Page 7 of Unwavering
More.
“Yes.”
Harder.
“Yes.”
His hands left my waist and cupped my breasts. I leaned down so he could kiss and lick my nipples, so he could whisper dirty glorious things into my cleavage, so I could feel him smiling against my flesh. We delighted in each other, there was no other way to put it, and we lived for these moments when we could indulge in an act made joyful as much by what we said and were to each other as by the physical part.
“You. Are. Glorious.” Each word was punctuated by an upward thrust.
“Yes,” I agreed. I gripped the headboard to steady myself as I rode him. “Which works out nicely, since you are, too.”
He smiled up at me, his dark gaze never leaving my face.My own, I should be dead without you.
“We’ve done the dying thing. It’s passé. Good thing we got it out of the way early, huh?”
Only you could make returning from the grave—on multiple occasions—sound like filing your taxes in January.
This time on the upstroke I didn’t go right back down, so only the tip stayed inside me. I kept us there for a couple of seconds and smirked as Sinclair cursed. I didn’t have the upper hand for long—my smirk was premature—because Sinclair seized my shoulders and rolled, and in half a second I was on my knees, eye-to-eye (so to speak) with the headboard as he eased his cock back in.
“Whoa,” I managed, and grabbed headboard as he set a punishing/amazing pace. I braced so I could push back and was rewarded with a groan.
“Christ.”
Yes.
“You are exquisite, my own.”
Yes. Harder.
He tightened his grip on my hips and obliged, and I knew I’d have five little bruises on each hip when we were done. Those bruises (all the sex bruises, really) were the only ones I wished would linger.
I dropped to my elbows, was rewarded with another deep groan, and reached back so I could stroke his balls with two fingers (my arms weren’t quite long enough for a real grab).
“No,” he gritted out. “You. Touch yourself. I’m...close. Stroke your clit for me.”
So bossy.Still, it was an order I was happy to follow.Stroke your clitwas right up there withtry on the allllll the shoes. So, obedient creature that I was, I slid my hand down between my legs and skated my fingers over and around and alongside my clit, again and again, and I didn’t have the words to describe how gdslkdgjlsg lskdg;a llksdg laskgd;alk llsdgj;;
You’re close, too, my own, darling queen. You’re getting tight all over. It’s hhhhnnnnnnggggg
“Less thinking,” I gasped, amazed I was able to vocalize. Everything was getting brighter—like our room was lit by rheostat and someone was turning it all the way up—while the sensations had narrowed to my fingers and Sinclair’s cock. “More fu—ah!” A sensation not unlike leaping from an airplane and falling into an orgasm blanked my brain, and even as I was trying to think/say/beg ‘don’t stop’, he wasn’t. He fucked me through it until there was nothing but white noise—no, that was Sinclair, who was usually discreet but now and again didn’t give a shit if someone heard him roaring out his orgasm.
In the movies there’s always this tender moment between lovers who have just banged the bricks loose. They gaze into each other’s eyes or manage breathless declarations of love and/or fidelity as they shiver in each other’s arms with just the slightest sheen of sweat on their gorgeous perfect bodies.
Since this was real life, I released my grip on the headboard and flopped prone, mumbling a breathless declaration of love and/or fidelity into my pillow. I might have drooled a little.
Sinclair flopped down beside me and chuckled. “La petite mortis wholly inadequate.”
“Gmmmff umph,” I replied. Also: a tiny bit more drool.
“And we still have three hours left of our special day.”
That motivated me to flop over until we were facing each other on our sides. “I can’t believe you remembered.”
He’d reached out to smooth my bangs out of my way, but paused. “How could you think I would forget?”
“Because normally you give not one shit about that stuff? Hey, I’m not complaining. It was a great day.”
