Page 117 of The Dixon Rule

“Half!” She groans. “Oh my God. I already feel so full. How are you not all the way in? Give me more.”

I give her more.

“More. Please, Shane.”

Every breathy plea does my head in. I push forward, not with my entire length but deep enough that I feel her around me like a tight glove. Enough that it rolls her eyes to the top of her head and has her clinging to me. She starts rocking.

“Slowly,” I warn. “Get used to it.”

“I’m used to it,” she says stubbornly.

“Dixon—”

“Fuck me. Please. Please, Shane, please.”

Diana Dixon is begging me to fuck her. I never would’ve imagined this last year, when she was mocking me about my fuckboy ways, vowing she would never have me. Well, she has me now. She has all of me. Well, almost all of me.

I’m not going to lord this over her, though. This isn’t some sort of humiliation fetish. This is about making her feel good. Taking control so she doesn’t have to. Showing her that her pleasure matters to me as much as mine.

I go slow despite her pleas. Because the buildup is everything. Deep, measured thrusts. Her fingers dig into my ass, and her teeth bite into my shoulder.

“You’re a feral little thing,” I grunt.

She responds by biting me harder. The sting of pain triggers another bolt of pleasure. I speed up. Yeah, the train has left the station. I can’t control the pace anymore. No one’s in control but my hips and her pussy swallowing me up.

But I still have some willpower left in me. “Are you going to get there again?” I grind out. I’m wound up tight. So hard for her.

“I think so. Keep hitting that spot.”

I angle my hips. “This one?”

“Mmm-hmm. Yes. Right there. Don’t stop.”

I pound into her. My body is on fire. Heart thundering. I’m officially in the danger zone. That point where a woman tells me not to stop what I’m doing because she’s about to come, which means I’m about to come, which means soon I’m going to stop exactly what I’m doing because I’m too far gone.

I hold off as best as I can, trying to think about anything but the fact that her pussy is about to spasm around me. I kiss her, biting back a curse when she nips at my lower lip. Fuck. My willpower shatters, and I hope to God she comes too because I’m done. Pleasure explodes inside of me. I shudder, tempo abandoned, as the orgasm is ripped from me.

I’m a destroyed and demolished mess, panting hard. I collapse on top of her and feel our hearts beating in unison. A fast, throbbing rhythm.

I growl in her ear, “Please tell me you came.”

Her breathless laughter vibrates against my chest. “Yes.”

“Thank God.” I roll us over and pull her warm, pliant body on top of me. “That was the best fake sex I’ve ever had,” I tell her, and she laughs even harder.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

DIANA

September sausage fest

I SLEPT WITH SHANE LINDLEY, AND I DON’T REGRET IT.

Because sex with Shane is sort of incredible.

Fine, no sort of about it.

Hands down, it was the best sex of my life. And now that this orgasm ball is in motion, I can’t stop it from rolling all over me. We’ve slept together every night for the past three days, although I’ve drawn the line at staying over because I’m not about to cuddle in bed with Shane Lindley like an actual couple. I’m strictly using him for…well, for so much, I’ve lost count.

---