Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 123058 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 615(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123058 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 615(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
He tenses. I’m not sure which one of us is more shocked I capitulated. But then he’s pushing in—slow, steady, making me feel every inch he gains. I’m stretched, filled, taken.
We both pause, him deep within the clasp of my sex. Rye makes a noise that sounds almost pained. He mutters something unintelligible under his breath. And then he moves, rolling his hips in a lazy rhythm.
I can’t see him. He has me where he wants me, one hand fisting my ponytail, the other gripping my ass. But I can picture him, the way he is on stage, feet planted, massive thighs bulging as he thrusts his hips, thick-cut arms and muscle-packed chest flexing as he plays.
He feels so good, the push-pull of him, the smooth glide and hard impact. Liquid heat flows through my limbs, my nipples tighten and ache, my clit throbs. As if he knows these pleasure points need attention, Rye grunts, and, with one simple move, tugs me up against the sweat-slicked wall of his chest.
He finds my nipple and tweaks it, while his other hand slides between my legs. I moan as he thrusts up into me, fingers strumming a beat on my sensitive flesh.
“Fuck, Bren,” he rasps, his lips at my cheek.
I turn my head, find his mouth with mine. Rye groans, his grip on me tightening. My hands slip behind him to cup his ass—that perfect flexing ass—and he grunts, pumps harder.
We stay like that, locked together, moving in perfect rhythm, everything coiling tighter, getting a little more desperate. Rye moans, thrusts going deep like punctuation.
“Beethoven.” The husky whisper escapes his lips. I falter, tripped up by the odd non sequitur. Our gazes collide, his widening.
Fingers still clutching his sweat-slicked ass, I pause, panting. “Beethoven?”
Because there’s no denying what he said. Rye’s lips twitch. “I’m trying not to come.”
We’re still moving, slowly fucking, as if both of us are unable to fully stop. And it feels so good, that big, thick dick shoving inside me, that my lashes flutter before I lick my lips and speak. “And Beethoven stops that?”
A wry half smile tilts his lips. “Listing composers in my head helps.” His hand slides up my belly. We share the same breath as he pumps into me, and his voice grows rough. “It’s barely working. You feel too damn good, Bren. I’m hanging on by a thread.”
He sounds so disgruntled by his lack of control that I kiss him softly. “Maybe you should try humming his Fifth Symphony.”
There’s a pause. Rye stares at me as if he’s trying to figure out if I’m being snarky, then his face lights up, a smile pulling wide. Something impish glints in his eyes. In a blink, he pulls out and flips me onto the bed, flat on my back. I yelp in surprise. Then Rye is over me, pushing inside with a sure thrust. A laugh breaks free from me when he starts humming the Fifth.
Then we’re both laughing. Fucking and laughing. Rye’s strong body bracketing mine, his face burrowed in my neck. God, it lights me up, laughing with him. I breathe him in, soak up his heat, his strength. I never want to leave this moment; I want to live right here in this bubbling contentment of sex and joy.
His deep chuckle reverberates through my bones. Soft lips brush over my pulse and press there like a statement, telling me he’s right here with me in this joy. And like that, everything turns unexpectedly tender. It catches us unaware, and Rye’s grip changes, deepening with intent. Something in the way he moves makes me melt. There’s no other word for this liquid wash of pleasure and heat, or how my body wants to meld with his until there’s no space left between us.
I don’t know how we go on like this. I can’t think straight. There is only him and the need for more. Always more. And maybe I sigh the word. Or maybe he simply feels it.
Rye turns his head slightly, and our gazes tangle.
I’m not prepared.
I never put much stock into the whole idea that gazing into someone’s eyes could truly affect a person. But it does. Those dusky blue eyes reach into me and tug something free.
Without my permission, without warning, I’m coming in long, rolling waves that have me whimpering. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t stop moving within me.
“Bren.” His voice breaks on my name. Then he shudders, quietly coming in the same gasping, wide-eyed way. He clings to me, so much strength, but weakness too, as if I’m taking him apart and he trusts me to put him back together.
The tips of my fingers dig into the hard curve of his butt as we tremble and pant, both of us incapable of more than a few small jerks of the hips before he sags against me, totally spent. Rye lowers his forehead to my temple and exhales in a gusty sigh.