Page 35 of The Pumpkin Pact
But I don’t stop. I can’t.
My hands move lower, cupping her ass and lifting her against me. She wraps her legs around my waist, her heels digging into the small of my back, and I press her against the counter as it creaks under our weight. The world narrows further, until there’s nothing but the two of us, our bodies pressed together, our breaths coming in short, ragged gasps.
“Dex,”she pants, her voice a plea, a demand, a surrender.“Please.”
I don't need her to finish the sentence. I know what she wants, what we both want. My hands move to the hem of her shirt, pulling it up and over her head, revealing the lace of her bra, the pale skin of her stomach. Her body is a work of art, every curve and line a temptation I can’t resist. I press my lips to her collarbone, my tongue tracing the hollow there, and she shivers, her fingers digging into my shoulders.
“You’re so beautiful,”I murmur, the words a whisper against her skin. She laughs, a soft, breathless sound, and shakes her head.
“You’re not so bad yourself,”she teases, her hands moving to the buttons of my shirt. Her touch is clumsy, eager, and I help her, shrugging out of the fabric and letting it fall to the floor. The room is cool, but I don’t feel it, not with her hands on me, her lips pressing kisses along my chest.
I unhook her bra with practiced ease, sliding the straps down her arms and letting it join our discarded clothes on the floor. Her breasts are full, her nipples tight peaks, and I groan, my mouth watering at the sight. I take one in my mouth, my tongue swirling, my teeth grazing, and she cries out, her head falling back, her hands clutching at my hair.
“Dex,”she moans, her voice thick with need.“Don’t stop.”
I don’t plan to. My hands move to her skirt, sliding the zipper down and pushing the fabric over her hips. She steps out of it, leaving her in nothing but her panties, and I take a moment to appreciate the sight of her, her body flushed, her eyes dark with desire. She’s never looked more beautiful, more alive.
I kneel because worship feels right.
She braces on the shelf and laughs once, wrecked, when a stack of bookplates avalanches behind me.
Then I put my mouth on her, and she forgets how to laugh.
She tastes like cinnamon and bravado and something that’s only her. I map what she likes—slow strokes, then quick; to theedge, then retreat—and she threads her fingers in my hair and says my name like a key turned in a lock.
“Dex… please.”
“I’ve got you,” I say into her skin, and I do, and I keep her there until she goes tight and bright and gone, clutching, breathless. I don’t stop until she drags me up with both hands and kisses me like gratitude and greed.
When I stand, my hands steady her. She looks at me, her eyes glazed, her lips swollen, and I feel a rush of satisfaction, of pride. I’ve never seen her like this, so undone, so vulnerable, and it’s a sight I want to memorize.
“Your turn,”she says, her voice a husky whisper, and I laugh, a rough, breathless sound.
We fumble, fixing the condom, and then I line up, one hand at the small of her back because I like feeling her breathe.
“Still with me?” I ask.
“I’m still with you,” she says, and I press in, slow enough to feel every inch of her welcome.
We both swear softly—hers sounds like a prayer, mine like relief—and I still until her fingers tap twice at my shoulder. She wants more.
I move, deep and deliberate, because I want to feel her choose me over and over.
She meets me like a matched set, legs cinched at my hips, nails at my shoulders, a low sound in her throat that I will hear in my sleep. We find a pace that feels like ‘yes’.
“Look at me,” I manage.
She does—and the floor tilts. Every bad year in my body gets quiet.
My hips snap, my length moving deep inside her, and she cries out, her body shaking as she comes apart around me. Her walls flutter, her heat spilling over me, and I feel my own release building, a tight coil of pleasure in my gut.
“Harper,” I say, warning and worship, and she tightens around me like a promise kept.
Her release breaks first—beautiful, messy, proud—and mine follows hard on its heels, heat blurring the edges of the room until there’s only breath and light and the sound she makes when I say her name.
We stand there forehead-to-forehead, stupidly grinning in the dark, counting heartbeats like proof. I tuck us away, tie the foil, finding the tiny trash can across the room because competence is hot, then hand her the water bottle from the shipping table. “Are you okay?”
“Better than,” she says, voice raspy and pleased. “Also… wow.”
