Page 82 of Knocked Up by My Fake Fiancé
She's breathing hard, but she helps me as I lift her and flip her over onto the table, bending her forward.
She moans as I line up against her opening and start to push in slowly.
"Yes, Grayson!" she hisses, clawing at the table, sending papers, pens—everything—flying, not caring in the slightest.
Her single-mindedness only makes me hotter. I pump faster, harder, each thrust deeper than the last, chasing the heat and tightness of her body squeezing back around me.
The slap of skin on skin, her muffled gasps against the desk, the way she starts pushing back into me—it's too much.
I throw my head back.
I want this to last forever, but the sounds she makes, the feel of her body clenching around me, the softness of her ass each time I slam into her—all of it drives me toward the edge.
"It's too good," I rasp. "It's too fucking good, Jenna."
Fucking her is heaven and hell all at once. It's like having my mind, my soul, my purpose ripped away.
It's the purest drug, the sweetest high. It's like dying… or being born. Unbearable, yet irresistible. There's no stopping it now.
She moans in response, murmuring words I can't even make out.
"I'm gonna come—I can't last—I need to come," I groan, though I still want her to finish first.
I grab her small hands and pin them behind her back with one of mine. I've learned that restraint drives her wild, and it works again—she grows impossibly slick around me.
I pull out almost completely, then slam into her, right to the hilt.
She screams, gasps, and I do it again and again, hitting that spot that makes her jolt and spasm like a live wire.
I laugh darkly, watching her, giving it to her deep and hard.
"Don't stop!" she cries out.
"I won't." I bend over her, kiss her shoulder, and bite lightly. "I'll never stop. Not until you've come for me."
Her breath catches—and then she does. She comes hard around me, her body twisting, clenching, trembling in waves of pure pleasure.
"Shit," I growl. "Oh my God, I'm coming, Jenna," as my own climax slams through me. I jerk and buck, pumping my release deep inside her.
I stay inside her, sated but still wanting—needing—to prolong our connection for as long as possible. To remain as one with her.
I never want to let her go.
That thought should probably worry me, I think distantly. But for some reason, it doesn't.
I'll deal with it later.
Right now, I collapse back into the chair and pull her into my lap just to hold her.
Simply because I want to.
I capture her lips and kiss her wildly—because if I'm going to break one rule, I might as well break them all.
When I pull back, I study her flushed face and smirk.
"You ripped my shirt," she complains.
"It's okay. I've got plenty of extras in my office."
