Page 27 of My Pucking Enemy (The Milwaukee Frost #4)

Luca

Wren tugs me down and into her and normally, I would pull back. Take some time to clean up my face and maybe even brush my teeth. But it’s like my logical brain has completely taken the back seat.

My eyes feel hot, my mind hazy as I stand up off my knees, my arms around her, pulling her up and positioning her where I want her. I lay Wren on her back and reach down, grabbing the pillow that fell and sliding it under her head.

She smiles up at me, looking ethereal in the light of the fire. Her breasts are so perfect it’s insane, her strawberry hair messy and spread around her face, lips red and parted from breathing hard before she says, “What a gentleman.”

A gentleman might wait. Take his time with this part. But I’ve waited so long for this—practically from the day I met her—and I can’t wait any longer.

I plant one of my hands above her shoulder, and Wren seems to have the same idea as me, because she reaches down, hand sliding around my cock. I hiss through my teeth as she gives it one playful stroke before guiding me to her entrance, her eyes darting up to mine, hips rocking forward eagerly.

With Mandy, she never wanted to do anything that would keep us face-to-face. With Mandy, sex was scheduled, showered for, and only done in the bedroom. My ex-wife would never have kissed me right through the door or let me eat her out on the couch.

This is nothing like that. Even if Wren and I have an agreement too.

With one smooth movement, I slide inside her, letting out a sound from the back of my throat at how wet she is—wet for me, wet because of me, because of the way I was able to work her with my mouth. Feeling her come around my fingers was like an appetizer.

And now, I would very much like for her to come around my cock.

I tell her as much, and she grins wickedly at me, rolling her hips and throwing her head back, arching her back so her breasts press against me. I lean down, kissing her neck, biting lightly at her collarbone and breathing in the scent of her floral perfume.

Being with her is like having spring in the dead of winter.

It’s making me into some sort of fucking poet, and I understand it.

I understand the urge to write something sappy and winding after an experience like this.

This must be what people feel like on drugs, being in this room with her, the orange light flickering over us like another sensual touch in the space.

Maybe the fireplace was a bit too much, but I saw her shiver when we walked in. I fully planned to strip her clothes off, so I knew we’d need the fire to keep her warm.

Time slips away as Wren and I move together, her chest pressed against mine, her mouth open and hot in the crook of my neck, the sound of her breathing in my ear.

Slowly, as I fuck her, we slide down together, my hand moving from the armrest and to the cushion, Wren’s hair spreading out around her head on the pillow.

With each thrust, I go deeper, angling my hips.

With each movement of her own hips, we grow closer, her arms winding around me, her heel digging into my back saying more, more.

Until I’m seated so deep inside her that I expect a twist of pain on her face, but it never comes.

She takes all of me and still asks for more.

And I want it, too. I want more. I want to be closer to her.

Even as I know this doesn’t mean to her what it means to me.

When I tugged her onto my lap in that car, it wasn’t just lust overflowing inside me—it was something impossibly tender.

Something cracking open at the way she knew me, the effort she went to.

Surprising me, bringing all our friends around.

It’s not fair to compare her to Mandy, because my ex-wife never claimed to care about me like that.

But I can’t stop thinking that Wren is acting like someone who loves me. She treats me the way my mom treats my dad. The way Sloane treats Callum.

I catch the way she looks at me, those few in-between moments when she lets her walls come down. Those split seconds of eye contact before she locks everything down again, laughing and brushing the moment off.

Like she did outside the nursing home.

“I’m going to come,” she whispers now into my ear, and I draw back, lifting up onto my knees so I can look at her, watch her come apart.

Her cheeks are flushed, her hair wild and her eyes half-lidded, chin tipped up.

Everything about her is ethereal, mesmerizing—the way her breasts move with the thrust of my hips, the smooth, creamy texture of her thighs.

The way she gently scrapes her nails over my skin, so teasing shivers run the length of my spine, even as I’m buried inside her.

When this started, I was content to take the rest of the night, but now that I know her orgasm is on the horizon, it’s like I can’t stop myself from pressing the pad of my thumb to her clit, finding the rhythm I used that night in my parents’ basement.

It’s programmed into me now, as sure as the path I would take to find my own pleasure.

I touch her like we’ve done this many times before, match the pace of my thumb to the pace of my hips, watch as her mouth falls open, her eyes fluttering shut, her breath coming in a quick, desperate staccato.

“Lu-ca,” she says, like a prayer, and when she comes, the walls of her pussy tightening almost to the point of pain around my cock, I wonder if this is what it’s supposed to feel like.

If it is, I can finally understand why a guy might get caught up in a relationship, set his career to the side for a partner. In college, when guys were skipping practice to go to parties and hook up, I never got it.

Now, I do.

If I’d met Wren Beaumont back then, I wouldn’t have a career. I’d have nothing. She would have wrecked me, fully and completely, until I couldn’t find a reason to live outside of her touch.

And as I bury myself inside her, coming into the condom, gasping when she reaches up and pulls me down so she can hold me to her at the peak of my orgasm, I realize that it doesn’t actually matter at which point in my life I met her.

Because she’s going to ruin me, either way.