Page 93 of Perfect Praise

Locke tips his chin a centimeter to kiss my lips as he presses his finger into me. He swallows my moan.

This new feeling thrums along every pleasure pathway in my body, heightening my euphoria in a way I’ve never experienced.

“God,” I moan, wanting to be his good little whore. I press back, driving his finger deeper.

He smirks. “I’m going to fuck you into this mattress, and you’re going to love every second of it.”

Words almost hold more power over my brain than the physical, because that takes my body up an incredible notch.

Locke and I breathe heavily, sweaty and wild, as we ride each other. I push down, he pushes up.

Our orgasms build together quickly, each of us nearing total derangement, fervor, passion—a state of being without a known definition.

“Such a good fucking girl,” Locke murmurs affectionately. “Come for me, Maren.”

His words push me over a ledge I never knew I could reach. This is what it feels like to fuck. To make love. To be a slut. To be used. To be appreciated. To be worshiped.

And when he starts to tremble with me, Locke catches his name moaning out of my mouth with his, and I feel him come inside me.

I’mhis.

My entire body pulses and pulses in rapid fire at the thought until I can’t take it anymore, and I collapse down on top of him.

I sure as hell won’t be able to walk tomorrow, and I wasn’t even the one who was tied down.

I lean against thedoorway of my bedroom, where Maren’s been holed up and glued to her laptop for three days.

Her face is so focused, she doesn’t even notice the motion in her peripheral vision.

“Are you going to let me see yet?”

Her head snaps up. “No! They’re not ready yet,” she says, lowering the screen like I can somehow see through the back of it.

I cross the room in four strides and lie down on my stomach across the bed, mirroring her position.

Maren slides the computer to the side and kicks her feet up into the air playfully to see if I’ll copy her—which of course I do, because I’ll flirt with her any chance I get.

“All the hurricane shutters are down. The wind is starting to pick up.”

She motions to my huge bedroom window. “What about that one?”

“It’s the strongest pane of glass in the house, coincidentally called hurricane glass.”

“Thank you,” she smiles. “You’re the best. Is your phone charged?”

I roll my eyes. “You’re the only person I’d text anyway.”

“Well, mine is.” She pats her laptop. “And my computer.”

“We have a generator. And I’m going to see them eventually,” I tease.

“Of course,” shesighs. “AfterI editthem.”

“Then show me Camille’s maternity shoot.” Maren hesitates for a split second, but I don’t miss it. “What?” I question her.

“NothingImadeawebsite.”

“Nothingyoumadeawebsite?”

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