Page 39 of Mismatched Mates

He kicked open my door, and the next thing I knew, he was pushing me down on the bed, landing on top of me like he belonged there.

He does, my bear said.

I never wanted this to end.

“Too many clothes,” he muttered, tugging my shirt off over my head. Then my jeans, wiggling them down my hips. The air felt cool against my overheated skin, and he took a moment to look down at me, eyes dark, trapping me like a fly in honey. “If I could, I’d keep you in here for the next week.” His voice was low and possessive, and something coiled tight inside me. “For the next month. All to myself.”

My mouth was dry and I could feel my heartbeat right to my fingertips. Never mind undressing me with his eyes—it felt as though he was bearing every single part of me to reveal my innermost parts. The pieces of myself I kept hidden from the world because they were too soft and delicate, too prone to being hurt.

Some distant part of me began to panic. This wasn’t how it was meant to go. No aspect of this felt like I was in control—it felt like we had tipped over the edge of a cliff and were spiraling downhill, faster and faster, momentum carrying us against our will.

Except when he hooked his fingers around my panties and drew them off, I also knew that given the choice, I would choose this again and again, until time came to an end.

“Fuck. You’re so wet for me.”

I reached for his pants, unbuttoning them and drawing them down over his legs. Boxers. T-shirt. Everything off until he was fully naked. Then, sitting up, I removed my bra and dropped it off the side of the bed.

Equal.

“Please.” Until Grant, I didn’t think I’d ever pleaded like this before. But my body was hollow, aching,empty, and I needed him inside me more than I needed to breathe. “Now, Ger.”

Taking one of the condoms from the packet in my bedside table, he rolled it on and sank on top of me, one hand in the crook of my knee. “Are you sure?—”

I took hold of him and placed him at my entrance, lifting my hips until he slid inside. His face turned blank, the pupils of his eyes swallowing the iris. His mouth opened, then closed. I wrapped my legs around him and finally he began to move.

Until then, I’d have said there was nothing especially special about missionary. It was a position that got the job done, and that had the advantage of being able to kiss—although in my experience, the longer a relationship, the less kissing went on. Sex became more of a chore, if a fun one.

There was nothing chore-like about this. Nothing mundane. His fingers were on my nipples, teasing sensation from them, and his mouth was on mine, and my body was lighting up under his. Every shallow thrust, every low moan, every sweepof his tongue, brought me closer to the edge. Every nerve was alive, every pleasure heightened, until I was nothing but a sea of sensation. And by the fracture in Grant’s breath, he was close, too.

Casual sex shouldn’t feel like this.

“I’m close,” I gasped.

It was as though that snapped something in him. Sitting up, he took hold of my hips and increased his rhythm. Deeper, faster, until my orgasm slammed into me like a tidal wave, bigger and brighter and better than anything I had ever experienced. A raw torrent of pleasure that eclipsed anything I had thought my body capable of.

Above me, he groaned, holding out until I slumped against him. Oddly tender, more so than I was expecting, he withdrew and turned me over, kissing my bare shoulder as I lay on my stomach before him and he entered me again from above.

Splayed out like this, I was entirely at his mercy. Just as I thought he liked it—and just as I discoveredIliked it.

“I love the way you look underneath me,” he said, breath sharp, caught between his teeth as he pushed inside me again. I wiggled against him, encouraging him deeper. So sensitive it was almost too much—but nothing felt like too much with him. If anything, it wasn’t ever enough. “I love the sounds you make when you come.” His hand came to tangle in my hair, holding my head up. “The way you surrender yourself to me,” he said, breath hot against my neck.

Heat rushed through me again, this climax so abrupt there was no question of holding back. Grant slammed into me harder until I thought I might pass out from the pleasure, until finally it faded, and he groaned, stiffening against me. I held still as he finished inside me, one hand still wrapped in my hair.

Then there was only the sound of our heartbeats.

I didn’t have the words to express the magnitude of what just happened. This didn’t feel like just sex—Ididn’t feel like I’d just had sex.

But could youmake lovewithout love?

The thought of it made my heart squeeze, panic replacing some of the warmth that had flooded my body. Grant rolled off me, releasing my hair and mussing it again with a lazy hand. “I like it this length,” he said. “Just enough to hold.”

For a second, my instinct was to smile and agree. That hadn’t been the intention behind my short, chin-length hair, but it was certainly a benefit.

I sat up, hugging a pillow to my chest. He frowned, and tugged it away again. “Don’t hide yourself from me. What’s wrong?”

Everything. Nothing.

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”

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