Page 196 of Sexting My Best Friend's Brothers
She obeys. She opens for me, revealing everything. She’s wet. Slick. Her body prepares for me before I even touch her.
I unzip my jeans, pushing them down just enough to free myself. The urgency overrides my usual need for order.
“Wrap your legs around me,” I say.
She hooks her ankles behind my back. I grip her hips, lifting her off the cold marble, angling her pelvis. I push inside her in one long, unbroken glide.
The friction is immediate and visceral. I groan, my head dropping to her shoulder as her wet heat swallows me entirely.
“The fit is absolute,” I grit out.
“Don’t stop,” she whispers, her nails digging into my back.
I drag my hips back and thrust deep. Again. And again. I set a relentless, punishing pace, watching her face to catch every micro-expression as the pleasure strips away her logic.
“Focus on me,” I demand.
Her eyes flutter open, dark and completely blown out.
“Asher,” she moans, her voice breaking. “It’s so deep.”
I roll my hips, intentionally grinding against her swollen clit with the base of my shaft.
“Tell me what you feel.”
“Everything,” she gasps. “Don’t hold back. Harder.”
I stop analyzing. I stop calculating. The raw, animal sensation of her inner walls tightening around my cock shatters my restraint. I drive into her, burying myself to the hilt, fast and messy, the wet slap of our bodies echoing off the countertops. The primal reality that my children are growing safely inside her—that she is completely ours—obliterates my control.
“Tessa,” I growl, biting her neck. “Don’t fight the overload.”
“I’m not,” she sobs, throwing her head back. “Asher, god, yes.”
I shift my grip, pressing my thumb aggressively against the swollen bundle of nerves.
She unravels completely.
Her inner muscles clamp down on me, pulling at me in rhythmic spasms. The sensation is blinding. It bypasses my brain and goes straight to the spine.
“Asher!”
I let go. I pour myself into her, groaning as the release wracks my body. It's a total system failure.
I hold her there, pinned against the kitchen island, our skin slick with sweat. My forehead rests against hers, my pulse thudding against my ribs.
“Status?” I ask, my voice wrecked.
“Completely ruined,” she murmurs, dropping her head heavily onto my chest.
I keep my arms locked around her waist, anchoring her to the counter.
The front door clicks open an hour later. Ethan and Owen walk in with brown paper bags from the organic bistro.
“We brought reinforcements,” Owen announces. “And by reinforcements, I mean grilled salmon and spinach. Asher sent me a nutritional breakdown while I was driving.”
Ethan walks in behind him, looking lighter than he has in days. He sees Tessa sitting on the sofa and immediately lowers his voice.
“How are you holding up?” Ethan asks her.
