Page 83 of Shootout Daddies
I try for humor, anything to slow the pounding in my chest. “Not something you should be bragging about.”
His answering chuckle is low, dark. “You’ve got a smart mouth, Ivy.”
My knees weaken as his fingers work me open, skilled and relentless, each thrust calculated to unravel me. My forehead drops against my arm, eyes squeezed shut, body arching into his hand against every better instinct.
I should push him away. I should stop this before it starts. But I don’t. Instead I moan shamelessly as pressure coils inside me, fierce and urgent.
He pulls back suddenly, just long enough to dig into his pocket. A flash of foil catches the light.
“You always carry condoms?” I manage to choke out, breathless, my voice shaking.
His lips graze my ear, a dangerous whisper. “Can’t a guy be hopeful?”
The sound of tearing foil makes my pulse stutter violently. The anticipation stretches me taut.
He roughly pulls my leggings off and then he’s inside me.
The sudden fullness knocks the breath from my lungs. My mouth falls open but no sound comes out at first, only a strangled gasp. He fills me completely, stretching me wide until I’m trembling against the counter, my knuckles white as I cling to the edge.
Then he moves. Hard. Fast. Merciless. Every thrust drives me into the countertop, the wood digging into my hips.
His breath is harsh in my ear, mingling with mine, the sharp slap of skin on skin filling the kitchen. My world narrows to nothing but his rhythm, his heat, his unrelenting claim on my body.
The orgasm slams into me before I can even brace. It rips through me raw and blinding, my body clenching tight around him.
I cry out, the sound breaking against the rush of sensation, the pleasure so sharp it nearly hurts. My legs shake, giving out, and only his arm around my waist keeps me upright.
He follows almost instantly, groaning low into my neck, his body driving hard into mine until he comes.
For a second, the world tilts. My ears ring. Nothing exists but the pounding of my pulse and the heavy weight of his chest pressed to my back.
Then it’s over.
He withdraws slowly, careful despite everything, and disposes of the condom with brisk efficiency. I sag against the counter, still trembling, while he dampens a towel and kneels to clean me up with unexpected gentleness.
His touch now is slow, reverent almost, and it makes my throat ache with a different kind of heat.
He leans in, presses a soft kiss to my forehead, then stands and slips his glasses back on, his composure reassembles like armor. Without another word, he turns and leaves.
The door clicks shut behind him.
I stand frozen, trying to steady my breathing, my body still buzzing from the storm he left inside me. My thighs are shaky, my pulse scattered.
Finally, I sink to the floor, pressing my palms over my face. My voice cracks out in a whisper meant for no one. “Fuck me.”
But there’s no one to answer.
Minutes tick by before I force myself to stand and dress up. I tug my sweatshirt straight, inhale deeply, and move back to the sink.
The dishwasher beeps, reminding me of normal life, of chores and quiet and order. I reload the cups I had abandoned, press the button again, and listen to the hum of water rushing in.
Steam curls upward, fogging the surface of the counter where only moments ago his hands had gripped me tight.
My body still pulses with the echo of him.
I wake with a start, blinking against the light slanting through the blinds. My neck aches from the way it’s bent against the sofa arm. I sit up slowly, disoriented for a second, and rub at my eyes.
I hadn’t meant to fall asleep here. I meant to close my eyes for just a minute, but the exhaustion must have caught up with me.
