Page 125 of Don't Say You're Sorry

“Are you happy?”

He looks right into my eyes when he says, “Nope. Totally miserable.” He shrugs, doing his best to look solemn. “I’m a lost cause, baby. I can’t be fixed.”

“You’re an idiot,” I say flatly, dragging his lip through my teeth. “My idiot.”

That beautiful grin of his spreads across his face, and I finally feel completely at ease for the first time in three and a half years.

There he is.

My sunshine.

When we get home, Easton grabs our helmets and drags me upstairs to his room. I try not to laugh as I let him manhandle me.

I don’t know what came over me at the party tonight. Being with him out in the open—it was a high I’ve never felt before. That, mixed with the alcohol in my system, made me brave.

We danced most of the night, and at one point, I turned so my back was to his chest and slid my arms behind me, discreetly palming his dick through his jeans. Later, in the VIP area, he pulled me onto his lap—my back to him—and I made a show of spreading my legs and leaning forward to grab my drink, rocking my hips just enough to get his attention.

He smacked my ass hard. I moaned and melted against his chest.

When I whispered that I was hot and wanted to take my top off, he told the others we were leaving.

I behaved in the car, keeping my hands to myself—I didn’t want to risk distracting the driver—but it didn’t matter. If anything, the anticipation only made him more desperate for me.

He shoves my helmet on my head before putting on his own.

“Fuck,” I rasp, reaching up to slide my hands beneath his T-shirt, my nails grazing his abs. I gaze up at him with my mouth parted. Unable to see the look on his face, I shiver. “Ignore what I said about bobbleheads. I think I have a helmet kink.”

“That makes two of us,” he says, pushing me down on my back on the bed. I slide up to make room for him, and he lies on top of me, his helmet knocking against mine.

He clumsily unbuttons my jeans and pulls them off, chucking them on the floor. I part my legs and pull my knees up, gasping as he slides the butt plug out of my ass, using his other hand to open his jeans. I toss him the lube, and he uses it to get his dick wet before fingering my hole briefly. Impatient, I bat his hand away. Fuck the foreplay. I’m stretched enough, thanks to the plug.

It seems he’s on the same page. He doesn’t bother taking off the rest of our clothes before he lines himself up. He doesn’t even waste time speaking as he enters me. A groan rumbles out of his throat, and he falls down on me, his hand around my neck, his body pressed to mine.

I’m sore and oversensitive since this is the third time he’s fucked me today, and I love the way it feels, the way it burns as he stretches me to my limits.

“Okay?”

“Yes,” I breathe. “Don’t go easy on me. I can take it. Iwantit.”

He does as I say without question, his thrusts hard and deep, and I have to bite my lip to stop myself from screaming his name. He can’t gag me or cover my mouth when I’m wearing the helmet, so there’s nothing to muffle the sounds coming out of me.

I also can’t kiss him—the downside to my new kink.

His thoughts must mirror my own because when our helmets knock together again, he says, “Fuck it,” and pulls them off.

I grab his head and pull his face down to mine, smashing my lips to his. He pushes his tongue into my mouth, and I suck on it greedily, my fingers tugging his hair.

His grip on my throat tightens—a silent demand—so I pull harder.

“Mark me,” he orders, so I do.

I drag my nails down his back and move my mouth down to his neck, sucking and bruising his skin. He rewards me by fucking me even harder.

I pull his head back by his hair to look at the mark on him, my eyes darkening with heat as I meet his gaze. His eyes never leave mine as he comes. I feel him pulsing inside me and moan loudly, my hips jerking against him as I come hands-free.

“Fuck,” I shout. “Easton,fuck.”

He rides me through it, slowing his pace before stopping entirely. We’re both sweating and breathing heavily, his dick still buried in my ass.