rolled down my cock and it notched at the entrance to her body. Part of me wants to pause, to savor that moment of slowly pushing in, being swallowed by her. But the hungrier, gut-clenching part…
I drive forward.
“Fuck,” I grind out. Her choked wail almost drowns me out. My fingers grip her bare hips so hard, bruises are a possibility. And that animalistic side of me hopes so. I want her to look in the mirror tomorrow and not just remember this, but feel it in the tenderness of those marks. Knowing who put them there, who claimed her as his, even if only for this moment. “Fuck,” I repeat the whisper against the back of her neck.
So goddamn tight. Strong. I’m in a vise that I don’t want to fight my way out of. Her flesh ripples around me, caressing me, stroking me without my even moving. I squeeze my eyes shut, clenching my jaw so hard, a dull ache pulses in protest. But I remain still, letting her become accustomed to me. Waiting for her to give me the go-ahead to continue.
That signal comes seconds—hours—later. Her hips roll, grinding that beautiful ass over me. I have an obsession with this ass. I want to kiss it, bite it, slap it…ride it.
I withdraw, gliding slow, grunting as her slick walls clutch at me as if demanding I stop screwing around, and get back inside. With a quick, hard thrust, I obey. We both shudder. My memories have been lying to me all this time. Not reminding me just howgoodit is being clasped by her. Probably trying to preserve my sanity. Because if I’d recalled that being surrounded by her had been like this—heaven wrapped in exquisite hell—I would’ve jumped her the moment she entered my mother’s living room.
Leaning back, I watch as I slide free of her, glistening and looking almost too big, too brutish for her tender, vulnerable flesh. This time, I don’t slam back inside her, but slowly bury myself, staring, fascinated, as she parts for me, taking me. It’s hot, erotic…beautiful.
I continue to shaft her at this slow, easy pace even though everything within me is demanding I pound her and me into orgasm. Instead, I reach around her, coat my fingers in the moisture covering her entire sex. When I’m completely soaked, I part her ass, revealing the tiny, puckered back hole there. I lube it with her own cream, returning to her for more, making sure she’s good and wet.
Keening, she dips her knees, bucking her hips back and forth, screwing herself on my dick, and at the same time begging me for a deeper, dirtier penetration.
I give it to her.
My fingertips break through the tight ring of muscle, breaching her, then sliding into that smooth, two-sizes-too-small channel. Yet, it’s a perfect fit for my two fingers. She clenches around me, and I almost let go right there.
Dragging in a ragged breath, I start to move, watching myself fuck both of Cypress’s holes. Knowing it’s Cypress who I’m possessing, taking—it’s the most potent aphrodisiac.
“Jude,” she whines, her hands braced against the door. She dips and rolls, accepting every stroke, every drive I’m delivering to her body. Pleasure sizzles up and down my spine in electric currents, threatening to short circuit my brain, my existence. “Please. Give it to me. Please.”
That plea in her voice, the suction of her pussy, the tight, stranglehold of her ass… I snap. And bury myself in her over and over. Using her. Worshipping her. Giving to her.
Sweeping a hand over her hip, I locate her clit, brush it. Pinch it.
With a cry that bounces off the walls of the bathroom, she breaks, shatters. Her pussy clamps down on me, and with a grunt, I keep riding her, making sure every last clutch, ripple, and pulse of her sex lasts for her. When those screams ease into whimpers, I let go, crashing into her, pounding at her until I explode. Goddamn, the ecstasy—it barrels through me, pinning me in place, helpless and glad for it.
Breathing hard, I plant a kiss against her soft nape, gently removing my fingers and cock from her. Quickly taking care of the condom, I return to her, turn her around.
Tunneling my fingers through her hair, I tilt her head back, studying her eyes, hazy with lingering pleasure, lips swollen from my mouth, and skin flushed from the release that damn near killed me.
And I’m not satisfied. I want more.
“Call in,” I murmur. The glaze clears a little as my words sink in. “Call in and come home with me. I’m not finished with you.”
She doesn’t reply, and I prepare myself for her to turn me down. It’s an unfair request; I can admit that. I should be returning, too, but that takes a back seat to having her again. Lying next to her. Feeling her breath on my skin.
Her lashes flutter and lower, and I almost rescind the request.
But then she whispers, “I’d rather regret the things I’ve done than regret the things I haven’t done.”I frown, but before I can ask her to explain, she nods, meeting my gaze. “Okay.”
I blow out a breath, relief and renewed lust flowing through me like a tide rushing back in to consume a beach.
“Let’s go.”
Chapter Ten
Cypress
“What did that mean?” Jude’s question is quiet in his even more quiet bedroom. It’s been hours after the cataclysmic event in the men’s bathroom of that dive bar and more mind-bending sex in his apartment. My body is tired, limbs heavy from sex that is the stuff of myths and porn. So my fogged mind takes a moment to decipher what he’s referring to. Just as it lands on what he’s talking about, he says, “You said something about regrets earlier.”
“I’d rather regret the things I’ve done than regret the things I haven’t done,” I murmur. “It’s a quote by Lucille Ball. It means I’d rather regret things I’ve tried and done, than not do them out of fear.” I silently debate over how much to tell him. But maybe it’s the after-sex lassitude. Or the cocoon of intimacy that seems to invade the room. Or maybe it’s that for once, I want to open up to another person, be honest with them. No, not just another person. Jude. “I memorize quotes from powerful women. It’s a hobby I started when I was fifteen. At first, it was like they were giving me advice and wisdom on how to be like them. To be successful and powerful myself.”
