Page 52 of Mister St. James

“No,” I murmur into her hair. “Just this.”

My hand slides over her thigh, up to the dip of her waist, then around to cup her breast. Her nipple is already hard, puckered under my palm. I stroke her, gentle at first, then harder, listening for the shift in her breathing. She shifts back, grinding her ass into my crotch, and I feel myself thicken, harden, pulse with every movement she makes.

“Fuck,” I say. I don’t mean to, but it’s the only word that fits.

She laughs, just a tiny huff of air, and then she rolls over, pressing her chest to mine, her mouth searching for my lips. She kisses like she does everything, hungry, calculating, unwilling to lose. I let her have the upper hand, let her set the pace, even as my hands roam over her body, mapping the terrain I already know by heart.

Her body is curvy and soft, but there’s a violence to her, an urgency. She moves fast, grinding her pussy against my thigh, biting at my lower lip until I give in and kiss her back, slow and deep.

She moans. It’s a sound I’ve never heard from her before, less porn, more pain, like she needs this more than air.

I run my hands down her back, find the small heart-shaped birthmark below her left ear, and mouth it gently. She shivers.

She kisses me again, open-mouthed, then slides down my body, hooking her fingers in the waistband of my pants.

She yanks them off with the efficiency of someone who’s been waiting for this since the first day we met. My cock springs free, already leaking, and she wraps her hand around it, squeezing tight at the base.

“You have no fucking idea how hot you are,” she says, deadpan, like she’s talking about the weather.

“I do,” I say, but she’s already taking me in her mouth, slow, savoring it.

She sucks like she wants to memorize the taste, every inch. I fist her hair, not to control her, but to anchor myself to the reality that this is happening, that she’s here, that I am letting her see me this way, nothing between us but skin and sweat.

She looks up, eyes wide, and I come dangerously close to losing it right then. But I hold out, because I want to fuck her, and I want it to last.

“Cat,” I warn, but she ignores me, going harder, deeper, until I have to pull her off with a gasp.

She wipes her mouth, grinning, then climbs back up my body and straddles me.

She grinds against me, slow and wet, and I grab her hips, guiding her until the head of my cock is poised at her entrance. She slides down, inch by inch, tight and hot and perfect.

I watch her face as she takes me inside her. She keeps her eyes open, locked on mine, refusing to give me even a second of privacy. I want to look away, but I don’t. I can’t.

She rides me, slow at first, then harder. She’s controlling the rhythm, squeezing her pussy around my cock every time she comes down. The feeling is obscene, almost unbearable.

I grab her ass, pull her down harder, thrust up to meet her. She laughs, delighted, then leans down and bites my neck.

“Mine,” she says, voice guttural.

I agree. “All fucking yours.”

She comes first, of course. She always does. It’s what I want. I feel her pussy clamp down, her whole body spasming, her breath hot on my ear. I follow, spilling inside her, groaning her name so loud the windows could shatter.

She collapses on top of me, hair wild, skin slick. I hold her, stroking her back until her breathing slows.

After a while, she rolls off, tucking herself under my arm, head on my chest. She doesn’t say anything, and neither do I.

We lie there, staring at the ceiling, the city lights painting everything blue and gold.

Cat falls asleep first. I watch her, counting the seconds between her breaths, wondering when this stopped being about control and became something I actually needed. Maybe it always was.

I stare at the ceiling, my hand in her hair, not planning, not strategizing, just being present.

For once, it feels enough.

Chapter twenty-four

New Equilibrium