Page 67 of We Are All Liars Here

“I can help you stretch,” he murmurs, drawing back to look at her, “or massage you?”

The hint of a laugh jolts her shoulders. “I don’t trust your motives.”

His hands graze up to her thighs. “Consider this part of your physical therapy.”

His tired smile fades, but the spark of lust she can always find in the pools of his eyes glitters like stars reflecting on the ocean surface. His hands grip her waist, fingers digging into her flesh, and he tugs her down the chaise.

She’s pulled closer to him, legs draped over his waist. “Don’t we have dinner—”

He leans over her, a hand reaching up to cusp her jawline. The pad of his thumb traces the scar trail down to the corner of her mouth. His thumb stops there, then adds pressure, silencing her.

“If we’re late, we’re late” he murmurs and brushes his mouth over hers, his coffee and mint breath a familiar elixir. An addiction she just can’t quit. “They’ll hold our table.”

Billie doesn’t need any more convincing. With her legs draped over his waist and feeling his hardness in his trousers pressed against her core, she’s ready for him; she wants him; she craves him.

Always.

His hands wander from their affections on her face.

One hand trails down her side to rest on her bony hip; the other traces around the curve of her breast, down her soft torso, and to the loosely tied belt of her silk robe. In one delicate tug, it falls open, undone, and her naked body is revealed to him.

He pauses—draws back to run his smoldering gaze over every inch of her smooth, pale skin—until his gaze lands on the pink heat between her spread legs. His lashes lower. Jaw tense, the shadows of dimples cut into his cheeks and—without tearing his gaze from her slit—he leans down to align his mouth with its warmth.

With Preston, it’s like a switch is flicked, a button pushed—when either of them decides to fuck, the other is ready. No practical need for foreplay, but there’s nothing practical about this never-fading desperation they have for each other, a constant need to join bodies, to exist as one in sweat and lust.

And that need is met as the softness of his plump lips kisses her bud.

A whispered moan ribbons out from her. She deflates against the chaise. Another kiss, one that grazes down to her slit.

Preston lifts her legs to drape over his shoulders. As if to gather her wetness, his tongue drags along her slit. He avoids her aching bud this time, moves around it, only the heat of his breaths brushing against it—and that only fuels the ache stirring deep inside her.

Billie reaches a hand down between her spread legs. Her fingers fist in his thick curls. A forceful tug, one that has him wince against her, but brings his lips up just a touch higher. His mouth twists into a smirk against her, a soft teasing sensation that draws out a whisper of a sign from Billie.

His lips come around her clit—and he gives a gentle suck, a swift lick, a combo that has her toes curling. But she’s fast tired of games and she tells him so with a buck of her hips and an impatient grunt.

In answer, Preston’s tongue swirls, then gently strokes over the ache of her bud.

His ministrations quicken, a curt swirl, then a perfectly aimed flick; over and over until her legs start to tense over his shoulders and her toes flex with the building tension stirring in her belly.

Hands buried in his hair, her breaths start to harshen, sharpen in tune with her rising heartbeat. He keeps going, swirl, flick, swirl, flick, and going and going and—

Billie’s back lifts off the chaise, arched as a cry tugs out from between her parted lips. Preston doesn’t stop, but his tongue turns tender now as she rides out her climax and, slowly, he guides her back down.

With a breathy sigh, she slumps on the chaise. She blows a strand of hair from her face.

Preston draws back, licks the glisten of her honey from his lips and watches her with tar-black eyes.

The exhaustion of her climax leaves her limp and breathless as he moves over her. He brings his lips to graze the ghost of a kiss over hers. All the time it takes is a mere blink before he’s got his hand pushed between their bodies and gripping the base of his cock.

He drives himself home.

Her slick walls are tight around his shaft—early resistance. Unlike most of their fucks in all the times since their first, there’s tenderness in his handling of her. The careful way he holds her sore, scarred thigh against his hip, the glide of his cock slipping in and out of her, she knows he’s scraping up every ounce of willpower within him to avoid knocking pain back into her healing wound. Where flesh was stitched and is now knitted together, the tissue and muscle and bone beneath are one hard hit away from alighting flames of agony in her. So he keeps his pace.

Slow, steady, and a frown of frustration on his face. He doesn’t savor every stride into her heat—he fights the urge to throw her onto the rug and fuck her into the floor.

As if to help him, Billie’s hands find the chiseled cheeks of his olive-toned face. His frowning eyes lift. Head bowed, he looks up at her from beneath his long, thick lashes. Her hands guide him closer, guide his mouth to hers.

Their lips meet and part in sync. They kiss—deeply. Not ugly or harsh or tasting like tears and hate. It’s a kiss like the steady pace of his shaft moving in and out of her.

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