Page 26 of Dial F for Finance

“Something wrong, Cruz?”

“I’m feeling pretty fucking perfect. But, sweetheart, you’re gonna need to let me go before I blow all over your hand.”

She grips tighter and does it again.

Of course she fucking does.

I catch her wrist only when my thighs start tightening. “Enough.”

She pouts, and I almost want her to wrap those lips around my dick and finish down her throat. Instead, I thread my fingers into the back of her hair and tug her head back, bringing my lips to hers.

“I’ve waited too long to come anywhere but inside you.”

She moans against my mouth, and the sound is a motherfucking reward. She gasps when I push her onto her back and cover her body with mine, the warmth of her skin setting off some kind of animal instinct in my blood. I crush my mouth to hers, not gentle anymore, and she returns it with equal force, nearly biting my bottom lip before her hands slide over my shoulders, nails raking just hard enough to make my back arch.

I grab her thigh and hook it over my hip, grinding my cock against her wetness. I want in so bad I can barely see straight, but I want to hear her beg for it first.

“Tell me what you want, Jen.”

She scoffs, wriggling under me. “You know what I want.”

“Humor me. I need to hear it.”

“I’ve already told you what I want.”

“Call it an enthusiastic-consent check—what do you want me to do to you, sweetheart?”

The color in her cheeks climbs high. She’s beautiful angry, beautiful triumphant, but she’s fucking incandescent like this, back arched and biting back her pride.

“Fine. I want you to fuck me,” she spits. “Happy now?”

“Ecstatic.” I grin and line myself up, sliding just the tip through her folds, teasing her. Her breath stutters and her eyes narrow in warning.

“Dominic—”

But then she gasps as I push all the way in, slow, steady, determined to let her feel every inch. There are a dozen filthy things I could say. None of them survive once I’m buried in her heat.

“Oh God.” Her hands fist in the sheets and she gasps, staring up at me with pure challenge in her eyes, like she’s daring me to impress her.

I’ve wanted this woman for almost a decade. Wanted her in boardrooms and elevators, across dinner tables and crowded parties, in every maddening second between her saying my name and walking away from me.

The reality is nothing like the fantasy.

When I’m finally seated all the way in, I need a moment. I stop with my forehead against hers and breathe.

“Jesus, Jen. You’re so fucking—” The words die in my throat because she clamps around me, hot and tight and absolutely not pulling her punches.

Jenna’s nails drag down my back. “Move, Dominic.”

I rock into her slow, letting her get used to it, but she bucks her hips up to meet me, greedy for more.

“Don’t be gentle with me.”

I chuckle. “Sweetheart, I’m being gentle with me. You’re fucking tight.”

After a few slow drags in and out of her body, my rhythm builds, and I pin her wrists above her head and grind deeper, the slap of sweat-slick skin and her broken gasps echoing between us.

“Harder,” she demands.