And I sink inside.
Then go still.
I need a moment as her body hugs my cock. She’s tight and hot and fits me like a glove. “This pussy belongs to me,” I growl as I push all the way inside her.
“I know,” she pants, her head falling forward.
My disobedient Ellie. No, no, no. I grab her shoulder. “Watch us,” I warn. “Or I’ll stop.”
She blinks like she’s orienting herself, remembering her orders. “Yes, Gabe,” she says as she raises her face and gazes at us in the mirror.
Then I curl my hand tighter around her shoulder, my fingers digging in possessively. I ease out almost, almost all the way.
She moans. Her back bows and she lifts her ass, inviting me to slam into her.
I heed her wishes. Thrusting deep inside her. Gripping her harder. Listening to her cues, reading her body language, I find our rhythm, a punishing pace that makes her groan and grunt too. We’re both animals, fucking wildly.
I shove a hand into her hair again. Twist her strands around my fist. Jerk hard.
The sound she makes is feral. “Ohhhh,” she moans.
And it’s still not enough for me. “You want me to smack this pretty ass?”
“Hard, please,” she begs.
I lift a hand, then smack.
Smack, tug, fuck.
I leave handprints, and still she’s begging me, more, more, more.
She cries out again, like she’s closer, and I let go of her hair. Sliding my hand between her thighs, I stroke her diamond of a clit and I smack her ass ruthlessly with my other hand until she’s shouting my name and coming on my cock.
My vision blurs.
My brain goes offline as my climax seizes my cells. Pleasure obliterates everything but white-hot bliss with this woman who wants the same kind of wild, dirty, kinky, uninhibited sex I do.
I’ve never been so glad to be wrong about someone.
Sated, for now, I lie next to her and give her the sweet, tender kiss she deserves.
“You took that fucking so well,” I tell her, then brush a gentle kiss to her lips.
“You fucked me so well,” she whispers.
I wrap her in my arms, hold her close, and stroke her hair. “Can I stay the night?”
She smiles against me. “You better.”
We lie together in satisfied silence, and I lazily take in the details of her bedroom. On the nightstand is a stack of books—romance novels with titles like Sweet Spot, Top-Notch Boyfriend, and Come Lately.
I point to the books. “Those look good,” I say, then I read the spine of another one. Role Play.
“They’re unputdownable.” She nods to the last one. “And they sometimes give me great ideas.”
Milo was right. There is something sexy about a reader. But when her hand brushes mine as she reaches for the book, there’s something…surprisingly nice about it too.
Like reading could be another thing to do in bed.
I try to knock away the thought of other bedroom activities. But as she starts chapter one, the idea stays.
11
GABE COCKTAIL
Ellie
We lounge around until hunger drives us out of bed and in search of sustenance. Feeling famished, I pop the cork on a Riesling while Gabe answers the door for the food delivery.
I pulled on a comfy T-shirt and shorts post-sex. Gabe is shirtless, and the view from the kitchen counter is quite nice.
What is it about the whole jeans, bare feet, and nothing else look that does it for me?
Silly question, Ellie.
Gabe could be wearing pantaloons and I’d salivate. I don’t take my eyes off him as I pour a glass, watching him reach for the bag of Thai food with his ink-covered arm.
“Thanks for the delivery,” he says to the Ding and Dine driver. “Appreciate everything you do.”
“Anytime. And, hey, have a good training camp. Glad they traded you here,” the guy says.
“Me too. Especially lately,” he replies.
Lately, huh? Is that lately, as in the last few hours? I hope so.
“What do you think about the team’s chances this year?” the driver asks.
“I always play like we’re going to the Super Bowl.” Gabe’s friendly answer is positive but not overconfident.
“Have you got your hacky sacks?” the driver asks and Gabe nods.
I smile. Definitely a fan if he knows Gabe’s game rituals, like how when the Mercenaries are on a winning streak, he plays hacky sack on the sidelines.
“Here’s hoping you’ll be playing hacky sack a lot,” the driver says.
“I hope so too.” With his free hand, Gabe knocks fists with the guy then shuts the door and joins me in the kitchen, unpacking our food at the counter.
“You’re quite the charmer with bartenders and delivery guys,” I remark as I waggle the Riesling bottle in question. “Wine? Or are you a bourbon-or-bust guy?”
“I’m not picky about food, liquor, or music,” he says, then drops his voice. “Only sex.”
A shiver runs over my shoulders. “Good answer,” I say, then pour and slide him a glass.
“And why wouldn’t I be nice to delivery guys and bartenders? Or anyone else, for that matter?”
I shrug as I open the carton of papaya salad. “I agree, but I’ve known guys who were jerks to servers and such.”
Gabe scowls as he parks himself on the stool next to mine. “What’s up with people who are dicks to service workers?”
I take a sip. “I’m just glad you’re a friendly guy,” I say, then grab my chopsticks and dig in.
“I don’t know any other way to be. My parents are like that. Guess it rubbed off on me.”
“Your parents are the cutest. They were adorable at their anniversary party. Forty years and still in love,” I say, a little warm and fuzzy from the memory.
“Yeah, they’re goals for sure. They always have been,” he says.
A guy who truly likes his parents? Who admires their marriage? I cannot get hooked on Gabe. Luckily this is just a sex thing.
I snag a forkful of the salad. “Want some? Since you’re not picky.”
He moves closer, parts his lips, and waits. I feed him some papaya, and yes, Gabe eats it sensually.
That’s just his way.
“Mmm. That’s tasty. Not the best thing I’ve eaten tonight, but close,” he says with a sly smile.
“Glad to hear it’s your second favorite.”
As he twirls some of his drunken noodles around his chopsticks, he tips his forehead to my carton and asks, “Are you vegetarian?”
“I am, and I’m heading down the Vegan Brick Road now too,” I say.
He laughs. “That’s cool. Why’d you make that decision?”
“Gigi.”
His brow knits. “Is she vegan?”
“Oh god, no. But I just love animals so much I can’t eat them. It’s not a hardship either. Confession: I love salad madly. I swear it’s not the actress stereotype. I just seriously love salad so much I could marry it.”
He tips his wine glass to mine. “To the future Mrs. Arugula,” he says.
“You should know I’m going into a polyamorous relationship with kale, arugula, and spinach. Not radicchio, though. A gal’s got to have standards.”