Page 169 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
I don’t last. He holds out, fucking me slow and deep, but I can’t take it anymore. I come, body clenching around him, vision going white at the edges.
But he doesn’t stop. He keeps going, fucking me through it, drawing it out until I’m shaking and crying and begging him to stop.
When I think I can’t take anymore, he pulls out, strokes himself twice, and comes on my tits, marking me with thick, hot stripes.
I’m still shaking, body buzzing, when he drags his fingers through the mess and writes his name across my chest.
He pinches my nipples harder than before. “Ah!”
The pain sends aftershocks through my whole body. He waits until I stop shaking, then leans down and kisses my messy thighs, tongue cleaning my skin, licking every drop away.
I’m spent. Completely ruined.
But he’s not done.
He grabs the vibe from the nightstand, turns it on, and presses it hard against my clit.
I scream, the sensation too much, too intense, but he doesn’t stop. He holds it there, watching my face, waiting for the exact second I tip over into another orgasm. I’ll remember the look of hedonistic excitement on his face until the day I fucking die.
The bastard makes me come again and this time it’s so intense I almost black out. He helps me ride it out as my hips buck, my pussy clenching around nothing, every muscle activated.
He finally relents, collapses beside me, pulls me into his chest.
He holds me while I come down, stroking my hair, whispering soft nothings in my ear.
When I finally catch my breath, he kisses my temple.
“Good job, Firecracker,” he says, voice thick with pride. “Good girls get to come.”
I want to tell him off, but I can barely speak. Am I actually alive? Who knows.
“Was it worth it?” he asks.
I nod, unable to form words. He laughs, the sound low and content. I curl into him, his arms caging me in. I’m languid. Or whatever the word is that’s more relaxed than that. Not quite unconscious?
Hux kisses my shoulder like he’s been doing it for years instead of two months. He gets me in a way that most people don’t. The scary hockey enforcer and the petite bombshell. Who’d have figured?
And that’s when it hits me like a punch to the gut.
This won’t last.
This trip? It will end. Real life will rush back in. The contract has an expiration date. I can count the days we have left. The number is suddenly, terrifyingly small.
“You okay?” Hunter asks, his voice soft in the dark hotel room.
“Yeah. Just tired.”
But I’m not tired. I’m afraid of the end. Beginning to brace for it. Wondering how I’ll go back to being just myself after this. After knowing what it feels like to be part of something bigger.
After knowing what it feels like to be loved like this.
Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? Love. Real, messy, complicated love that doesn’t fit neatly into the boxes I’ve made for my life.
“Juliet.” Hunter’s voice is gentle but insistent. “Talk to me.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re spiraling. I can tell because you’re doing that thing where you try to solve problems that don’t exist yet.”
