Page 89 of Married in Michigan

I add a twist to my hand’s movement—slide up slowly, twist around the head, plunge down. “I see.”

“Point is, I was…tense. It’s been a long time since I’ve… you know. With anyone. Months—an eternity for me. And then I met you, and I was hot for you. Then I saw you on the street—and I admit I’d been driving around looking for you, hoping to find you, which seemed like a futile, stupid idea, but then I got lucky.” A laugh. “And you were dressed for a workout, and I…” A sigh. “Oh god, that was it. I was gone for you.”

I frown at him. “Really? Then?”

He nods. “Wanted you so bad.” A pause, his hips flexing upward. “Feels fuckingsogood, Makayla. Don’t stop.”

I smile at him lazily. “Just try to stop me.”

He breathes out, relieved, but it’s shaky from arousal. “I fought my attraction to you. But then I visited you at your apartment, to ask you what I asked you, and you were in those pj's, and I got that quick little glimpse of your boob, and those shorts were so short and so tight and every time you turned around I couldn’t help staring at your ass.” His eyes meet mine. “The next time I was in the shower, I—I couldn’t help thinking about how you looked in those pj's, that little glimpse of your boob, and your ass, and I…I…”

I grin at him. “You what, Pax?”

“I jerked it, thinking about you,” he says, pausing to gasp and flex his hips. “Trying to imagine it was you touching me.”

I bite my lip. “Was it good?”

“Not as good as this.”

I laugh. “I hope not.”

I can’t take it anymore. I’ve been watching myself caress his huge hard length, stroking the silky, steel-hard thickness. Watching the essence weep out of the slit at the tip, watching the veins pulse, watching his monster arousal strain and slick through my fingers, and I need him. I want him. I want to taste him. I want to take him into my mouth and lick his salty essence away and make him snarl and groan and call out my name and make him need me and lose control—

I don’t give him any warning, I just pounce. His eyes are closed as he lets himself drown in my touch, and when I bend over him and take him into my mouth, he flinches, gasps in shock, and then groans, lifting his hips and burying his hands in my curls, knotting his fists in my hair.

“Ohhhhh fuck, Makayla, fuck fuck fuck—” He stops breathing as I swirl my tongue, back away, and plunge deep again, and then he catches his breath and lets out a snarl of pleasure. “Goddamn, Makayla.”

He flexes, drives his hips up, pushing into my mouth, pulling at my hair—not hard, just enough to show me how much he likes this and how much he wants it, needs it, and I like that hair pull. And then his movement grow shaky and uncontrolled, and I know he’s close, and I wonder if he’s going to let me take him all the way there.

I want to. I want to know his taste. I want to know what him losing control feels like, looks like.

But I want him inside me, too.

He answers the debate for me, via the expedient method of yanking me away at the last second and rolling to his knees with a low, primal growl. His erection is gleaming with my saliva and his essence, dripping, straining, heaving with his panting breaths. He’s on his knees, and every muscle in his body is tensed, straining, his jaw is clenched, and he’s breathing hoarsely.

Suddenly, playtime is over. He’s a predator, and I’m his prey.

I widen my eyes, and wait.

When he has control once again, he relaxes a little—and then prowls toward me on all fours, crawling across the bed to reach me. His mouth dances up my belly, between my breasts, and then his lips latch onto my breast and his tongue sears around my nipple and I’m gasping, suddenly wild and breathless with the unexpected but oh so welcome assault, and his hand is toying with my other breast, cupping and kneading, and he switches back and forth, his mouth dancing from breast to breast, switching hands, so he always has both of my breasts. I arch my back into him, moaning at the wet sucking heat of his mouth over my nipples, which are hard, standing on end and singing with blasting intensity. I cup his head with my hands and wrap my legs around his thighs, and I feel his erection stuttering against my thigh and then nudging against my core, and I need him inside me, need, need, need.

I gather him in my hands, bring the head of him to my opening, spear his springy hardness against my throbbing center, and he moans around a mouthful of my breast.

“Condom,” I gasp. “Pax, condom. Now. Please.”

He growls, shifting aside to rummage in a drawer of his bedside table. Digs out a brand-new box, rips it open, tosses it aside with a string in his hand. I take the string, tear a packet free, toss the string onto the table, rip the packet open with my teeth, toss the packet aside with the condom in my fingers. Pax watches this, and his grin is pleased and humorous and aroused and complicated and passionate and wild and fierce with need.

“That was hot as fuck,” he murmurs.

I grip his erection in one hand and roll the condom on with the other, and then haul him toward me, using his shaft as a handle. “Come here,” I say, my voice just above a whisper. “I need you, Pax. Please.”

He braces his hand beside my face, and I twist my head to the side, kiss his forearm—guide him to me. Splay my thighs open, heels digging into my buttocks to accept all of him between my legs. He’s huge, hovering over me, his shoulders blocking out the room beyond, so there’s only him, only us. I nestle him at my opening, and our eyes meet, a tense, fraught moment before he enters me.

“Makayla…” he whispers. “This feels like…like we’re crossing into something important.”

I caress his back, cup his cheek, palm his buttocks—hard, dusted with hair. “We are.”

“It won’t be just sex.”