Page 7 of Babies for the Big Shot
I moan his name, loud, wrecked, desperate, my breath streaking the glass behind me. My body clamps down, greedy and relentless, as if it’s trying to keep him buried inside forever.
He moves, slow at first. Long, deliberate thrusts that make my eyes roll back and my toes curl in their too-tight heels.
I whimper, clawing at his back, trying to drag him closer even though he’s already buried so deep I can feel him in my soul.
My body is a live wire. Every nerve ending lit up, every inch of me spiraling into chaos.
He kisses me again, rough, consuming, swallowing every reason I ever had for saying no, until there’s nothing left but “yes” and “more” and “please.”
And I let him.
The elevator’s too hot. The air’s too thin. I’ve never been this dizzy from sex or anticipation or the fact that I’m finally doing something reckless and raw and totally unhinged… and I don’t regret it.
Not one second.
I shatter with a sharp cry, orgasm tearing through me. Sudden, brutal, all-consuming. It wracks me from the inside out, nerve-ending deep.
He’s right behind me, groaning into my skin, his thrusts turning frantic before they break apart completely. His body crushes into mine, every muscle straining, as if he’s trying to crawl inside and never leave.
And then it’s quiet.
Only the sound of our ragged breathing and the soft hum of the elevator trying to remember how to be a machine and not a confessional booth of questionable life choices.
I’m still trembling.
Still wrapped around him.
Still not entirely convinced I didn’t hallucinate the entire thing.
His forehead rests against mine
I feel everything at once.
The delicious ache between my thighs.
The wild thrum of my pulse.
The sudden, cold rush ofwhat the hell did I just do?
“Well,” I say hoarsely. “That escalated.”
“You’re insane,” he mutters, but there’s a ghost of a smile on his lips.
“You’re the one with a condom in your wallet,” I shoot back, trying to laugh, even though my legs are barely holding me up and my skin is humming. I might as well be touching a power line.
“You’re the one who tore my shirt open.”
“Touché.”
Ding.
The elevator lurches.
The doors glide open at the worst possible second, slicing through the moment with surgical cruelty, exposing everything I shouldn’t feel.
There’s a security guard standing outside. He looks at us.
I look at Nick.
