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Chapter 17

Carina

A fter Horace rocks my world, he proves he’s superhuman by scooping me up— all hundred and ninety-seven pounds of me —like I weigh nothing and carrying me into his luxury shower.

It should be illegal to look this good, to be this effortlessly powerful. Especially after doing the things he just did to me.

But no, there he is, broad shoulders flexing, muscles taut as he holds me against his chest like I’m the most precious thing he’s ever touched.

It’s stupid to feel shy with him after what we just did.

But I am.

I mean, I do.

Feel shy, that is.

“Come here,” he murmurs, voice thick with something I can’t quite name.

Possessiveness? Affection?

Something that makes my stomach flip in a way I know better than to trust.

I’m grateful the only lights he’s turned on are the dim ambient ones, the glow soft and golden, making this whole thing feel more like a dream than reality. Maybe it is.

Maybe I’ll wake up and realize I imagined the best sex of my life with the most ridiculously attractive man I’ve ever met.

His fingers brush over my skin, rough with calluses.

Which is weird, because he’s a programmer.

I imagined he’d have smooth hands, the kind that spend more time dancing over keyboards than anything else.

But these hands? They feel like they’ve done more than just type.

They feel like they were made to touch me.

It’s too soon to be this turned on again. I should be exhausted. I should be blissed out and drifting into a coma-level sleep.

But when I glance up at him, his dark eyes are molten heat, his lips parted, his entire body wound tight with restraint.

“You feel good too, Sweetheart,” he murmurs, moaning into my mouth as he kisses me, and I freeze for a second.

Wait. Did I say that out loud?

His arms tighten around me, pulling me flush against him, and I have to admit—I don’t hate how big he is. How solid. How he makes me feel small, even though I never am.

I’m curvy.

Which is just the polite way of saying I’m fat.

But that is the blunt truth of it.

I take up a lot of space. I know my body.

I know what people think when they see it.

But Horace? He looks at me like I’m a feast laid out just for him.

Like he’s starving and I’m the only thing in the world that can satisfy him.

He makes me feel—well, that’s just it. He makes me feel .

Cherished.

Protected.

Wanted.

I know I shouldn’t get attached. This is just a night. A stolen moment. But something about the way he’s looking at me makes me feel like it’s more.

And that? That’s dangerous.

His kisses grow desperate, searching as he backs me into the glass, steam curling around us, heat rising in more ways than one.

“Want you sprawled out in bed this time, Sweetheart,” he growls, lips tracing fire along my jaw. “But I think I have to taste you again before I get you there.”

Then he drops to his knees, and I stop thinking altogether.

He nudges my knees open, lifts one leg, and drapes it across his shoulder. I have to hold on to something, and my searching hands grasp at his head, finding purchase in his short dark hair.

“Just look at you. Soft and pink. So pretty, Sweetheart, tell me this pussy is mine. It is, isn’t it? This here is all for me.”

I nod. The unmistakable note of possession has moisture flooding to my core.

Biting my lip to keep from screaming, I moan as he laps at my slit.

“So good, Baby. Gonna drink you all up. Gonna fuck you with my mouth till you’re squirting all over me.”

“I never,” I whimper, but whatever I was going to say doesn’t matter.

Horace is good at this.

Really fucking good.

His mouth is nimble. I don’t know if it’s that talented tongue he keeps shoving into me. Or the way his lips seem to curl and tug at my clit just right. But half a minute into this, and I am humping his face with no shame whatsoever.

“That’s it. Fuck my face. Show me how good I make you feel,” he growls, then shoves to fingers into my pussy and sucks on my clit. Hard.

Stars explode behind my eyes, and then I—well, then I squirt.

A lot.

And he laps it up.

Every last drop.

I am so weak I can’t stand without his support by the time he stops. He tilts his head, grinning at me from his position on the floor, and I know without a doubt I am so screwed.

Literally and metaphorically.

Shit. I’m in love with him.