And then he started gasping, cursing, whispering my name—now he would come. My favorite part.
“Ohhh fuck, Lex, Lex, baby, oh fuck, Lexie.”
“Come for me, Myles. Give it to me hard.”
He slammed into me. “Like this?”
I pushed against him, pressing away so I could bend over, hands on the glass. “Harder.”
He gave it to me harder, my ass cheeks shaking as he drove into me with renewed vigor, chasing his orgasm as if it was running away from him.
And then, I knew it was time.
Now.
He lifted me upright, slammed me up against the window again, pressed his lips to my ear, hand barred across my tits and his other swiftly flicking my clit. Cock pounding into me, slapping and driving, his grunts wordless.
“Lex,” he gasped. “Fuck, baby—take it, take it.”
Don’t call me baby—I didn’t say it.
He came with a roar, and I came with him. It hurt, I came so hard. I felt him throb inside me, even through the condom, and I buried the longing to feel him bare inside me. Savagely shoved that need way down deep. Denied it.
He came, and I came, and together we shook, shivered, and he grunted and swore and prayed my name, over and over, whispering my name as he shuddered behind me.
And then my knees gave out, and he caught me. Lifted me in his arms, carried me to the bed. Tossed me onto it—gasping, I watched him saunter into the bathroom, strip the condom off and wrap it in toilet paper, give himself a quick wipe, and then he launched himself onto the bed, bouncing next to me, sending me airborne—only to catch me in his arms.
“How can sex get better every time?” he muttered. “Like, there has to be an upward limit to how good sex can get, right?”
I shrugged. “I dunno.”
“Is it, for you?”
I nodded, following the direction of his question. “Better every time? Yes. Seems impossible, but there it is—every time we fuck, it’s more incredible than the last time.”
And part of me hated that truth, because I already knew I was in deep shit with this man. I was addicted to him. To his laughter, his music. To his hands, his mouth. To his cock, like whoa. To sex with him—fuck…to theintimacy. It was not just fucking, with Myles. I knew that, and I was fighting it. I wouldn’t admit that out loud, much less to him. To anyone, much less myself. But it was true.
I just didn’t want him to realize it.
That was safer. Easier.
As was this—basking in the afterglow of great sex, rather than stilltalking. Still sharing ourfeelings. Still putting our relationship such as it was into a box, inside neat little labels, with emotional attachments and expectations.
Myles was content to snuggle up behind me, limp cock nestled in my butt cheeks, hand lazily, idly caressing my breasts. Not sleeping—he never fell asleep after sex—but just…this. Holding me.
I fought impatience. Fought discomfort. I liked being here, in his arms. Being held. I did. I really, truly did. But I also felt a deep, driving discomfort, a fear of liking it too much.
Myles’s phone rang in the other room, and he groaned. “That’s Tony’s ring. He probably has a plane for us.”
“You should answer it,” I said.
“Mmm. Like it better here.”
“You like being able to hold on to my boobs,” I said, laughing.
“Absolutely the truth.” He squeezed. “Every single time I get to see them naked or touch them, I feel as lucky and giddy as if I was a fourteen-year-old boy seeing your tits for the first time.”
He wasn’t lying, either. He did look at me and touch me exactly like that.
