Page 73 of Good Guy Gabe

“Get over yourself.”

He smirks and drops his eyes down, blatantly checking me out. “You’ve got all those pregnancy hormones begging for a good fuck.”

I look him dead in the eye, fully aware that I am poking a bear when I say, “If I need to get laid, I’ll get laid. Plenty of guys think I’m hot.” The words taste like ash on my tongue. It’s an empty threat.

And Gabe doesn’t even have the courtesy to act threatened. “Yeah, everyone thinks you’re hot. But they’re not going to fuck you. They know you’re mine. And you’re not going to the bars or getting one of those hookup apps. You want my cock.”

He pushes his body against mine, reminding me of exactly what I want. To prove his point.

I swallow a lump in my throat. “Stop.”

He brings a hand to my shoulder, tracing the path where my throat just bobbed. “Saw that,” he says more softly. Darkly.

My breath hitches.

His hand travels down to my chest. “Saw that, too.”

I frown, irritated with my body for craving him despite what he’s done to it. “I mean it, Gabe, stop.”

“Ma’am.” He slides that devilish hand of his down, down, down my thigh and up the hem of my shirt, pausing at my mound to clutch the curls there between his fingers and give them a slight tug.

I whimper. My brow creases as my toes curl. “Damn you.”

He leans down enough that his lips graze my ear. “Yes, damn me for giving you what you need. You’re so wet it’s soaked into your bush. Is that from watching me or from fighting me?”

I turn away, refusing to answer that.

His laugh is husky. “Both, then.”

His fingers winnow between my labia, teasing at my clit, making my knees wobbly. I grab for what I can to balance myself, but it’s all Gabe. His arm and his pants. I tell myself not to grind against those fingers, but I can’t help it any more than Ican help the whimper of disappointment when he abandons my clit.

He skewers my pussy with a finger, and my body pulses around him.

“You need my cock here?”

I shake my head.

“Yes, you do.”

“No,” I whine, but my eyelids flutter back.

He adds another finger, forcing my stance wider as he pushes his knuckles between my thighs to dig deep. “No one needs to know. This can be our little secret.”

My head rolls back on my neck as my pelvis rocks forward, forcing his fingers to rub inside me. “Damn you,” I hiss, refusing to say I do need this. I don’t need him, but I need this. I feel like I’m about to combust internally. “You son of a bitch.”

“I won’t tell a soul that you let me fuck you. You won’t need to forgive me. You won’t need to get over your mad. Let me fuck you, Joss.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, not that it does anything to block out his voice or the complete nightmare of the logic.

“Tell me to stop now,” Gabe says once he begins to move his fingers rhythmically inside me, once he knows he has me snared, “and I’ll walk away.”

I’m going to curse him to the end of the world and back, I know this and he knows this, because I’m digging my nails into him as my pussy clenches and my pelvis digs into his palm, and he knows I can’t say anything now.

He unzips his jeans, hoists me up, plasters my back to the mirror, and slams his cock into me.

I cry out in pain — sweet, succinct pain — and my mind goes quiet, the concern for the mirror the only gray thought I have as he fucks me way too hard, possessing me in the most primal way, driving into me over and over again like I’m nothing but a toy for his pleasure. Every glorious thrust has me forgetting why this is bad, why he shouldn’t be doing this, why I regret every time I believed his pretty words and ignored every single filthy truth he purred while filling me with his cum and stuffing it back in when it tried to escape.

“Harder,” I whimper even though I really should be concerned about the mirror. “Fuck me harder.”

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