Page 110 of The Publicity Stunt

He pushes his fingers in harder, faster, and sets the makeshift vibrator against my needy clit. “Oh, God!”

He doesn’t stop. Instead, he presses harder. My orgasm hits and he keeps going. Rubbing my phone into the spot above my pussy while his fingers draw out another orgasm. And it keeps going on and on and till … fuck.

“That’s a good girl. Make a mess all over my fingers.”

I whimper out his name and he leans down to my mouth, whispering all sorts of praises and filthy promises into me. I knot my fingers in the back of his hair and pull his mouth to mine, muffling my moans as I come on his fingers again.

“Again,” he demands, picking up the pace further. “I want more.”

If I have another orgasm, I’m going to die. My pants fill the air around us as I hear the sound of his wet palm slapping against me.

“Oh, God … yes,” I breathe.

He throws the phone to the other end of the bed, quickly replacing the cold metal with his thumb rubbing my clit as he finger-fucks me into oblivion. “The number of times I’ve jacked off to the thought of you bent over my couch. To the thought of fucking you against every wall in my apartment.”

I instantly moan at the picture his words just painted in my head, a little embarrassed by the sound that leaves my mouth.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he asks.

I nod. I nod vigorously. “Yes.”

“What else?” He looks up at me, making sure I hold his gaze. “What else would you like, Chere?” He pulls my hand down and positions it over my clit.

“Tell me what you like.” He presses my hand down and I gasp out loud. “That’s it.” He lets go of my hand and pushes two of his own fingers inside me. “I know I’m not the only one who thinks about us. I know you,” he says, and I start to rub my clit, matching the pressure of his fingers inside me.

“I’m waiting, April.” His fingers pick up the pace. “Tell me what gets you off, and I’ll do it. I’ll do anything for you.”

“You …” I sigh.

“What about me?”

“Kissing me …”

“Keep going.”

Another thrust. “Touching me …” My voice comes out as breathless as ever.

“Uh-huh.” Harder. “And?”

“Fucking me …”

He groans and I love the effect I’m having on him. Love what I’m bringing out in him. God, I love what he’s bringing out in me.

“Do you want me to fuck you, sweetheart?”

I increase the pressure on my clit.

“I need words,” he says. He increases his pace too, and I’m struggling to keep quiet. “Do you want me to fuck you?”

Can’t think. No words.

He pushes his fingers inside me with a single hard thrust and I gasp. “Don’t make me ask you again.” His voice comes out rough and breathless. “I won’t be as gentle.”

“Yes.”

Parker doesn’t waste another second. He pulls out his fingers, standing up straight and running his thumb along the corner of his mouth, slick with my juices. Keeping my legs apart with his knee, he takes off his shirt in one swift motion.

I’ve seen numerous versions of Hayden Parker: the lanky teenager who danced with me in his front yard to the broody college senior who asked me to marry him. I’ve seen it all and I’ve loved every version. But this … this Hayden Parker is by far my favorite. Not because he doesn’t have his clothes on—although that is a contributing factor—but because of the way his muscles are in a relaxed haze, the way there’s not an iota of hesitation on his face, the way he’s so comfortable around me. His confidence in the reality of us turns me on more than any filthy promise ever will.