Page 25 of Rematch
It was strange that home was the first word that popped into his head, but that was sure as hell what it felt like.
He pushed that thought away. There would be plenty of time to sulk over what might have been, later.
Tonight was all he was going to get with Chelsea, and by God, he was going to make it count.
He held still for a second, giving her time to adjust, when he saw her wince slightly once he was seated to the hilt.
“Okay?” he asked.
“How much would the words ‘well-endowed’ feed your ego?”
“Nom nom,” he joked, pretending he was feasting on her compliment.
Chelsea giggled. “I was afraid of that.” Then she reached up, one hand stroking the side of his face. “I’m better than okay.”
He sent up a small prayer of thanks because, while he would have stopped if she’d complained about it being too much for her, blue balls hurt like a bitch.
Preston withdrew, then returned, starting slow and shallow at first, giving her time, stretching her out.
However, all ability to keep himself in check flew out the window when her pussy tightened around him like a vise as he found her G-spot, and she cried out his name. Her begging gave way to demands, and damn if his girl wasn’t good at making her needs known.
“God, harder.” She tilted her hips in such a way that he thrust in even deeper, the two of them groaning in unison.
She was fucking hot, and wet, and her pussy was gloving his dick so firmly, he feared he’d have bruises tomorrow. Chelsea’s hips began moving in time with his downward thrusts, the impact powerful, overwhelming.
He wanted to make this last, determined to make up for all the lackluster sex her clueless asshole of an ex had subjected her to.
Chelsea deserved so much more. Fuck, she deserved everything.
When she lifted her legs, gripping her knees, changing the path and the sensations again, he was a goner.
Fuck it. He had three more condoms left in his wallet. He’d use every damn one, keep her in this bed as long as he could, build this memory big enough to last.
He began to piston in faster, driving deeper.
Chelsea went over fast, her climax hitting hard. She yelled his name loud enough he worried the folks in the next room might call the front desk to complain.
Still, Preston thrust, desperate to wring out every single drop of pleasure he could. Chelsea landed, but only briefly.
Tossing her head side to side on the bed, he would have thought she was gesturing “no,” if not for her words.
“Yes! Oh my God. Preston. Fuck! Right there. Just. Like. That!”
He was there, too close. If they were embarking on something more than just tonight, if they weren’t limited to only the here and now, he might have given in to his baser instincts, would have come now without her.
But this was it. All they had.
So he wanted to do it right. The first time. And every single time that came after.
He reached between them and found her clit. Chelsea’s eyes had been closed, but they flew open on the initial stroke. Because he was fighting the very devil himself to stave off his climax, he couldn’t draw enough air to laugh at the panic reflected on her face.
“One more will kill me,” she said, with a seriousness that told him she really believed that.
“One more,” he demanded, thrusting hard as he continued to stroke her clit.
He feared he’d fail, his balls growing tight. He couldn’t hold off for another?—
Chelsea’s head flew back and she cried out, a steady stream of curse words with his name peppered in for good measure. “Jesus Christ! Fuck me. Preston!”
