Page 32 of Sinful Sharing

The agony on his face, the way his body shudders, that slight roll of his eyes intensifies my pleasure. It’s incredible seeing him unravel like this, knowing it’s all because of me.

But then he starts moving, obliterating every coherent thought in my head. He slides back, then presses forward, fucking me deep and slow with a rhythm that makes me want to tear my hair out.

“Ah, so good,” he groans, spreading me wider, thrusting deeper, wrecking me and confirming that I’ll never be the same after this. I can’t imagine living without some version of this pleasure he’s giving me. It would be cruel to keep denying myself.

The conviction sets in even more when he adjusts me onto my side, throws my leg over his thigh, then fucks me like he wants to leave a mark. I moan and whimper, clawing at anything I can get my hands on. I beg him not to stop. He takes my plea so damn well. A pleasure-soaked daze surrounds me as he bottoms out, repeatedly hitting that perfect spot until I completely combust again.

“Jude, fuck…fuck.”

“Fuck yes.” He slaps my ass, riding me straight through my climax. “Say my name. Take my dick.”

“Jude, oh shit.” I curl into myself.

“Oh yes, baby.” His dick pulses inside me, thickening. “I fucking love your tight little ass. So perfect. So addictive. So… fuck!”

His body vibrates as he pounds my hole, chasing his own release. It’s loud and raw and almost never-ending. His fingers leave a sweet sting on my skin. He soon collapses behind me, his breathing hot and heavy, his arm sliding around my waist.

“Amazing,” he murmurs, and then he kisses the back of my neck, leaving tingles everywhere.

And I’ve already decided that I want more of this, at least until I leave. Two months. I’m going to give my body exactly what it’s been craving.

Fuck the outside world.

19

Roman

The first thing I see is blood.

Not much, just enough to trigger a jolt of anxiety in my system. I rush across the yard, eyes fixed on the figure standing by the damaged fence. “What the hell happened?” I yell.

Taylor glances around at me, his right hand clutching his left forearm. He flashes a grim smile, but I see the pain in his eyes. “It’s nothing.”

“The hell it’s not.” Seeing red trickling through his fingers increases my concern. I shift aside his uninjured hand, examining the wound. “You’re bleeding.”

“It’s just a scratch,” Taylor mutters, attempting to pull his arm away.

“Not from where I’m standing.” A small gash interrupts the smooth stretch of skin, a crimson line stark against his pale flesh. For all I know, it could already have an infection. Goddamnit. I can almost picture Natasha’s disapproving face.

Taylor rolls his eyes, which only irritates me. I’d spent the last four hours telling him to take it easy. Did the fucker listen?

Ever since I told him what his father had done, Taylor has been working himself to the bone. I suspect it’s from misplaced guilt. I shouldn’t complain because I need the extra hand, anyway. But I don’t want him to get hurt at my expense.

Clicking my tongue impatiently, I rest his right hand over the wound again. I’d rather Jude handle this, but it’s his day off. He headed into town early this morning for God knows what, and there’s no telling when he’ll be home.

“House. Now,” I snap at Taylor.

He opens his mouth, possibly to argue. I shoot him a glare. He snaps it shut. With a pivot, he storms toward the back door. Rubbing the tightness in my chest, I follow him. Lord knows I’m not cut out to take care of anyone.

But I’m thinking of painkillers and whether we have an ointment that doesn’t sting by the time I enter the kitchen. I open the top cupboard, rummaging inside, trying to remember the last time we used the first-aid kit. I should probably call Jude.

“For someone who seemed determined not to coddle me, you’re doing the opposite,” Taylor points out. Defiance laces his tone, but his expression reveals discomfort.

“Sit.” I jerk my head toward the nearest stool.

He sighs. The stool legs scrape against wood as he pulls it from the breakfast bar with his foot. He plops onto the seat, grimacing at me. “Satisfied?”

I resume digging in the cupboard. “I’ll be satisfied when you stop bleeding on my goddamn floor,” I grumble, moving a large metal bowl aside. The first-aid kit stares back at me.