Page 70 of Texts From My Exes
I laughed, dark and rough, before claiming her mouth in a kiss that was all teeth and tongue and years of wanting shoved into one desperate collision. She moaned into me, hips lifting to meet mine, body trembling.
I ripped her underwear down in one brutal motion, leaving her bare beneath me. She gasped, trying to cover herself with her hands, but I grabbed her wrists and slammed them back to the headboard.
“Don’t hide from me. Not tonight.”
“Ezra—please?—”
“You think Aaron could ever touch you like this?” I growled against her ear, sliding my fingers between her thighs until she arched off the bed. “You think anyone else could ever know what makes you shake, what makes you beg?”
Her moan answered for her.
“That’s what I thought.”
I entered her in one thrust, burying myself so deep she cried out, nails clawing down my back.
“Ezra!”
“Say it again.” I pounded into her, each snap of my hips shaking the headboard against the wall. “Say my name. Say who owns you.”
“Ezra!” she screamed, and it broke me—broke the last thread of restraint I’d been clinging to since the day I swore she was untouchable.
I fucked her harder, faster, every sound she made branded into me. Her body clenched around mine, pulling me deeper, demanding more.
“You’re mine,” I rasped, teeth sinking into her shoulder as she shattered beneath me, trembling, crying out my name until I spilled into her, every ounce of control obliterated.
For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of our ragged breathing and the echo of the headboard still rattling against the wall.
Then I kissed her temple, soft where everything else had been brutal.
“You should’ve run,” I whispered again. Only this time, it wasn’t a threat. It was the truth. Because she hadn’t run. She’d chosen me. And there was no going back.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-TWO
EZRA
Do you have any kids out of wedlock? My mom says it’s important to ask these things as women tend to lie in order to gain a willing partner these days. By the way, I want at least five kids—all my own and I love a good pot roast. You?
—Laurd
Istared at the ceiling.
Holy shit. I just slept with my best friend.
Harper.
I just slept with Harper.
She was curled against my chest, her breath slow, her hand resting right over my heart like it belonged there. I hadn’t expected her to actually fall asleep after that—hell,Ihadn’t expected to sleep after that—but she’d watched me, studying me like…like I looked at her. It was a damn good feeling, being seen. She teased me sleepily, her words low and sultry.
And I’d cleaned her up. Tucked her in. Scratched her head until her lashes fluttered shut.
Because that’s what you do when it’s Harper. You take care of her. Always.
She knew it now, even if she’d never admit it: with me, she was safe.
Which just left me. Wide awake. Freaking the hell out. Not counting sheep, thank you very much, random lady from the bar—no, I was counting mistakes, possibilities, every way this could blow up in my face.
