Page 68 of Daddies on Ice
She moans and breaks the kiss, head falling back. She reaches up, taking her hair down.
I nearly lose control as she shakes her head, dark silky hair cascading around her.
Lamplight catches the maroon highlights and the ecstatic expression on her face.
When she looks at me again, her hair falls forward like a curtain, shrouding us in our own world.
I can’t wait anymore. I roll on the condom, and she sinks down slowly, keeping her hungry gaze locked with mine.
“Jake,” she breathes, and it explodes at the base of my spine. She moves in a slow, deep rhythm that I guide with my hands at her hips.
She rides me like she can’t get enough, rising until I almost slip out, then sliding down until I’m completely buried.
The room narrows to just us and the steady beat of our bodies.
“Damn, Tish,” I rasp.
She leans forward, mouth finding my jaw, throat, lips again. Her grip around me tightens, pulling a rough sound from my chest I barely recognize.
Her breath skims my cheek, pulse kicking under my thumb as her inner muscles clench tighter.
She’s close.
I reach down, rubbing her clit with my thumb. Her body jerks and shivers.
“Come for me, Tish,” I breathe, not sure how much longer I can hold back. Usually I have more control, but not with her. Not this first time.
My words seem to give her permission. Her muscles grip me almost painfully, in the best way.
She rides harder, her body slamming down on my thighs while her nails dig into my shoulders.
Her body milks mine and I jerk once, twice, then the orgasm hits.
We come together, both crying out. I’m not sure who’s louder. Our bodies spasm and pulse and release.
It takes minutes for our breathing to normalize. Tish lies atop me, cheek pressed to my chest as we struggle to regain composure. Her fingers toy lazily with the hair at my nape, and I kiss the crown of her head.
A knock sounds at the door.
Our eyes meet in surprise, then Tish panics, jumping off my lap and running to the bathroom.
23
TISH
The bathroom door barely shuts when another knock echoes through the room, forceful enough to make the security chain rattle.
My breath catches as I press against the cold tile wall, watching Jake’s silhouette through the gap beneath the door.
“Who’s there?” His voice remains calm.
“Good evening, sir. Hotel front desk. I have some messages for Jake Sorenson.”
Relief floods through me. Just hotel staff, not journalists or the team discovering what we’ve done.
Professional exchanges drift through the door about confirmations and tomorrow’s breakfast before the door clicks shut.
“All clear,” Jake says softly.
