Page 57 of Under Southern Stars
God, I love this man.
He’s thick and warm in my hand, twitching slightly as I stroke him once, slow and deliberate. Jack’s head tips back against the couch, and I watch the way his throat works as he swallows. Still trying to play it cool.
I swirl my tongue around the head of his cock, feather-light, teasing. He grunts, hips twitching. Then I take him into my mouth fully, slow and unhurried. He groans again—louder this time, hips bucking just a fraction before I flatten my hands against his thighs.
“Stay still,” I murmur, letting him slide free for just a moment. “You made me have to keep a straight face for Troy. Let’s see how goodyourpoker face is.”
“Jesus Christ, Sophia—”
I take him again, deeper this time, one hand wrapped around the base, the other bracing myself on his knee. I let my lips and tongue work in sync, building rhythm, suction, pressure. He gasps, tries to muffle the sound, one hand gripping the back of the couch like it’s the only thing anchoring him to earth.
“Soph—fuck—Sophia—”
“Quiet!” I whisper intensely, eyes locked on his. “You wanted this.”
He lets out this noise—half-moan, half-prayer—and it hits me somewhere deep, carnal, the way his voice roughens when he’s right on the edge but doesn’t want to fall. Not yet. Not without me.
I increase the pace, flicking my tongue in just the way I know will drive him wild, hollowing my cheeks as I take him deeper. His breathing turns ragged. His thighs tense beneath my hands. I can feel him unraveling, losing control one heartbeat at a time.
When I feel him throb, close, I slow—pulling back, letting cool air hit him before easing off entirely.
His eyes fly open. “What the—”
I crawl up his body slowly, straddling him again, kissing him until he tastes himself on my tongue. “Oh, no. I’m not done with you yet.”
He growls, low in his throat, and flips us, pinning me against the cushions. His lips crash into mine, his hands everywhere—rough with need, reverent with restraint.
“Still think I should’ve left?” he breathes against my mouth.
“I think,” I pant, wrapping my legs around his waist, “you should shut up and fuck me already.”
He thrusts into me with a growl that vibrates through my entire body. No teasing now—just raw, rolling need. I moan into his mouth, hands scrambling for purchase on his back, his arms bracketing me like steel.
The stretch hits hard—deep, perfect, greedy. My back arches instinctively. It’s not polite. It’s not slow. It’s full-body, toe-curling, mess-up-your-insides kind of sex. The kind you feel for hours. The kind I haven’t felt foryears.
It isperfect.
“Don’t stop,” I gasp. “Don’t you dare stop—”
He doesn’t. He drives into me like he can’t bear to leave, like he wants to etch himself into my skin. I come apart again, this time with sound, with shudders that won’t stop. He follows with a broken curse and my name like it’s a benediction.
The second time comes faster. For both of us. He buries his face in my neck as he groans my name, hips stuttering, and I follow, biting his shoulder to muffle the sounds spilling from my throat. It’s not elegant. It’s not planned. It’sreal.
When we finally collapse, sweaty and tangled and boneless, I can’t stop laughing. He bubbles out of me like champagne.
Jack grins against my collarbone. “That good, huh?”
“You,” I gasp, “are banned from ever bringing coffee and smug grins into my kitchen again.”
“Noted. Counteroffer: I bring coffee and smug grins, but also flowers and foot rubs.”
“Deal.”
He lifts his head, brushing hair back from my damp forehead. “You okay?”
I nod, sobering slightly. “Actually…yeah. I really, really am.”
Outside, a delivery truck rumbles past. Inside, the world is soft and slow, our bodies still wrapped around each other like we’ve got all the time in the world.
