Page 69 of Some Like It Hott

He lowers his mouth, his tongue replacing his finger, his fingers finding my core, wet and ready for him, and he licks me, small, tight circles, while his fingers slip inside me. They’re long and thick, and he plays, looking for the combination that will make me bow off the bed. When he finds it—tongue circling my clit, two fingers curled into my G-spot—he exploits it relentlessly until I’m coming, helpless, arching, crying out, trying not to pull his hair too hard.

He slowly withdraws his fingers, slides them into his mouth, savoring me, while I watch. “Condoms?” he asks.

I gesture toward the nightstand because I don’t think words are my friend right now. I feel empty and needy, swollen and desperate. His eyes rake appreciatively over my body, and I return the favor because he’s standing next to the bed and his cock is so hard the head is glossy and swollen, a drop of pre-cum rolling over the stretched skin.

“I want that.” I point, and he gives himself a single rough stroke before rolling the condom on.

I wonder if he’s going to tease, make me beg for it, but he doesn’t. He eases himself over me, his thighs between mine, and kisses me. Open and ravenous. I lick into his mouth, trying to show him how wet I am, how much I need him, and he must understand because he groans and settles, that thick cock against the seam of my lips, sliding down, lining up.

“You want this?”

“Yes,” I groan, and then, on the sweetest, deepest kiss, he gives me just the tip. He works me open so patiently that my core clenches around him and I think I might come again just from that. From the stretch and his care.

But I don’t. I tingle and glitter and burn andwantas he glides deeper, stretching me more, my body infinitely willing to have him, those inner muscles tightening involuntarily around him, until he’s buried to the hilt. And then he starts moving, slow at first but deep. Thorough. My body is awash in wonder at the sensation of him. He watches my eyes, intent on me, and moves faster, finding a rhythm that makes me gasp and clutch at his shoulders. Then we’re kissing again, the silky slide of our tongues echoing the slick friction of his cock in my core.

Maybe it’s because I just came, maybe it’s because the shower woke up every nerve ending in my body, maybe it’s because he’s so goddamned good at this, his hips hitching up over mine at the end to give me something to rub against, but I can tell I’m going to come fast and hard. I don’t want this to end too soon, but I’m not in control. Not of the rhythm, not of my pleasure, not of the way it feels to have him in my bed, my arms, my mouth, my body. I ache all over with it, and the ache winds itself into a thick knot of urgency. I clutch him closer and kiss him deeper and come all over his cock, a wild, enormous, seismic shattering. He breaks the kiss and buries his face against my neck, his body going rigid, his breath whispering across my skin, hot and desperate as he pulses inside me. “Natalie,” he groans. “Natalie. Natalie. Natalie. Natalie.”

He keeps saying it until it’s only a hoarse whisper.

35

Preston

I’m wrecked.

I lift my head slowly to find Natalie watching me with an amused expression on her face.

“That was—” I attempt. My voice sounds like sandpaper.

That makes her grin even bigger. “It was pretty good.”

“Pretty good?!”

I can barely move, but I can still manufacture outrage.

“All right,” she admits. “It was fucking amazing.”

It’s my turn to grin. Summoning all my resources, I manage to withdraw from the clutch of her arms and the heat of her core, condom safely secured, and get myself to the bathroom to toss it. I come back with a warm washcloth. I gently stroke it between her legs, and she closes her eyes and hums with pleasure. I clean us both up, then settle back into bed next to her.

We lie on our sides, facing each other. “I wish you didn’t live in New York,” she says.

Startled, I meet her eyes. “I wish I didn’t, too.”

It stays between us for a moment before she looks away, giving a short, dark laugh. “No, you don’t,” she says. “Not really. You definitely couldn’t do finance in Rush Creek.”

I want to argue with her, but we both know that at some fundamental level, she’s right.

“Then I wish you lived in New York City.”

She winces.

“What?” I ask.

“I mean…”

“Not a fan of New York?”

“I visited with my sister. That same trip when we ate the pastries. And—no. Not a fan.”

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