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Taron watches, his eyes so dark with desire, I get lost in their depths.

“Fuck, babe, that is hot.” He clamps his mouth over mine.

Kisses me hard. Thrusts his thickness inside me, filling and stretching me. He is deep, his body rocking into mine. Needing to touch him, to feel a deeper connection, I reach up and splay my fingers on his shoulders. Caress along his jawline. He is so sexy. So damn sexy with the look of rapture and concentration on his face. Him inside me feels good for him, too, but he also wants to make sure I like it.

“You inside me feels so good, Taron.”

“Not too deep?”

“You’re perfect.”

As though he wants to prolong my pleasure, he slows his pace. Crushes his mouth on mine. I grip his biceps. Rake my nails over his flesh. Dig my heels into his shoulders. The ache between my legs grows. He takes me higher, pumping in and out of me, his thickness stretching me.

“I’m close. Please, Taron.”

He ups his pace. Is done with slow and worshipping. He goes faster. Pounds harder. Thrusts deeper. It’s too much, and I shatter. He comes with a loud, “Fuck,” and a whoosh of breath. He collapses on me. Drops kisses on my forehead, my nose, my cheeks, my mouth. I grin from ear to ear.

This aftermath is different from my random hookups. Taron didn’t roll over and go to sleep, not too worried for my safety to see me out, just as long as I’m not around in the morning. I wouldn’t want to do the walk of shame, anyway. Instead, after showering kisses on me, he cleans our sex mess from between my legs and cocoons me in his arms. I have never felt so wanted.

He pulls the covers over us, dropping a kiss on the top of my head. The intimate gesture undoes me, and reaching back for his arm, I sling it over my body and press a kiss to his knuckles.

“Thank you.”

“For what, Pixie Dust?”

“For changing my mind. I like sex. With you. A lot.”

“I like sex with you too, Syn.”

Like. Sex. Not love. Not making love. I am right and wrong. Right that this is a dream. Wrong that our “work in progress” will lead to love.

In real life, Taron and I won’t be falling in love. We fall into sex.

That is all we’ll be good for together.

We’re different people now and want different things in life. We have different priorities too. And even if he did want me for more than sex, will he accept my past when he finds out about my life with Hunter and Rhett?

Or what if he only wants me for the sex? I’m different from the other girls he’s been with. The girls who post pictures of Taron’s dick aren’t tatted or pierced. They look clean and wholesome. Some are tall and slender. Others are slender and petit. Some have large breasts. Others have smaller breasts than mine.

I like sex with Taron. He likes having sex with me. But will it ever be just me he wants? Or is he more like Beau, going from one woman to another after he is bored with them or is propositioned by someone younger and prettier than the current woman he’s with?

Dashing away the doubts, I snuggle into his heat, curve my body into his large, muscular frame, and give in to sleep, ready for another dream of making love with Taron.

21

Syn

Iwake up sore the next morning, and it’s the good kind. Like a night of marathon sex with a guy capable of giving me multiple orgasms.

Smiling, I rise to a sitting position and stretch my hands to the ceiling. The sheets fall from my body, and my nipples harden from the rush of air hitting my chest. I look down. No tank top. I lift the sheets. No panties.What the—?

“I wasn’t dreaming.”

“Not at all, Pixie Dust.”

My head snaps up. Taron is standing at the foot of the bed. In his hands is a tray, and on it are two mugs, doughnuts, sandwiches, and bowls of fruit.

“Good afternoon, sleepyhead. I have brunch.”