Page 77 of The Parent Trap

He groans, a long low rumble in his chest, and his hips flex. Once, hard, his belly tucking in, hips pushing forward, cock driving up, chest lifting as his chin drops. Eyes heavy lidded, hooded. Teeth bared in an animal rictus, lip curled in a savage snarl.

God, he’s beautiful. Sharp cheekbones, chiseled jaw, and fierce, expressive eyes which burn like green fire, all the gray gone now, scorched away by the ferocity of his ecstasy. His hair is wet and pasted back over his scalp, hanging around his jaw and over his ears, sticking to his skin, messy and dripping and somehow still perfect.

My gaze drops back to his cock, the real focus of my attention—his gorgeous face was just a distraction.

Now, his movements are compulsory, need driving him to thrust.

God, yes.

Yes.

Give it to me.

Am I saying this out loud? I sure as hell hope not.

How embarrassing would that be? I barely allow myself to whimper even when coming on my own, alone in my locked bedroom, in my locked house, with the lights off and the blinds drawn. During sex? I’m almost totally silent. I sure as shitnevertalk.

But Thai just does something to me. His magnetic sexual sorcery twists me in knots and erases my inhibitions and ravages my self-consciousness into nothing—makes me wild and crazed with a need I do not recognize in myself.

I want to make this last forever, but I can’t delay my gratification any longer.

His breathing is sharp and short, each breath a grunt as he drives his pulsing cock into my touch.

More.

Give it to me.

Give it to me.

My mouth is open, jaw dropped and brows furrowed as I watch my hand stroke him—still slowly, so, so slowly.

I have to look at him, again. Meet his eyes.

Our gazes lock, and I’m drawn in. I’m hypnotized. Green fury, mad desire. Desperation. Disbelief. Lust. Wonder. Attraction. Need—forme.

“Thai…” I breathe.

I feel a moment of terror that speaking will break this spell over us, but the reverse is true. My whisper of his name only makes him wilder, makes his thrusts harder, faster.

He’s trying to hold back, I can tell. Trying to restrain his thrusts. Make it last, same as me. Scared of breaking the spell, same as me.

I can no longer keep it back, no longer keep my caressing strokes of his thick beautiful cock slow.

Both hands, now.

One fist atop the other, and still I can’t contain all of him. He sprouts up over my top fist, pink head straining and bursting free of my squeezing hand.

He lifts, thrusts.

I lean forward, and what comes over me, I don’t know, but I press my lips to his ear, nibble his earlobe. Whisper, in a sultry, aroused, erotic voice I don’t recognize as mine: “Be still.” I plunge my fists down his length. “Let me. Just hold still…let me do it all.”

His groan is one of equal parts disbelief and relief and crazed, mad need.

I nibble his earlobe and kiss the shell and breathe on his ear, and then I’m kissing his jawline and throat and neck and then I’m kissing his cheekbone and eyebrow and upper lip and then I’m taking his mouth with mine and kissing him with a whimpering desperation and ravenous fury.

But I can’t sustain the kiss—I need to watch. I need to see the moment he explodes.

He’s panting raggedly and his hips are flexing slightly, back and forth—it’s as still as he’s capable of holding.