Page 30 of Last First Date
She snorts. “Nice. Yeah, right.” She shakes her head. “The Eiffel Tower is nice. The Mona Lisa is nice. Your dick? It’s a masterpiece.”
She reaches for it, stroking it gently, and I hiss at having her touch me at last. I’m not going to last long if she keeps using her hand on me.
“Did you just say you like me better than Paris?” I kiss her again, because I can’t stop kissing her, and we’re finally naked together and about to have sex. But apparently I’m tickling her because she’s still giggling and it’s completely adorable.
“Not all of you. And not all of Paris. What I said was your dick is better than a few of the more overrated tourist traps that everyone sees in Paris.”
I tickle her harder then, and she squirms around the bed, thrashing against me. “Say you like me better than Paris, you jerk.”
“I don’t though. Ah, stop.” She kicks at me, her foot connecting with my shin at one point.
When we both settle down, I wrap her up in my arms and fake growl at her. “I’m so much better than Paris.”
“Prove it.” Her words are filled with mischief, and damn if that doesn’t make me want her just that much more.
And with that, I finally cover myself and slide inside her, slowly easing my way into her tight heat with both of us moaning loudly at the feeling of finally being joined together in this way at last.
When I’m fully seated inside her, we pause for a moment and just stare into each other’s eyes. I want so badly to say the right thing, but I’ve been struck speechless by the way she feels, the way we fit together.
She speaks first, thank goodness. “Okay. You win. Paris can go down in flames for all I care.”
I slide out of her slowly, then thrust back in hard and fast, making her eyes flicker shut and the headboard bang against the wall. “Oh fuck, Thomas. Fuck.” I thrust harder and then faster, then reach between us to make little circles on her clit with my thumb in time with my movements.
She peaks again almost immediately at my touch, and the sight of her coming around my cock is so incredible that I follow right after her, spilling into the condom, and then collapsing against her.
We’re both breathing heavily now.
“Paris sucks,” I whisper in her hair.
“Paris is stupid.” She murmurs lazily, rubbing one hand along my arm. “Who wants to do anything other than this ever again?”
I can feel my heart actually skip a beat at the casual tenderness in her words. Like there’s an us, maybe even a future here.
“Damn right, baby. Catch your breath and then I’ll fuck the word Paris right out of your vocabulary.”
She gives me a naughty smile. “You know, a real man would probably be able to fuck the entire country of France out of my mind.”
I sigh contentedly. “I’ll fuck every country in Europe out of you if you’re willing.”
She snuggles in closer. “This is the weirdest conversation I’ve ever had after sex. But yes. Let’s do that, please and thank you.”
Darcy
I've never been this exhausted in my entire life. I'm pretty sure we only slept for an hour, tops. Because not only does Abernathy have an unnaturally gigantic mega dick, apparently he's also insatiable. This is the closest I've ever been to fucked to death.
But here we are first thing in the early morning hours, cuddling like a couple on their honeymoon. This can’t be real.
I never expected Thomas Abernathy to be a cuddler. I figured he was more of a "call you an Uber while handing you a baby wipe" type. You know, the kind of guy who blocks your number even before you've texted to thank him for a good time. But instead here he is, the big spoon wrapped up around my little spoon.
It's stifling, actually. I'm used to having my own space and this guy is squashing me with the entirety of his big man body and all of its muscles. Also, he's apparently got a severe case of morning wood, because something is insistently pressing into me halfway up my back and unless he's secretly a contortionist, it's not his leg.
Sheesh. How we even made that work between us, physically speaking, is sort of beyond me at this point. I guess we'd better try again though. You know, for science.
I swallow the giggle that threatens to erupt because I don't want to wake him. Thomas Abernathy is so damn pretty when he sleeps. He's so innocent looking, but then he also has this sexy as hell man beard that makes my nipples ache all over again from last night's beard burn. Lord, the things he did with his wicked mouth.
And this line of thought is not helping me stave off the desire to attack him and possibly call in sick to fuck his brains out all day long today.
It's his own fault for being so damn hot in bed. I’d assumed that his reputation was at least somewhat just talk. You know, like those urban legends that grow and change over time until it becomes something mythological rather than based in reality.
