Page 44 of Don’t Go Breaking My Heart (Houston Baddies #3)

turner

. . .

T he second the elevator doors close, we’re on each other.

No words. No restraint. Just lips crashing, hands grabbing, and her back slamming into the wall like we’ve both been holding this in for way too long.

Which we have.

She gasps into my mouth, and I groan—because when my hands slide down her hips and under the hem of that tiny fucking dress, I’m met with bare skin.

No underwear.

Jesus. Fucking.

Christ.

My dick throbs, pulsating and desperate to sink into the slick heat I’ve missed so much. Hot. Wet.

So wet.

My palm slides over her butt cheek, gripping, one of my fingers easing into her from behind as our mouths crash together again, messy and gasping.

She moans into me—high-pitched and helpless—and I don’t think. I act.

My other hand slams against the emergency stop button. The elevator jolts to a halt with a mechanical groan, lights steady but the silence around us somehow louder.

No movement.

No interruption.

Poppy pulls back just enough to breathe, her lips slick, pupils blown wide. Her chest heaves against mine, that little black dress hiked so far up it’s basically a shirt.

“I can’t wait,” I mutter against her mouth, my hand still working between her thighs. “I can’t fucking wait, Poppy—I can’t.”

I’ve been waiting for her since she moved out.

Left me.

“Then don’t,” she pants, head tipping back. “Just fuck me.” She fumbles at my waistband, fingers shaking with need. “Why are your pants still on?”

Every brush of her fingers, every accidental graze of skin, feels like it might undo me completely.

I am so fucking hard; I feel like I’m vibrating with it.

“Let me,” I mutter, voice hoarse, pushing her hands away to fumble with the button myself. My fingers are clumsy—desperate. When I finally get it undone and drag the zipper down, her hand slips right back in like it belongs there.

And fuck.

Her fingers wrap around me, hot and sure, stroking once, just enough to make me stagger forward and catch myself with a hand on the mirror behind her.

“You’re going to kill me, Poppy,” I grit out, every muscle tight, hips jerking against her grip.

She grins, mouth swollen, cheeks flushed and shifts her hips against me—lining up that slick, bare heat perfectly.

We both freeze.

The air between us snaps, thick and electric.

And then I move.

I grip her hips, lift her in one smooth motion, and press her back to the mirror with enough force to knock the breath from both our lungs. She wraps her legs around my waist without hesitation, like her body’s been waiting—remembering—aching.

Because it has.

Because mine has too.

I drag the head of my cock through her slick heat, just once, just enough to tease us both, and her nails bite into my shoulders.

“Now,” she whispers, voice breaking. “Please—now.”

I don’t hesitate.

I sink into her in one hard, perfect thrust, and we both cry out—low, guttural, breathless. Her walls clench around me, hot and tight and so fucking wet, and my brain short-circuits. My knees buckle. My forehead drops to hers.

“You feel— fuck ,” I pant. “I missed this. Missed you.”

I fuck her against the wall of the elevator, lifting my gaze to stare at us in the reflective walls, two bodies tangled in frenzied desperation, every thrust rocking her higher on the wall.

Her head tips back, mouth parted, eyes glassy and wild.

It’s fucking beautiful.

My hand slides up her thigh, fingers digging into the curve of her ass as I drive into her again—harder now, deeper. She gasps, claws at my shirt, teeth grazing my jaw like she doesn’t know whether to kiss me or bite me.

Maybe both.

I catch our reflection again—her legs wrapped around me, the way her dress is bunched at her hips, the way she moves against me like we’re trying to erase time.

“Look at us,” I growl against her ear.

She turns her head, eyes locking with mine in the mirror, and moans—loud, wrecked, ruined.

At the sight of us fucking…

I thrust harder.

Watch her bounce in my arms, watch the way her tits move beneath the thin fabric, how her mouth drops open with every deep, punishing drive.

Her gaze flicks to the walls.

This time, lower. Poppy watches where we’re joined, the slickness of it, the raw, hot rhythm of my cock sliding in and out of her.

Her breath catches. “God, Turner… it’s so fucking hot…”

I moan, buried deep. “Look at how good you take my swollen cock, babe. Look how wet you are for me.”

“Do you want to watch me down on my knees sucking it?” She gasps as I pump into her. “I want to suck it.”

The mental image of her blowing my dick nearly undoes me— her on her knees, lips wrapped around me, mirror catching every filthy angle, her eyes locked on mine as I fist her hair and try not to fall apart.

But I don’t.

Because I can’t.

Tight, slick, pulsing—the idea of pulling out of Poppy would physically pain me.

“I can’t stop,” I growl, voice low and desperate. “You’ll get on your knees later. R-right now I need to f-finish inside you,” I stammer, each word forced out between clenched teeth, because goddamn, she feels good—like heaven and sin and every fantasy I’ve ever had, wrapped around my cock.

Poppy gasps, her head dropping back, hips bucking. “Then ruin me.”

And I do.

I drive into her like I’m trying to brand myself into her body— mine, mine, mine —every thrust rougher, messier, more frantic. Skin slapping against skin.

“You hear that?” I pant, eyes locked on the mirror. “That’s the sound of you getting fucked like you need it. Like you’re mine.”

“Yes,” she chokes. “God, Turner, yes. I’m yours…”

I groan again, burying my face in her neck, tasting sweat, perfume, the faint sweetness of her skin—and then?—

RIIIIING.

The elevator phone starts blaring.

We ignore it, like we don’t even hear it—like nothing in the world exists outside this tiny, overheated elevator and the way her body squeezes around me.

She’s so goddamn tight. So wet. So perfect.

“Come on my cock,” I demand, drilling her tight little pussy, lifting her by the ass and pulling her into my pelvis.

The elevator phone rings and rings, but it’s background noise now. Just static against the only thing that matters: her falling apart on me.

“Right there,” I pant. “Right there, like that. You’re perfect, baby. So fucking good?—”

She gasps, legs locking tight, body convulsing in my arms.

Her orgasm rips through her with a force that takes me with it—her nails digging into my shoulders, her body clenching.

She jerks against me, nails biting into my back, mouth falling open on a gasp that punches straight through my chest. Her entire body trembles in my arms, tight and soaked and clenching around me like she never wants to let go—and I can’t hold back anymore.

I drive up into her once. Twice.

And then I’m gone.

Lights-out, white-hot.

I come hard, emptying into her with a growl against her throat, gripping her so tightly she squeaks—a broken, blissed- out sound that would’ve made me laugh if I had any oxygen left in my lungs.

“Holy shit,” she whispers breathlessly.

“Yeah,” I mutter, forehead still pressed to hers. “Holy shit.”

She giggles, then winces. “My thighs are going to be sore for a week.”

“I’m not sorry.”

“Didn’t ask you to be.”

We finally untangle, fumbling to straighten our clothes and ignore the fact that we just had very real, very intense sex in an elevator between floors.

And then it jolts.

We both freeze, holding onto each other as the metal box lurches downward, slowly grumbling back into service, waking up from the nap it shouldn’t have taken.

“Shit,” she mutters, grabbing for my arm. “Do I look like I just got railed?”

“Yes.”