Page 94 of Good Boy

I loop my arms around his neck and pull his hair to bring up his head. Then I kiss the living daylights out of him and rock my hips upward in a desperate attempt to create some friction.

Blake grunts against my lips. His rock-hard erection is like a branding iron against my thigh. “Hold on, babe. Lemme suit up.”

I’m so mindless with need that I just keep rocking until finally he grips both my hips and fixes me with a very un-Blake-like glare.

“Keep doing that and I’m gonna come all over your leg. Is that what you want, you evil woman?”

God, no. I want him inside me already. Why is he taking so long?

My impatient grumble summons a bark of laughter from him. He reaches for his discarded pants and fumbles around until he finds a condom. In no time at all, he’s covered in latex and plunging into my needy core.

“Blake,” I gasp.

He doesn’t answer. He’s too busy setting a fast, relentless pace that steals my breath and my sanity. His thrusts are so deep, so deliciously violent, that our bodies slide forward on the hall floor. My head bumps into something—a duffel bag, I think. I don’t care. Nope, don’t care and hardly notice as his jackknifing hips practically fuck us all the way into the living room.

I cling to his shoulders and squeeze my eyes shut, letting the pleasure take over. When the orgasm comes, it’s not in lazy, pulsing waves but an instant explosion of bliss. I shudder and curse and forget my name.

I vaguely register a growl from Blake. An agonized “fuck yeah,” punctuated by one final thrust and then the ferocious trembling of his body.

It takes several minutes before we’re able to move. I’m pretty sure I’m in cardiac arrest. Blake’s chest heaves as if he’s just skated his ass off to kill back-to-back penalties.

Eventually he speaks, his voice laced with humor. “Front hall—check. What room should we tackle next?”

Chapter 28

Mick Jagger Is Yelling at Me

Blake

I don’t want to move. Actually, I might be physically incapable of moving. Sex marathons tend to do that to you.

But as much as I want to stay in bed all day with Jess Canning wrapped around me like a full-body scarf, the sunlight streaming in through the curtains tells me that it’s morning. Or at least I hope it’s morning, because I have practice at ten. Shit, I hope we didn’t sleep through the alarm.

Trying not to wake Jess, I carefully lift my head and crane it toward the clock. Eight fifty. Nice. I’m right on schedule. I stretch my arm out to turn off the alarm before—

“IF YOU START ME UP!”

“Fuck,” I curse when an explosion of music rocks the bedroom. I have the song programmed so that it skips the intro and gets right to the good stuff.

“I’LL NEVER STOP!”

Except the good stuff is loud.

A tortured groan sounds from the mattress. “Why is Mick Jagger yelling at me?” Jess wails.

I finally manage to shut off the alarm and grin down at the grumpy blond in my bed. “Sorry, babe. I like to wake up with the Stones.”

“Well, I like to wake up with my eardrums intact.” She sits up and rubs her eyes. “What time is it?”

“Almost nine.”

That gets her attention. “Crap!” She flies off the bed with a burst of speed that my coach would be proud of. “I have to go!”

“Me too.” I move a bit slower, staggering to my feet. “What do you have going on today? I’m not sure I’ll have time to drop you at the dorms this morning. Practice starts at ten.”

“Don’t worry. I’m fine taking the subway,” she says as she ducks into the master bath. “I have a meeting with my program director at eleven.” Her voice grows muffled as she turns on the faucet. “…come back.”

“What was that?” I bulldoze my way into the bathroom, flip open the toilet lid, and grip Snake Riley in one hand.

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