Page 29 of Physical Therapy

“Fuck, yes,” Boe groans. “You’re so goddamn tight like this.”

So goddamn close to climax already, too. Being bent over, completely on display and at his mercy? Ugh. This is my therapy, right here.

I relish the comfort his hands bring as he grips my hips, giving me balance while he thrusts. Blood rushes to my head, only heightening the experience. I close my eyes and bite my lip, staving off the dizzy spell that threatens to steal the show. I want to savor every second the orgasm that promises to rip through me at any moment.

Boe slides one hand further around my ass cheek, his fingers massaging and kneading as he repositions his grip so that his thumb can find the rose of my ass. The barest pressure and I unravel.

My legs sway, his guttural groan wrapping around me as he grips me to him with such force I’m sure to bruise. I milk him for all he has, my hands scrambling to stabilize me, palms flat to the floor. Boe’s legs buckle, the two of us crumpling to the floor in a tangle of sated limbs.

I lie there, the short pile carpet itchy under my back, and stare up at the ceiling, Boe’s arm under my head.

“Fuck,” he mumbles, tossing his free arm over his face.

“Right?”

The rush of our breaths as we both come down from our high is all that can be heard in the room. The whoosh of my heartbeat echoes in my ears.

I didn’t just cross the damn line, I fashioned myself a pole and goddamn vaulted to the other side.

I knew the risks involved with this man the moment I laid eyes on him.

And despite all my reasoning screaming at me to push, run, and defend, I sat there and let the devil walk into my life.

Until this moment, I honestly never understood how good it feels to be bad.

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