Page 79 of The Maverick
"I need you."
"I know."
"Now."
"I know. I need you, too." He kissed me again, soft and deliberate, letting me taste my own tangy wetness on his tongue, and I made a sound against his mouth that I'd have been embarrassed about anywhere else and wasn't, here, with him. "I've got you."
He settled between my thighs, and I felt the warmth of him—the heavy, thick head of his cock dragging through my slick folds, teasing my entrance, so hard and hot it made my walls flutter. I pulled him closer with both hands, nails digging into his back.
"Look at me," he said.
I looked at him.
He pushed in slow—inch after thick inch stretching me open, filling me so completely my eyes rolled back at the delicious burn and pressure.
The breath left me in a long exhale and his jaw tightened. We stayed there a moment, both of us still, both of us feeling the rightness of it—that this, the perfect fit and the warmth and the way everything in me settled rather than braced, was special—his heavy balls pressed against me, my body gripping every veined inch of him.
He smiled. Then he moved.
He was slow about it—long, deep strokes that made me feel every inch of him, the fat head dragging along my front wall on every withdrawal before plunging back in to the hilt. It built the way the song I'd written this morning had built, from the first chord to the chorus, with intention and patience and the confidence of someone who knew where the melody was going and wasn't going to rush it.
I rose to meet him, my soaked pussy making wet, obscene sounds around his cock with every thrust. My hands found his back, his shoulders, the back of his neck. My legs wrapped higher around his waist and he shifted his angle—driving harder against that perfect spot inside me—and the sound I made was not quiet, a raw, broken cry.
"There," he said, low.
"There," I confirmed, breathless.
He stayed with it. Found the rhythm and kept it, steady, building in the way only patience built things—his cock swelling even thicker inside me, balls tightening—and I felt it gather the way storms gathered—not in a rush but in an accumulation, pressure and warmth and the sweet, unbearable tension of being almost and then more than almost and then?—
I came with his name in my mouth, clamping down hard around his cock in long, pulsing waves, gushing wet heat around him as my whole body shook.
Long and deep and with the completeness of something that had been earned. He held me through it with his hands cupping my face, and I felt him feel it, the way he went still and breathed against my mouth and said God, Rebecca Lynn?—
And then, he let go.
It moved through him deep and real, his cock jerking and throbbing inside me as he pumped me full of thick, hot spurts of come, his voice rough and wrecked when he said my name. Itwas a sound I was going to hear in quiet moments for the rest of my life.
It was pure bliss.
We lay there after.
The candles had burned to stubs. The harbor light came in through the balcony doors, the partial view, just a piece of the water, just enough. His hand moved in slow circles on my back. My ear was pressed to his chest and his heartbeat was doing what heartbeats did after—slowing, steadying, coming back from somewhere far out.
I thought about the moonpath.
I thought about the silver light on the water from a hundred feet up, the way it had run from us to the horizon like something deliberate, like the ocean had laid it out for us to follow.
"Tommy?”
"Mm."
"What you told me in the helicopter. About your father."
He was quiet.
"You don't have to say anything else about it," I said. "I just wanted you to know that I heard it."
A long moment.
