Page 35

35

ALLISON

M ovement pulls me from the kind of deep sleep that only follows complete physical ruin.

I stretch, wincing. I’m sore in all the right places. Wrecked and boneless from being utterly destroyed by Connor.

The shower kicks on.

One eye cracks open, catching sight of his naked, smug-as-hell form walking out of the bathroom. His hair’s a mess, his muscles are glistening, and I already hate how turned on I am.

“You coming, babe?” he asks, like he didn’t leave my soul somewhere on the mattress.

“I can’t feel my legs.”

He shrugs. “Guess I’ll have to wash all this mess off by myself...”

Cocky bastard.

My body moves before my brain can catch up.

By the time I reach the bathroom, he’s already under the spray, steam curling around his ridiculous body like he’s the main event at a sin convention. I’m staring at his rock-hard ass like it’s a religious experience.

He turns just as I step in. That arrogant curve of his lips says he knew I’d follow. “You lasted longer than I thought.”

“Asshole,” I mutter, eyes glued to the water gliding down his chest as I move closer.

He reaches out, grabs me, and pulls me inside. Then he cages me against the wall, his lips brushing my ear. “Let me take care of you, baby.”

A pathetic noise escapes my throat.

He lathers my body wash between his hands and starts to soap me down, slow and torturous.

By the time his hands slide over my ass, lifting me, I’ve lost all sense of reason.

“Round two,” he murmurs, voice dark. “This time, no tantrum required.”

I open my mouth—maybe to protest, maybe to beg—but then he’s inside me, and my brain short-circuits.

“Hold on tight, baby,” he rasps. “I’m about to fuck you like I hate you.”

Jesus.

Pinned against the tile, his hand wraps around my throat, the other gripping my ass, he fucks me hard. His breath sears against my neck.

“This pussy’s mine,” he growls.

“Yours,” I gasp, already shaking.

He pounds into me like it’s his job, and I’m the only damn task on his schedule. Our moans echo off the tile.

Steam fills the air. Sweat mixes with the water, beading on our skin. Our moans and gasps echo from the walls.

“No takesies-backsies,” he mutters, thrusting deeper.

I can’t even comprehend language anymore.

I could wake up like this every day. It doesn’t matter that my body aches from last night.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, the small rational part of me waves a red flag, the voice in my head joining in. Hey girl, this is not sustainable.

But I’m too far gone.

Connor’s the whole damn hurricane, destroying every piece of me.

* * *

An hour later, logic has returned to my over-sexed brain.

This is a nightmare.

A hot, sweaty, air-conditioning-is-broken nightmare.

Wanda, our wood-paneled chariot of sin, is back on the road, and I’m trapped next to a smug, shirtless, and entirely too pleased with himself hockey player.

I should’ve known this would happen.

The second we got in the car, Connor stretched out like a king, taking up half the seat. Then he looked over at me with that smile that’s ruined my life ever since I met him and murmured, “Comfy, baby?”

I nearly threw myself from the vehicle.

Now, here we are. The air conditioning wheezes weakly as Wanda hauls us toward Vegas, judging me with every rattle. I swear she groans every time I shift in my seat, as if to say, You did this to yourself, slut.

Connor brushes my leg for the hundredth time, and I feel my sanity slip just a little more. Every bump in the road has me clutching my seat—or worse, accidentally landing a hand on his thigh.

He laughs every time.

The second we hit the Welcome to Nevada sign, I snap.

“Are you doing this on purpose?”

He glances over, his expression all innocence. “Doing what, baby?”

“You know exactly what.”

“You mean making you squirm, wife?”

“Bite me,” I growl.

His smirk turns feral. “Anytime. Anywhere.”

God help me, I’m not going to survive Vegas.