Page 100 of Wistful Whispers
“I love you.”
She leans down, kissing me so hard it’s like she’s pouring everything she feels into our kiss. Her hips never stop moving.
“I love you too. Come with me,” she whispers against my mouth. “I want to feel you fill me up.”
God. I’m already there.
As she requests, I thrust deep and explode. My body shakes, and hers follows, both of us clinging to each other like we’ll never let go.
We collapse, breathless and completely spent.
I pull her close, pressing my lips to her shoulder as her breathing evens out.
“Jesus,” I murmur into her skin. “You’ll be the death of me.”
She laughs softly, snuggling into my chest.
Because we both know—this is the kind of death you welcome because it feels like being reborn.
I must doze off for a bit—just long enough for the edges of the morning to blur. When I crack one eye open again, the light in the room has shifted, warmer now, angling through the windows just so. Marcella’s head is on my chest, chestnut hair spilled like silk across my ribs.
Her fingers absentmindedly trace the lines of my stomach. “We should probably get up. Your mother’s going to guilt me for stealing her son if we’re late again.”
“We’ve got time. Plenty.” I settle back into position.
She tilts her head up, eyes half-lidded. Playful. “Yeah? Join me in the shower?”
It’s all the invitation I need.
She’s up before I am, padding across the room with zero concern about being naked—warmth floods my ribs in the best way. Gone are her insecurities. She moves like a curvy queen who knows damn well she’s worshiped.
Because sheis.
I watch her go, letting myself enjoy the view for one long beat before I push off the mattress and follow.
By the time I enter the bathroom, Marcella is standing under the spray, eyes closed, hands running through her wet hair. Water glides over her skin, beading at the tips of her breasts and sliding down the curve of her stomach. She’s unreal. A fucking masterpiece.
I step in behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist. She melts back into me like she’s been waiting for hours, not minutes.
“Took your time,” she teases.
“Worth it,” I murmur, brushing her wet hair off her shoulder to kiss the spot just beneath her ear.
She tilts her head, giving me better access, and I trail kisses down her neck and across her shoulder, while my hands slide up her slick skin to cup her breasts. She’s already breathing heavier.
Her hips roll back, pressing into me, and when she feels how hard I am, she lets out a low, wicked laugh. “Again?”
“Always.”
Marcella turns in my arms and I kiss her before she can say another word. Wet and hungry. I walk her slowly backward until her back is against the tile. Her leg lifts, wrapping around my waist without prompting, and I reach down to guide myself inside her in one slow thrust.
I brace one hand against the wall, the other holding her thigh as I drive into her. She bites her bottom lip, trying to muffle the moan ripping out of her when I pull out and thrust again, harder this time.
The sound of the water, the slap of wet skin, her breathless cries—it’s all I can hear as we fuck. When she comes, her head tips back against the tile, and the quiet, broken sound she makes? It undoes me. I follow her over the edge, my hips stuttering, emptying everything I have with a guttural cry pulled from somewhere deeper than my lungs.
We stand there for a long moment after, forehead to forehead, still breathing each other in.
Eventually, she laughs softly. “Okay. Now we really need to get ready.”
