Page 45 of Broken on the Mountain
My body coils tight again, pleasure building like a supernova. His rhythm falters, his thrusts growing erratic.
“Look at me,” he commands. “Look at me when we come.Together.”
Our gazes hold as the wave crashes over me. I scream his name, arching up against him as the spasms rip through me.
He follows me over the edge with a roar, burying himself deep, pulsing inside me. His body collapses onto mine, heavy and spent, our chests heaving against each other.
We lie tangled on the rug, sweaty and sated, the only sound our ragged breathing and the frantic pounding of my heart.
He presses a kiss to my sweaty temple. “Been waiting for that all week. You're perfect, you know that?”
Tears prick my eyes.
After a long moment, he shifts, rolling us so I’m tucked against his side, his arm a warm band across my waist. My legs feel like overcooked pasta. Blissfully useless.
“So,” he murmurs, fingers tracing idle patterns on my hip. “Somewhere in all of that you mentioned a terrible dinner?”
I groan, burying my face in his shoulder. “Don’t ruin the afterglow, Morrison. But yes, Mother paraded her latest suitor in front of me like prize breeding stock. He’s a hedge fund manager who thinks ‘roughing it’ is the Four Seasons losing his luggage.”
Chase snorts as his thumb brushes my cheek. “Bet you were magnificent.”
“I was horrifically polite.” I sigh. Because that's what I've always done. “Like my mother trained me. I smiled. I nodded. And then, I imagined stabbing him with a shrimp fork.”
He laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest.
“Next time, think about this instead.” His hand slides lower, cupping my ass possessively. “Think about me bending you over that fancy dining table.”
Heat flares low in my belly again. “Chase!”
“What?” He grins, dipping his fingers lower, tracing a slow, teasing path between my thighs. I’m still slick and his touch makes me gasp. “Too soon?”
My body answers for me, arching into his touch. “Never.”
He kisses me, slow and deep and promising.
“Just wait. If we're going again, I gotta pee,” he murmurs, reluctantly untangling himself. “Don’t move.”
He pads naked towards the bathroom, giving me a spectacular view of his perfect ass, those powerful shoulders and the defined back muscles tapering to a narrow waist.
God, he’s beautiful.
A giddy laugh bubbles up. This is so far outside the Whitman playbook it’s not even funny. Mother would faint. The thought only makes me happier.
I push myself up, wincing slightly at the delicious ache between my thighs. Might as well find that bathroom too. Maybe splash some water on my flushed sex face.
As Chase walks back into the living area, I tread down the hall and push open the bathroom door.
Then freeze.
Because beside the sink, sitting primly on a small dish, is a brand new toothbrush. Still in its packaging. Next to it, a travel-sized tube of my ridiculously expensive French moisturizer.
How did he even know? Did he ask Brooke? Stalk my Instagram bathroom selfies?
But as I move in further… it’s the mirror that stops my breath completely.
Stuck right in the center, written in Chase’s writing on a bright yellow sticky note:
Welcome Home, Piper.
