Page 119 of The Girlfriend Zone

Her nails rake down my back as I fuck her, and all I can think is how much I want to feel those marks tomorrow. But I also want her to feel everything tonight.

I rise to my knees, looking down at her, then assessing the situation. The position. My goals. “Sit on my lap. Ride me. I’ll make you come so hard that way.”

“So cocky,” she says, but she’s scrambling.

I shift to the edge of the bed, sit there and tug her toward me. I pull her into position, then guide her down onto my dick again, thrusting up into her with a sharp, desperate rhythm.

“I need to see your face when I fuck you. And when I do this.” I lift a hand and smack her ass.

She gasps, then moans. “Miles.”

My name has never sounded better.

“You want more?” I ask, holding nothing back.

“I want marks.”

It’s official. I’m a furnace. “You’ll get them, sweetheart.” As I drive into her, I lift my other hand, pausing,pausing, then coming down hard on the soft flesh of her ass.

She yelps, then whimpers. And that’s all I want. I fuck, I smack, and then I kiss. Hard, ruthless, using teeth and tongue. I’m sweating, she’s moaning, and we’re coming together. Everything—every single thing about this moment—is filthy perfection.

Then, somehow, it gets impossibly better when she grabs my hands from her ass and says urgently, “My hair. Pull it. Touch it. Play with it.”

The invitation. The meaning behind it. The desire.

I rope my fingers through her hair, tugging as she rises and falls on my cock.

She tenses, then keens.

My hands curl through those locks, messing them up, touching her everywhere—it’s a freedom she clearly craves, and one I need too. The more I touch her, the faster her moans come, the quicker she moves, and the hotter we both become.

Until one more jerk, one more thrust, and she’s tipping over, crying out. And that’s all it takes. The switch flips in me, and I come so hard as she falls apart on me.

As she murmurs softly, something soft moves against my ass. Something…odd.

When I focus again, I look down. It’s Boo. He’s squirmed past me, licking Leighton’s leg. Nope. He’s no longer licking—he’s gearing up to mount Leighton’s leg.

“Down, boy,” I say firmly, scooping him off her. “She’s mine.”

Leighton meets my gaze, one brow arching.

“Well, you are,” I say, owning it.

She smiles, then says, “Then you should ask me to stay the night.”

I haul her close, my voice firm. “As if you’d stay anyplace else.”

36

A HARD BARGAIN

Leighton

I have questions. Starting with: “Where did you learn to cook? Did you go to culinary school while getting your philosophy and psychology degrees?”

Miles smirks, his lips curving upward as he flips the omelet in the pan. “Not at the culinary school level,” he replies, his tone teasing, but it’s clear he enjoys the compliment.

It’s the best morning ever. Miles wears glasses, low-slung black lounge pants, and a snug gray T-shirt that clings to his broad shoulders. His ink peeks out from beneath the short sleeves as he flips mushroom omelets at the stovetop. Cindy’s curled into a dog ball on my lap, snoozing as I sip my green tea at the counter.

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