“Stop fighting it.” His voice is distant over the roaring of blood rushing between my ears. “Let me feel you come wrapped around me. Then, after you come, I’m going to strip you down, spread you over my bed, and watch you come again. This is just the beginning, Brynn. I promise, I will take care of you,” he says.
I’ve imagined sex with Maxwell more than I’d like to admit. And I’ve imagined Maxwell being fucking fantastic in everything. But what I never imagined and never could’ve even guessed was that Maxwell would talk dirty and do it fucking well.
And it’s that.
It’s knowing that, somehow, he’s better than in my fucking dreams that causes every bit of pressure coursing down my body to settle directly in my core before exploding into a million tiny pieces. I let out a scream so loud, I’m sure his neighbors hear me. I both cling to him and push him away, barely registering the soft mattress beneath me as he stops to kick off his shoes and pull off his pants.
“Jesus, Brynn,” he whispers into his dark room. “How the fuck did I get this lucky?”
My skin is already on fire, and lava is lapping through my veins, but even so, his words somehow manage to warm my stomach and cause my cheeks to heat even more. There’s no way he could see the blush rising in my cheeks, but that doesn’t stop me from hiding my face behind my hands.
He climbs up the bed, his bare legs straddling my torso, and pulls my hands from my face. “Fuck, you’re cute. The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen and you still get shy hearing it.” I can hear the smile in his voice, then I feel it against my throat. His hands run down my arms until his fingers link with mine. “Stand up for me.”
I’ve heard my friends tell stories about their sex lives. My gorgeous, curvy friends with breasts and asses that I would kill for, letting the most ridiculous hang-ups about their stunning shapes detract from the times they should be enjoying. And while I know that Maxwell has probably been with women who would make me feel like I have the sex appeal of a prepubescent boy, I don’t let it get to me. This is me and I’m fucking proud of it. Who cares if I have a few dimples on my thighs or stretch marks on my hips? Not I and, clearly, not Maxwell.
So I don’t hesitate when he asks me to stand, and I don’t balk when seconds later the room is covered in soft lighting.
And who’s to say? Maybe I would’ve thought twice about it if Maxwell wasn’t standing in front of me in nothing but boxer briefs, his heated eyes memorizing everything about me.
But I doubt it.
He doesn’t move for what feels like eternity. His gaze is so intense that even feet away from me, my thighs involuntarily push together. Something Maxwell doesn’t miss.
The thin layer of sweat makes his smooth, dark skin sparkle. His abs look as good as they felt under my fingers, and the cut in his hips, the arrow pointing to the tent in his briefs, makes my insides quiver. His quadriceps flexing thick and strong with each step he makes. He doesn’t rush his movements. He knows I’m enjoying the show and exactly like the man of my dreams, he lets me revel in the moment, adhering this image to the backs of my eyelids.
“I love looking at you.” The words slip out of my lips before I can even think to hold them in. Something, I’m realizing, that is happening more and more in his presence. “You’re perfect.”
This spurs him into action.
Before I can blink, he’s on me. His mouth is hot and wet on mine, and one hand is in my hair, the other gripping my hip so tight I pray that there’ll be fingerprint bruises there tomorrow—any kind of physical proof to tether me to this exact moment.
He pulls back. His hands grab the hem of my shirt and yank it off of me before I can even process what’s happening. His fingers dance up my spine, shivers chasing his touch, until they undo the clasp of my bra and it joins my shirt on the floor somewhere.
He steps in. His eyes are on mine even as the cool air swirling around us causes my nipples to harden. His lips touch my throat. “So . . . ,” he says, then they move to my shoulder. “Fucking . . .” Then both of his hands cover my breasts and he’s looking at me from beneath his thick lashes. “Lucky,” he finishes before his mouth closes over my nipple and he’s mimicking the motion of his mouth with his hand on my free breast.
He goes back and forth, lavishing my chest with attention it’s never before received. I struggle to keep up with him, relaxing into his touch and then tensing away, not wanting to come again with my pants still on.
“Please,” I hear myself beg, my voice unrecognizable to my own ears.
Maxwell doesn’t answer.
Not with words at least.
He falls to his knees in front of me, biting my thighs through the thick fabric of my jeans as his fingers deftly undo the button fly of my jeans that I always loved until this exact moment in time. His fingers loop into my thong, pulling it down with my pants. Maxwell’s fingers wrap around each of my ankles, sliding my feet out of the bottoms, leaving me completely naked in front of a kneeling Maxwell.
My entire body is trembling. My knees feel weak and my core is pulsating. I reach out for Maxwell, but before I get to him, he pulls back and sits on his heels.
“Just give me a second,” he says, his voice thick with want as his eyes travel up my naked body.
A second is all I can give him. I can feel the moisture gathering between my legs, and my breasts are heavy with desire. “Maxwell”—my hand drops between my thighs—“I need you.”
He doesn’t make me ask again. He springs up from the ground, tackling me to the bed like it’s his job . . . which I guess it sort of is.
He puts my hand back between my thighs, letting out a groan that causes the bed to vibrate beneath me. “Don’t stop, Boss,” he says. His eyes don’t move from the show I’m putting on for him even as he stands up and walks to the bedside table, pulling out a foil-wrapped condom. He walks back to the foot of his bed, placing the condom wrapper on the mattress before his hands go to his briefs and he finally—finally!—pulls them off.
Oh.
My.
God.
I mean, I assumed.
It was making itself known all night.
But I still had no idea.
I mean . . . can a penis be pretty? Is that a thing? Because this . . . Maxwell . . . what he’s working with . . . it’s fucking fantastic. It’s thick and long and honestly maybe a little scary.
But hell, if there’s one fear I’m willing to overcome, this sure as hell is it.
“Boss,” Maxwell says, amusement cutting through the need. “You’re staring.”
“I know,” I say . . . still staring. “Will it fit?”