Chapter 234: Missionary
She pulled back. Took him again. Found a rhythm that was slow and steady and devastating.
His hand found her hair. Not pushing. Just holding. Just anchoring himself to her as she worked him with her mouth, her hand stroking what she couldn’t take, her tongue tracing patterns on his shaft that made his vision blur.
She was a quick study. She remembered what he liked—the sensitive spot just beneath the head, the twist of her hand on the downstroke, the way he responded when she hollowed her cheeks and took him as deep as she could.
"Olivia." His voice was wrecked. "I’m close."
She didn’t pull away.
She doubled down. Faster now. Tighter. Her head bobbed with renewed urgency, and the wet sounds of her mouth on him filled the quiet bedroom.
He came with a groan that was almost pained. His release flooded her mouth, hot and thick, pulse after pulse. She took it all. Every drop. He felt her swallow around him, felt the flutter of her throat as she drank him down.
When she finally pulled back, her lips were swollen and slick. A tiny bead of white clung to the corner of her mouth. She caught it with her fingertip, sucked it clean, and looked up at him with eyes that were triumphant and loving and just a little smug.
"I won’t let your cum spill on the floor," she said. "This floor is too nice."
The words hit him like a physical blow.
A pulse. Strong. Insistent. His cock, still wet from her mouth, stirred against his thigh. It was impossible—he’d just come, he should have been spent—but the sight of her licking her lips, the sound of her voice saying those words with such casual possession, sent a surge of blood south that defied logic and biology and everything he knew about refractory periods.
She noticed. Her eyes dropped. Widened.
"Already?"
"Apparently."
A slow smile spread across her face. "I’ll take that as a compliment."
She climbed up his body. Straddled his hips. Positioned herself above him, and he could feel the heat of her—still wet, still ready, still pulsing from her own orgasm—hovering just above the tip of his cock.
"Missionary first," she said. "I want to see your face."
She rolled off him. Lay back against the pillows. Opened her arms and her legs and her heart, all at once.
He positioned himself above her. The head of his cock pressed against her entrance, and she was so wet, so impossibly wet, that he slid inside her with a single, smooth thrust. No resistance. No hesitation. Just the sudden, breath-stealing fullness of being inside her again.
Her legs wrapped around his waist. Her arms wound around his neck. Her eyes—green and bright and full of something that looked a lot like forever—stayed locked on his.
"Move," she whispered.
He did.
Slow at first. Deep. He withdrew nearly all the way, then sank back in, inch by inch, letting her feel every ridge, every vein, every pulse of his cock inside her. She gasped with each thrust. Her nails traced down his back. Her hips rose to meet him.
"I love you," she said. "I love you. I love—"
He kissed her. Swallowed the words. Poured his own back into her mouth.
The rhythm built. Faster. Harder. The bed creaked beneath them—his bed, his ordinary bed, the one he’d slept in alone for years. Now it held both of them. Now it held everything.
Her inner walls started to flutter. Her breathing grew ragged. Her eyes lost focus, staring at him but not seeing him, lost in the sensation building inside her.
"Sean—I’m close—"
"Me too."
"Together," she breathed. "I want to—together—"
He reached between them. Found her clit. Circled it with his thumb.
She shattered.
Her orgasm crashed through her, and he felt every pulse, every contraction, every wave of pleasure that milked his length. The feeling of her coming apart around him pushed him over the edge, and he buried himself deep inside her and let go, his release flooding into her in hot, endless pulses.
They held each other through it. Clinging. Shaking. Breathing each other’s names like prayers.
When the tremors faded, she laughed. Soft and breathless and giddy.
"I love you," she said again, like she couldn’t stop saying it now that she’d started.
"I love you too." He kissed her forehead. "Round two?"
"Technically that was round two. Or three. I’ve lost count."
"So have I."
She pushed at his chest. "Roll over."
He did.
She climbed on top of him. Straddled his hips. Her hair tumbled around her shoulders, still wild, still untamed. The necklace swung forward, catching the light from the window.
"Cowgirl," she announced. "My turn to drive."
She sank down onto him. This time the angle was different—deeper, more intense. She gasped as he filled her, her head falling back, her hands bracing against his chest.
Then she began to move.
She rode him with the same absolute presence she brought to every stage she’d ever stood on. Confident. Commanding. Breathtaking. Her hips rolled and circled and ground down against him in a rhythm that was all her own. Her breasts bounced with every movement. The necklace bounced with them.
He gripped her hips. Thrust up to meet her every downward stroke. The rhythm built, faster, harder, the sound of their bodies meeting filling the room.
"Look at me," he said.
She did. Her eyes were dark, half-lidded, utterly undone.
"You’re so beautiful like this," he said. "Taking what you want. Taking what’s yours."
"I’m yours," she gasped. "Sean, I’m yours."
"And I’m yours."
She came with a cry that was almost a scream. Her inner walls clamped down on him, and the sensation pulled him over the edge with her. His release surged into her, hot and thick, filling her completely.
She collapsed onto his chest. They lay there, panting, hearts hammering in tandem.
But she wasn’t done.
"I want more," she murmured against his skin.