Page 96 of Make Me Want it Too

He lines himself up with my entrance then comes down over me, caging my head between his arms and looking into my eyes. His nose touches mine, our lips agonizingly close, almost brushing, but not quite.

And then he tilts his hips. Slowly. So slowly pushing in. Stretching me around his girth.

I let out a quivering moan. His breath is sweet against my lips, and he brushes hair away from my forehead as he sinks inside me inch by inch.

His hips connect to my thighs. He’s all the way in. He’s so deep and I’m so full.

“You feel amazing.”

“You’re so big,” I blurt.

He laughs, his smile lighting up his face. And then he leans in and kisses my nose and then my lips as he pulls out slowly. This time he pushes back in faster and harder and I gasp. A loud “Oh my god!” escapes my lips, unbidden.

“Is that good?” he pants against my lips, thrusting out and back in.

“Don’t stop.” I wrap my arms and legs around him, digging my heels into his butt as he thrusts, clawing at his back, willing him deeper, closer.

He hikes one of my legs up, knee to my chest, opening me up. And this time when he pushes in, he goes deeper, hitting the perfect spot.

“Is that what you needed, love?”

“Yes.”

Once he finds the place, he keeps hitting it. I lift my hips to meet his thrusts. Our pace perfectly in sync, not too fast, not too slow. Deliberate. Hard. Deep. Harder.

He shifts his hips so that somehow his groin is grinding against my clit with each of our movements.

My heart is racing, electricity under my skin, hot, every muscle tensing and coiling as blood pumps everywhere all at once. The pulse between my legs becoming all-consuming.

Noises escape my lips, unhuman sounds, each one morphing into the next. A litany of words urging him on. Begging for more. Desperate pleas.

Through staccato breaths, I tell him I’m going to come again.

“Fuck,” he growls and then his kisses me harder.

Our tongues clash and lick and we suck and bite, needing to taste, feel, and consume every part of each other. Swollen lips. Muffled moans.

I throb around him as the tension building low in my belly blossoms and bursts like breaking the surface of the water and finally getting that gasp of air. It rushes through me, bright and shimmering, lighting me up. I float away for a second before coming back down to the mattress.

My eyes refocus. Wood is on top of me, inside me, wringing the sheets in his fists, his strokes becoming stilted. Then he grunts and whimpers, the muscles in his arms tensing and trembling.

I watch him as he comes. Our eyes meet and his strained face softens through the last of his shuddering breaths.

He closes his eyes when I touch his cheek and leans into my touch, turning to kiss my palm.

He slides out of me gently and I hate the empty feeling. I want to pull him back to me.

When I wake up the next morning, Wood’s arms are holding me to his chest, his leg hooked around my ankle.

His eyes are closed, his breathing slow and rhythmic. The filtered sunlight glowing against his smooth, tan skin and highlighting the angles of his serene face.

I take this moment, in the silence, to run my finger along his jaw, down his neck, his bare shoulder, and across his chest. I press my hand flat there, against his steady heartbeat.

Today is Bex’s wedding day.

In twenty-four hours, we’ll be packing up and going back to Seattle. Back to real life. And in real life, there are no fake boyfriends.

Something tightens in my chest.

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