Page 182 of A Naked Beauty

I lift up, seeking his stiff cock with my hand and position him against my core.

“Slow,” he hisses.

I lower onto the bulbous crown, watching each thick inch disappear, slowly, deliciously, until I’ve taken him to the root. I breathe through the luscious stretch, loving the way he fills me, completes me. Puzzle-like pieces fitting perfectly together. All reflected in the mirror, from where we’re intimately connected to the open-mouth, breathy expressions of pleasure on our faces.

I inch up and slide back down, watching the slick movements—watching his ferocious gaze consume the bobbing of my breasts and the bouncing action of my ass slapping against his thighs.

On a stream of curses and dirty talk, Mick brings one hand between my legs. His fingertips on my clit are like an electric current. Wild for him I cry out, my mind lost to the primal urge to fuck. I ride his fingers and shaft, my mouth parted on choppy moans. It’s like watching an erotic movie with us as the stars. I bring my hands to my breasts. Squeezing them, stroking the tips as an orgasm bursts through me, the tremors radiating everywhere. We watch me explode, our gazes riveted to the insatiably hedonistic sight of me coming all over him.

And it only gets better when Mick lifts me off and turns the chair so I can grab on to the back and see us in profile. Him positioned behind me, hands grasping my hips as he slams into me.

“Fuck, fuck.” Roars vibrate from his chest, the mirror capturing every carnal thrust.

“Mick…oh God, don’t stop…so good.” It’s sensual heaven, the feel of him combined with the visual stimulation of watching him fuck me with ravenous greed.

His face, beaded with sweat, is strikingly intense. The firm muscles in his ass flex with the rhythm of his lunges, his arms ripple, his abs pull taut as he drives possessively toward his orgasm and brings me to another one that’s even more mind-obliterating than the first.

Milking him, he pounds his hips at me with warped force and speed. “Dee!” He climaxes on a litany of gnashing groans and hisses of myname, his head thrown back, shuddering through each vicious spasm, coming hard and long.

Left boneless and breathless, wow is my only thought. Then I feel Mick’s kisses on my back, down my spine, before he shifts to sit me in the chair. I have a few brain cells left to register that he’s kneeling in front of me with a look that says, I’m not done yet. My chest quivers.

I can’t. I’m too swollen and sensitive. I weakly fist Mick’s hair intending to pull him away. But when his tongue flutters against my clit, need reignites in an instant. He slides his hands beneath my bottom, bringing me closer, almost off the seat. I wrap my legs around his shoulders and arch upward into his mouth. My fingers cling to the wavy strands of his hair, my moans quicken.

His mouth eats at me with avid intensity. I writhe, hovering on the verge of another orgasm I hadn’t thought possible. His thumb enters my rear. The decadent fullness at the back and maddening laps of his tongue break me with pleasure. Watching us, I sob his name, coming apart in a million blissful pieces.

Slumped against the chair, Mick carries me to the bed. I’m too wrung out to do more just lie there limply at his side.

“You okay?” He strokes my hair, then down my arm.

“Mm-hmm.”

I can feel his satisfied smile. “I’ve been fantasizing about christening that mirror for weeks.”

“Did it measure up?” I murmur.

“Beauty, you are always more than anything I could ever dream of.”

It’s a while before weget up and shower. Mick washes me and pays homage to my belly. He kisses and whispers words of love to me and the baby. He can’t see my tears through the spray of the water. I hold his head to me, looking forward to the little kicks and flutters that will start in a few months, and bask in the knowledge that our baby is going to come into this world wanted, valued, and adored.

We dry off and I slip into my robe. Mick pulls on boxer briefs and is toweling off his hair when his phone vibrates. He gripes at the intrusion but reaches to pick it up off the dresser.

He looks at the screen and his eyes squint in question. “Peters here.” After a pause, he confirms: “Yes, it’s Micah Peters.”

Then a wave of tension pumps off of him. He paces, listening. When he stops, I move to his side and put a hand to his back. The skin is still dewy from his shower but the muscles are taut.

“I’ll be there in an hour.” He disconnects and tosses the phone onto the bed. His features, rigid.

“Mick?”

He rakes his fingers through his damp hair. “Malcolm’s dead.”

ChapterThirty-Nine

Micah

White walls, antiseptic smells. Myhead fills with the still too-recent memory of being in a hospital waiting for Dee to wake up, the agony of not knowing if she would.

Because of Malcolm. Now the bastard’s dead and his body is my responsibility.

---