Page 138 of Yearn

“Oh, Dominic.” The pressure of her thighs closing around me only sharpened the ache, like she was daring me to break her open.

My body roared with hunger.

I ground my cock into her thigh letting her know just how hard I was for her. “Oh, Mommy. Have I been a Good Boy today?”

“No. You’ve been very naughty.”

A dark growl left me.

Her breath stuttered, hips shifting up against me as though her body understood before her mind did. “Very, very naughty.”

“Hmmm. Then punish me with your wet pussy, Mommy. Remind my cock who owns it.”

The length throbbed again. It was a dull ache that pulsed. I could already feel the wet spot spreading in front of my jeans where pre-cum was leaking, dampening the fabric and branding my hunger.

I lowered to kiss her again, needing to memorize her taste for the moments when we wouldn’t be together.

She caught my lower lip between her teeth and whispered against my mouth. “We shouldn’t do this, but I fucking want you so bad.”

Her confession lit me up like a monitor flatlining and spiking again. She didn’t even know what she’d admitted—wanting me wasn’t weakness.

It was medicine.

And I was the only one who knew the proper dosage.

“Teyonah. . .you want me because this is our cure.”

“Some would say this is our sin. I’m married and too old to be messing with you.”

“Fuck them.” I kissed her harder, swallowing the edges of her protest. “If this is a sin, then let it be.”

All I knew was that this was the kind of cure that deliciously burned going down, rewired the body, rewrote the brain. Every press of her lips was another milligram, every moan a clinical trial proving what I already knew—she’d never recover from me and I would always be addicted to her.

I put my hand back on her throat.

Her pulse slammed against my fingertips. It was a frantic drum begging me to keep going.

Yes. Yes. She’s more than ready.

I shifted my hips, grinding my cock between her thighs until her slick heat bled through the thin barrier of fabric.

The ache doubled.

Pain and pleasure braided together, charting in real time what I’d suspected all along.

No pill.

No therapy.

No prayer could give me this.

Only her.

Only us.

Only this dangerous cure—this sin—that no hospital could ever sanction.

Perfect.