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Her pussy clenches hard, fucking owning my cock. She cries out my name, and that’s fucking it. My name on her tongue like that? It undoes me. Has me emptying every lost drop inside her like I’ve got no choice in the matter. Like she just decided for me.
We stay right there, breathing hard. I’m not ready to pull out yet, and Amelia’s got her head tipped forward and one hand flat to the wall like she needs a minute too.
I sweep her hair across her back and kiss her shoulder, taking in the dress she’s still wearing that made me lose my damn mind.
She lifts her head. “I’m absolutely going to need to fix my makeup, my hair, everything.”
I’m not ready to let her go, but we’re working to a timeline I’ve just blown to hell, so I pull out. I watch my cum drip out of her, thick and wet, fucking made to spill down her thighs, and fight with myself over canceling lunch and making a mess on every inch of her.
When she turns and gives me a pointed look, I reach for the back of her neck and pull her in close. “You got something to say, Princess? You wanna complain after your pussy just choked the cum out of me?”
She fists my shirt, eyes flashing with so much heat, and kills me with a kiss that could end wars. Then, letting me go, she sasses, “I hope your mom doesn’t spot the stain on my dress later. I’d hate to have to tell her how downright filthy her son is. The things he did to me before showing up for family lunch.” Then, she walks that gorgeous ass of hers all the way to my bathroom. At the door, she glances back. “Donotbring that body of yours in here while I’m fixing the mess you just made. Go find your own damn bathroom. Your dick is dead to me for the rest of the day.”
And fuck me, I asked for all of that.
And I’d do it again in a heartbeat just to keep that smart mouth running.
23
Amelia
Lunch with Gage’s family is an experience unlike any meal I’ve had with my family. I’m used to polite conversation, no laughter, and three adults doing their best to get out of there as soon as possible. My brothers don’t even bother bringing their personalities. My mother would make them put their fun away.
The Black family? Totally different. It’s five sons, three daughters-in-law, and the kind of energy that feels like a family reunion crossed with a roast battle. The men rib each other like it’s a competitive sport. The women hand out sass like party favors.
Gage’s mom, Ingrid, clearly lives for it. She floats between conversations, the queen surveying her rowdy kingdom, refilling wine glasses, ensuring everyone has enough to eat, and occasionally joining the banter with a line that absolutely hits.
And then there’s Gage’s dad. Edmund is stoic, reserved, and watching from a distance. But every now and then, whenthe teasing gets particularly savage or the laughter too loud to ignore, I catch the flicker of amusement in his eyes.
And Gage? He’s in his element. Settled back like he owns the whole table, casually tossing out dry one-liners that land harder than half the roast jokes flying across the room. He doesn’t dominate the spotlight. He simply waits for the moment and delivers. It’s smooth, low-effort hell-raising from him, and I kind of love that for him.
There’s a calm confidence to the way he moves through it all, hand on my thigh under the table, whiskey glass in the other, looking like he was born to banter and breed alpha genes at the same time.
By the time dessert hits the table, I’m full. Like need-to-be-horizontal-and-reflect-on-my-life-choices full. But when Ingrid offers her lemon tart, I smile and say yes. Automatically. Instinctively. Like I was trained.
Because I was.
Both my mother and James’s mother made it abundantly clear, repeatedly and aggressively, that refusing something offered to you, especially food, is rude. Not mildly impolite.Character-definingly offensive. The kind of social misstep that would land me in a lecture on grace and gratitude and “how it looks.”
So, even now, in a warm, happy house with people laughing around the table, I still feel the prompt to “be good.” I say yes without thought.
Which is how I end up sitting here, internally negotiating with my stomach while preparing to inhale a tart I do not have room for.
Gage’s hand comes to my thigh while I’m in the middle of bargaining with my digestive system, and when I glance at him, he’s watching me with that look. The one that says he sees things I didn’t realize I was revealing.
“You don’t have to eat it,” he murmurs so only I can hear. “My mom won’t care.”
My throat tightens. Just a little. Because of course he noticed.
I force a light smile, trying to keep my walls in place. Which is pointless when I’ve got Gage watching me so closely. He’ll see right through it. And he’ll push the point. This man doesn’t do polite lies.
So, I give up and hand him my honesty. “Yeah, but if I don’t eat it, I might internally combust. If I do eat it, I might also combust. Either way, we’re dealing with an emotional lemon situation.”
His mouth quirks, and then,then, he leans right in, and I know that look. That’s not “pass the sugar”, that’s “I’m about to make you feral.” His voice is full gravel when he says, “So you’ll stuff yourself for my mother, but when I want to stuff you with my cock, you demand carb-recovery time?” His lips ghost over mine, smug. “Good to know where I rank, Princess.”
I just shake my head at him as he leans back, throws his arm behind me like he pays rent there, and gives me that smug sex god look—full “I know your panty situation without asking” energy, and zero remorse.
“Fine,” I mutter. “But if your mother comes at me with disappointed eyes, I’m making you fake a medical emergency. The dramatic kind.”