Page 97 of Make Them Cry
“You make it impossible to think,” she murmurs between kisses, tugging at the hem of my shirt.
“Good,” I growl, helping her pull it off and toss it aside.
Her fingertips skate over my chest, memorizing every line, every scar. “I keep thinking about that first night… when you taught me how to throw a punch.”
I smirk. “You kept swinging too wide. I almost let you knock me out just to see how smug you’d look.”
She laughs into my mouth, and it’s the best sound I’ve heard in days.
“I should’ve known it was you,” she says.
“Should’ve?”
“I think… I wanted it to be.”
That wrecks me. Completely.
I kiss her again, slower this time. Worshipful. My hands explore her body with a hunger I’ve tried to suppress for too long. Her skin is soft, flushed, and she gasps when I trail my lips down her neck, her collarbone.
We end up in her bedroom, tangled in sheets and breathless promises.
We make out like horny teens, not going all the way.
But it’s more intimate than sex.
It’s vulnerable.
Raw.
Real.
And then our kisses turn more urgent. More hungry. More everything.
“I need inside you,” I tell her, pulling my cock out of my jeans. “I need to feel you.”
“Do it. Make me yours,” she smiles, “...again.”
We make quick work of our clothing, and I push deep inside her. Our bodies move together, creating a rhythm completely unique to us.
“I don’t want this to be temporary,” she whispers.
I press a kiss to her hair. “It’s not. Not for me.”
“Good.” She pauses. “Because I think I’m already in too deep.”
I smile, even as my heart pounds in my chest. “Yeah, me too.”
I keep pushing inside her, over and over again. I’m chasing the high only she can supply, and I keep thrusting as her body trembles. I hold her close, not wanting to ever let her go.
“Fuck, River…” I’m so damn close to telling her I love her, but I can’t keep the emotions bottled in any longer. “I’ll forever want you.”
She smiles. “Same,” she whispers before her orgasm crashes over her.
Mine follows closely behind, and after we’re all cleaned up and calm, we drift into silence, the kind that feels like home.
But even wrapped in her arms, the storm brews at the edges of my mind.
Tasha.
