Page 115 of Summertime Friends

His eyes flick toward the kitchen and then me. He smirks and pulls me to the counter, turning me to where my stomach rests on the edge. The entire place is silent except for the sounds of a belt unbuckling, a zipper, and my ragged breath.

“What if Callum comes home?”

“Good, then he’ll know you’re mine, and I’m yours.”

His hands come to my back, lowering me over the counter. My butt juts out in front of him. Liam leans down, placing his lips gently on my ass, then bites it.

I gasp, and he snickers. “I’ve thought about this, but over my desk overlooking Michigan Ave.”

Liam holds me on either side, rubbing the tip of him between me before finding my entrance. Slowly, he pushes into me. Inch by inch until I’m full of him.

Liam pauses.

We both sigh. “You feel so good, Emerson. Exactly the way I remember. So perfect and begging for me.”

He pulls out of me to where only the tip of him is there before thrusting back in all the way. Each time, it feels like he reaches a new place inside me. It’s slow and deep. Liam continues like this for several strokes.

“Tell me what you want,” he commands.

“So demanding of my wants tonight.”

He snarls. “Tell me.” Liam slaps my ass.

“All of you.” He growls. Pushing inside of me hard. My breathing is unsteady. “More.”

Liam listens and gives me what I want.

One of his hands comes to my neck, circling and squeezing it lightly.

“Liam,” I whimper.

“Did you enjoy that?”

I turn my head. My cheek resting on the marble. “Yes.”

I watch as he thrusts into me. His hand is still on my neck. Liam squeezes it again.

“Damn it, States. Keep watching me. Watch what you do to me and how you make me feel.”

Nothing about this is sweet or romantic. It’s feral. Everything about this is a reminder of the lost three years. Our frustration with ourselves and each other is poured out in heated movements and desperate touch.

I know that we’ll find something sweet later, but right now, this is what we both want—we both need.

I’m like a dam that’s about to burst, barely held together by the levy. Everything in me is being filled by him—the pleasure, the heat, the opportunity of a future together.

“Liam. I’m,” I stutter. “I’m there.”

“Let go. Let go for me,” he requests. Despite his movements, his words are a gentle caress with double meaning.

He’s telling me to let go of the guard I’ve had up, the fears I use as shields, the irrational what-ifs, and the words that tore us apart. He’s asking me to let it all go for him.

And I do.

We let it all go together.

47

LIAM

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