Page 38 of Our Little Cliche

Chapter Thirty-Seven

HOLLY

This is better than the book. Better than what I thought it would be.

The sight of Cyrus’s balaclava above my face is sending me into orbit.

He looks different without his glasses on, which adds to the illusive sensations of secrecy, because he no longer looks like the hot nerd that I’ve come to know him to be—he, in this very moment, looks like a strange man that I’ve never met.

His arms bear his weight beside my head as he thrusts deeply and I wince at the intensity, struggling to accommodate his girth. Despite how deep he is, I know he’s holding back from shoving in more. He pauses his movements, allowing me to catch my breath.

“If it’s too much I can stop, just tell me.

” His husky, hot breath seeps from where his mouth lies under the mask, radiating over my skin.

I loop both arms around his back, hooking my barely existent manicure into his flesh, trailing them down to bring him closer in the hope that the action shows my answer: no hold backs—I need everything he has to give.

E.

V.

E.

R.

Y.

THING.

“If I ask for all of you, then give me all of you,” I demand, tugging his mask from his head. Now I can see him for all that he is in this very moment: a possessive, hungry animal.

“Fuck,” he groans the word like I’m both his drug and his nemesis all in one, relishing the sensation of me marking his back.

I can’t help but lose myself in the way his eyes look in the dim light.

They’re almost black. Almost sinister. Dangerous, and louring.

Jesus, he’s gorgeous. His stubble, his creased eyebrows, his lips, and his biceps…

Holy shit his biceps. Holy shit his neck.

If you had told me a month ago that I would wind up in some hot Canadian’s house getting woken up to his dick in between my legs, I would have laughed so insanely hard that my own shadow fell off my skin.

It’s been just shy of three weeks since I met him and everything of my past is a complete blur.

And I have no idea what that means.

I mean, like, who even was Adam? Where even is Australia? I don’t know… all I know is that neither of them are my home anymore.

My home is here .

With Cyrus goddamn Stone.

Am I… am I falling for this man? Or am I completely, utterly, and foolishly in love with this man?

Of course I’m in love with him.

How fucking cliché.

Cyrus kisses my neck hungrily, and I don’t know how it happens, but in the blink of an eye my body shifts from underneath him, to suddenly above him—without once letting his cock break free from inside me.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” My accent couldn’t get any more Australian if I wanted it to, looking down at his bare, tattooed , masculine chest. I pant, but I don’t know if it’s because he’s deeper from this angle or because I had no idea that this nerdy Canadian even had tattoos.

And bugger me dead, I knew he was a bigger build as everything he wears is a tight fit, but I didn’t realize he was this big.

“What?” he asks in a shit, am I hurting her kind of way, running his hands down my thighs like an apology, then grips his fingers deeply into my hips

“Nothi—”

Ow!

With force, he tilts me in a way that takes him even deeper, halting my sentence.

Fuck, this is deep.

“Holly… don’t do that.” Oh, no. Serious boss Cyrus. “Don’t say nothing. If I’ve taught you anything it’s to be open with me, please.”

“I just… haven’t seen you without a shirt before,” I blink slowly, my tone almost reverent.

“And how does that make you feel?”

I clench around him, then push my ass back, sighing as I take the pressure. “I think you know how that makes me feel.”

“Then rock those hips against me, baby. I want to see you come apart for me again, this time I want it all over my cock.” His tongue passes over his lips and I feel him throbbing inside me impatiently. I could never. I have never, he knows this. But why do I feel like that’s a challenge for him?

Pushing the thought aside, I don’t hesitate, picking up the pace, swaying in a slow, steady rocking motion. Finding a rhythm that I can accommodate without panting too hard, I savor the way his hands look on my skin as he explores my body.

First they wrap around the lower exposed parts of me, then higher, grabbing my boobs.

Instinctively, my back arches as I take in this newfound pleasure knocking me in the depths of my belly button, building…

something , like a climax, but deeper, bigger , and with a completely different level of ecstasy.

When I feel like I can’t cope on top anymore he somehow knows this, because he does the move again, separating the connection this time, ripping me from above him to suddenly below. He pins my wrists above my head with one hand—just like the book—eliciting a moan.

Nipping at my neck, Cyrus moves down slowly, tracing the bite marks with his free hand, and softening the blow.

He explores my nipples with his teeth, biting down gently, then uses his knee to spread me apart for him.

He releases my wrists, but I don’t move an inch other than to roll my head back when his tongue finds my clit. “Mmm.”

“Say my name for me.” His voice is muffled, peering up at me from between my thighs.

My voice gets caught in my breathlessness, but somehow it comes out. “Cyrus.”

“Again,” he demands a bit louder.

“Cyrus!”

Holy fucking hell this is intense.

“Good girl,” he groans, licking his lips clean of my liquid, then steps off the bed, taking the blanket along with him, and dumps it on the floor.

Uh-oh, what’s that look for?

I gasp when he grips my ankles with a shit eating grin on his face, flipping me onto my belly like I’m a rag doll, then yanks me to the edge of the bed so that my feet hang off the side.

“Do you trust me?” I’m unable to place if it’s a question or a dare.

Without hesitation I answer truthfully, though my yes comes out as a groan. “Mhmm.”

“Hmm,” he utters disapprovingly as his hands glide up my thighs, then props my ass up with a pillow under my hips before retreating.

He moves slowly, and sensually. It’s lethally erotic to not know what he’s going to do from one moment to the next.

The soft, leisurely touch of his fingers on my skin as they trail back down to my ankles is gentle, yet I know that the strength of how he will fill me again won’t be. “I’ll try that again…”

My knees stay at the edge of the bed while he bends them so that my heels press up as close to my ass as possible. I’m pinned down. Completely vulnerable for the taking.

His taking.

“Do you trust me?” Cyrus repeats.

“Yes.”

Immense pressure chokes me as he enters me at full force from behind, much deeper and with more possession than the last. It’s heavenly. It’s like each position he has already put me in is practice for the next, leaving me feeling full, swollen, and so incredibly claimed .

“Then cum for me, Holly.”

“Oh, fuck.” Fuck! The pressure that had been building inside my core erupts the second his words soar over my skin like a command, and I shudder into something I can only describe as a chemical explosion.

Sending me further than oblivion.

His groans coax the muscles of my pussy to wrap around him, clenching, and gripping his length during my orgasm. Then I feel it… his hot cum filling me, climaxing with me until his arms cannot bear his weight any more.

Holy fucking shit.

Blinking into the light of morning, I feel the sunlight flutter against my eyelashes. I feel warm. Roasting, even, wrapped in the sheets with Cyrus—who is sleeping soundly beside me.

…Yeah.

This.

This is where I want to call home.