Page 96 of The Chance

My steps back to the bed studder.

Why did he need to replace it?

“The other one was expired,” he adds as if hearing my thoughts out loud and I resume my climb onto the bed with an uncurling feeling in my chest.

Leaning over him, I tear open the pack and empty the contents on my fingers. My cock. His hole.

There’s not much, but it’s enough to aid the glide of three stretching fingers.

“More,” he pants, and it tingles.

How am I supposed to say no to that?

Knee-walking between his spread thighs, I dip low enough to run my tongue over that same leaking slit and hum at the rush of flavor.

But Mac doesn’t let me savor it. No. He’s grabbing my hips and wrapping his calves behind me to yank me closer.

“More.”

Growling, I notch my cock against his entrance and push my way inside his hot hole.

With no barrier between us, I feel every goddamn inch of his body taking me. Matched with his shuddering breath, and wispy moans.

It feels like a goddamn wet dream come to life.

And I’ve had a few of those since the last time I was inside him.

Except this time feels more urgent.

I ease out a fraction, then back in a little farther than the last stroke and watch raptly as Mac’s eyes roll back.

“Pillow.”

Blindly, he reaches around above his head until fingers meet fluffed cotton, and he flings it in my direction.

I oof when it smacks me in the face and lands on his leaking cock, but I don’t care that it’s getting messy already because it’s going under his ass as soon as I bottom out.

Another choked curse slips from his parted lips when I do, and that tingling spread from my neck down to my chest.

“Lift.”

Planting his heels, Mac lifts up enough for me to shove the pillow beneath his lower back, then drops back onto my cock at the perfect angle that has us both groaning.

“Shit, you were right,” I breathe out and cant my hips, reaching that spot that makes him gasp with shallow thrusts.

“Fuckfuckfuck.”

His gasps settle into the gaping space that’s been inside my chest until they are all I can think about. All I want to keep hearing.

This can’t be the last time.

The thought stalls my movements, flipping my insides, and I stare down at the drummer.

His eyes are closed and shrouded in dark smudges, bandana askew on his forehead, fingers lost in their grip of the sheets.

Pink nipples standing out amongst the colored ink, small and lickable.

That golden trail.

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