Page 53 of Perfect (mis)Match

“I love the way you say my name when you come,” he murmured against my skin, his voice low and filled with satisfaction.

I could only nod, still trying to catch my breath. My mind was spinning, my body humming with the aftershocks. I heard him open a drawer in his nightstand, then the crinkle of a condom wrapper.

“Was I too loud?” I finally managed as the bed shifted beneath his weight.

“No such thing,” he assured me. “And I want to hear it again. Ineedto hear it.”

He flipped me over effortlessly, pulling me up onto my hands and knees. I arched into him as he positioned himself behind me. His hands ran down my back, pausing just long enough to make me shiver before he gripped my hips.

“Don’t make me beg,” I whimpered, my voice barely recognizable as he teased me with his tip, hovering just out of reach.

“As you wish.”

He slid inside me, and we sighed in unison. The fullness of him, the way he stretched and filled me…it was perfect. He paused to run his hand down my back, then he clasped my hips and started slowly undulating against me.

We were perfect together, moving in rhythm like dancers, flawlessly in sync.

Vincent gradually picked up his pace, his hands holding my waist tighter. Then he let go and grabbed my hair.

He wrapped it in his fist and pulled, ever so slightly.

“Is that okay?” he whispered, his voice strained with the effort of holding back.

“Pullharder,” I rasped, my voice hoarse.

The command unlocked something in him. A ragged breath escaped him, and he tugged harder on my hair, the pressure sending another surge of pleasure through me. His other hand came down on my ass, the sharp impact surprising me but making me moan.

I whimpered, the mixture of sensations driving me wild. This was new for me, but I was very sure that I liked it.

Vincent picked up his tempo, and the way he was pressing against me brought me closer with each thrust. When my orgasm finally hit, it was like I was free-falling—my body shattered, pleasure exploding through me as I screamed his name, my voice frenzied.

Within a few seconds, Vincent’s satisfied grunt joined my cries, his body collapsing against mine as we both tumbled onto the bed, panting, spent, and utterly content.

We lay there for a moment, both of us catching our breath, our bodies still tangled together.

“Okay, now I’m starving,” I finally managed after my breathing evened out.

Vincent laughed. “I’d say we earned our breakfast. Let’s go.”

He found an old pair of gym shorts for me, and we padded out to the kitchen together.NowI could see exactly how grand his place was.

I tried not to stare.

“Quite the view,” I said, pointing to the windows.

He paused in front of the open refrigerator to look at me. “I like mine better.”

My cheeks went hot. “Stop.”

“Do you want crepes?” Vincent asked. “I have eggs from the farmers’ market, and some of that coffee you like.”

“Hold on, you can make crepes?” I asked. “Like, make them yourself? I assumed you’d have a live-in chef or something.”

He chuckled. “If I had staff on the premises, they’d all be laughing about the noises we’ve been making. Right now, it’s just us—no one’s scheduled to be here for hours. And I can cook because my mom told me every man needs to know how to make one great meal for each time of day. She taught me how to make crepes for breakfast, open-face pear and cheddar sandwiches for lunch, and my dad taught me how to grill the perfect steak.”

“Sounds like your parents are epicures.”

He nodded. “They are. There’s great food in Miami, but she misses the variety here in the city.”

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