Page 109 of Messy Strokes (Wrecked Roommates)

Threading my fingers through his hair, my blood hot and my skin tight, I roll my hips against his mouth, my orgasm rising to the surface.

“Shiiiit,” I moan, my head thrashing back and forth as he bites my clit and pushes me over the edge.

The rustle of his jeans cuts its way through my orgasmic haze. Seconds later, the head of his cock nudges against my center.

He pauses.

Rolling my head forward, I peel my eyes open. “What are you waiting for?”

He mutters a few curses under his breath, stripping naked and kicking his clothes to the side, his ass flexing as he marches back to the canvas and sets it against the wall. My brain is still short-circuiting from my orgasm, so it takes me a second to realize what the hell is going on until he’s slathering more paint onto my body. Reds. Oranges. Yellows. He grabs my hand, squirts a dark blue onto my palm, and smacks it against his chest.

“W-what are you doing?” I ask. This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever experienced.

He kisses me again. “Gotta finish this damn project.”

“And what does that have to do with painting our bodies?”

He quirks a brow and squirts lime green onto my hand, adding it to the dark blue. Once he’s satisfied I have enough, he cups my cheeks, tilts my head, and kisses me again. Biting. Licking. Sucking. Building the familiar pressure between my thighs all over again as his slick hands slide up and down my body, turning me into a fiery rainbow.

This.This is what I love about him. What I love about us. The mess. The chaos. The overwhelming need to connect, even when it isn’t logical. Even when itismessy. And chaotic. And after everything we’ve been through, it’s only gotten better.

I spread my thighs, and he picks me up, the rough canvas pressing into my back against the wall as he lines us up.

“You ready?” he asks, his forehead pressed to mine.

With a nod, I arch my back, ready to feel him inside me again.

This is what I needed. Not guilt. Or regret. Or fear of my future and my past mistakes catching up to me.

I only need him.

Milo.

For as long as he’ll have me.

As he pushes into me, my mouth opens wide, and I savor the feel of him stretching me, making me his all over again.

And Iamhis. He owns me. He always has, and he always will.

“Milo,” I whisper, trying to catch my breath.

“You okay, Mads?”

I nod and pull him closer to me, the warmth of his skin branding me from the outside in.

He pumps his hips back and forth, pistoning in and out of me as his fingers dig into my upper thighs, positioning me however the hell he damn-well pleases. My dirty hair lies in thick ropes against my back and tugs against my scalp, caught between me and the canvas. Milo holds onto me with one hand and throws the canvas to the floor. He lays down on top of it but keeps us connected until I find myself straddling him.

“Your turn, Tease,” he orders, looking up at me. The warmth in his gaze almost knocks me on my ass but makes me feel lighter than a damn cloud.

“Are you challenging me?”

He smacks his hand against my ass, causing wet paint to splatter against the edge of the canvas and up onto my side.

Laughing, I roll my hips against him with my hands pressed to his chest as I push him toward the edge. Hell, I’m pushing us both there, and I’m not sure how much longer I’ll last. It’s too much. Too good.

Milo.

This place.

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