Page 42 of Caught from Behind

I’m not even thinking about the sun growing brighter through the windows as I moan obscenely loud—likely loud enough to wake the entire neighborhood.

And I’m not thinking about sprinting toward that wall of pleasure, not even remotely able to slow down, to stop myself from plowing into it.

Instead, I’m just…

Concentrating on holding on.

I clutch at his broad shoulders, revel in his groans, in the way he clamps a hand on my hip as he strokes into me. I dig my nails in as he fucks me hard and deep, as he whispers dirty words into the air—and even dirtier ones into my ear.

I love the filthy words, love when he tells me how much he loves the tight clasp of my cunt, the slick heat of my desire, the soft press of my tits, the way I’m clenching him tightly inside and out.

So, I let my body continue to plow forward.

Straight into that wall of desire, the wall that’s threatening to send me to pieces again.

But I’m okay.

Because I’m still holding on to Riggs.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Riggs

Her cheeks are pink as she offers me a homemade muffin and I know it’s not because they’re flushed from the shower, or from us burning up the sheets.

She’s giving me another side of her.

I touch that stretch of pink, stroke my finger over her silky skin, but don’t otherwise comment on it before I take the proffered muffin.

She nibbles at her bottom lip, tears a paper towel from the roll on the counter and sets it in front of me, putting a second muffin on top of that before turning back to the coffeepot, fussing with the lid. I know she’s avoiding eye contact, avoiding me, but I let her have that.

Plus, that means I can partake in my favorite activity.

Watching Ella.

Her hair is flowing down her back in a sea of perfect curls when not forty-five minutes ago it was a mess of tangles and wild twists.

Now it’s beautifully styled—though I can’t lie. I still prefer the just-been-fucked hair.

But it reminds me that for as many Sierra games she’s been to—watching her brother, even though I like to pretend she’s there for me—I’ve never seen her work.

Mostly because she only recently moved to town.

But also because—and I know this makes me an asshole—I didn’t really find it interesting.

Hair’s hair.

Slap some product in my hands, shove it through the strands to keep it out of my face, and call it good.

Only…watching her wash the strands in the shower, drying and styling her hair after—and doing it in a relaxed, confident way that told me she could do it in her sleep, the same way I know I can shoot a puck without really thinking about it—I knew there was so much more.

This is her art.

Her passion.

The things she’s worked incredibly hard to master.

The coffee starts spitting out of the machine, filling her mug, and I don’t miss that she still isn’t looking at me. Nor that she’s giving me lots of other insights into her like?—

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