Page 23 of Fuse

“Oh. Fuck!”

I go completely still. Okay, not true. Every inch of my dick is still shooting off inside her, throbbing like no other orgasm I’ve ever felt, but I fight my way past the brainless heaven to rediscover my gray matter and grate, “Is soup still good food?”

She ekes out a smile, though giant tears thread out from the corners of her eyes. “Just…just hot.” A shiver consumes her, and her tunnel thrums around me. “Really, really hot.”

I roam my stare urgently over her. “But still good?”

“Yeah.” She nods but then hums as if trying to stave off pain. “Fuck yeah.” But even the profanity does nothing to help me believe her—until she turns her legs into a pair of boa constrictors, squeezing the air from my lungs as she rocks her head back and screams—at the same moment her sex grips me with twice the force as before.

And just like that, I’m coming all over again. With her. Into her. Because of her.

My balls thunder in protest as a roar rips up my throat and liquid fire gushes from my cock. Emma rides the tsunami with me, clearly lost in as much dazzled disbelief as me. Amazement illuminates her face as wave after wave of carnal force flows through us, pushing us toward a shore where we’re finally collapsing, spent and sweaty and sated, tangled in each other’s arms.

“Holy shit.” Her sentiment is so perfect, especially completed by her cute little laugh, that I just bury my face in her neck and grunt out an approval. “I…I can’t move.”

“No kidding.” I don’t fight the post-tsunami lethargy, because even that’s perfect. I even ponder the possibility of getting in a nap. Yeah, right here. Yeah, just like this. My leathers can’t exactly be shucked off from where they are, halfway to my knees, but everything’s just fine where it is anyway.

Everything couldn’t be more fucking perfect…

“No. Reece. I mean I can’t move.”

“Damn.” I rustle out of my post-coital coma to send small zaps from a forefinger into the keyholes of the cuffs, clicking them open at once. As soon as Emma pulls her arms free, I pull them between our chests and carefully rub her fingers, palms, and wrists. “You okay?” I murmur. Though everything appears that way, this isn’t my first spin on the yay-yay-kinky thrill ride. Endorphins and adrenaline make people blurt all kinds of things for the sake of keeping the feelings going. “You’ll probably have a few minor marks”—I capture her gaze with mine while kissing the inside of one wrist and then the other, communicating how thoroughly that turns me on again already—“but nothing’s in a lot of pain otherwise?”

“Only all the parts that matter.” The humor in her voice flows across every beautiful inch of her face, especially the smiling ribbons of her lips, which I can’t resist claiming in an adoring kiss.

“Thank you,” I whisper several minutes later, after I’ve explored her mouth with all my senses along for the ride instead of my lust being the bull in front of the cart. “Holy hell, woman. That was like my birthday, Christmas, and National Soup Day wrapped up in one.”

She bursts into a full laugh, which contracts her muscles hard enough to push me out, even with the half-wood I’ve still got going on. Sometimes, it really is a good-thing-bad-thing situation to be a walking libido factory—though it’s tough as hell to summon even half a grimace about that, as the music of her mirth fills the air.

“National Soup Day is that special to you?” she quips with a wry smirk.

“It is now,” I growl. “Which reminds me…” I fix my expression with new determination while rolling off the bed, hitching my leathers back up, and retrieving my phone from the top of the dresser. Without ripping my gaze from the nude goddess still lounging across the bed, I tap the device’s self-messaging button. “Tell Chase to add a soup company to the Richards portfolio.”

And what’s better than a lounging nude goddess? That deity turned into a giggling nymph instead. “For the love of cheddar potato, Reece Richards.”

“That your favorite flavor?” I toss my finest rogue’s smirk. “I’m ordering six cases now.”

“Oh, my God!”

She springs to her feet as well, snatching my phone out of my grip and tossing it to the built-in loveseat under the window. As the device lands, the screen lights up with an incoming call, but I’m too far away to read it and too taken away by this woman to care. Neeta’s handling everything at the Brocade and the other properties in the region today, and if something’s up with the Richards empire as a whole, Chase knows he can yell up the stairs at me.

Everyone and everything else do not matter. Not today.

“Come here.”

And especially not right now, as Emma turns the tables to become my conqueror. At once, she traps me with her sweet whisper, cuffs me with her gentle grasp, and tosses away the key of my resistance with the captivity of her soft, lingering kiss.

At once, it’s not enough.

Will it ever be with her?

I move in, yanking her close with digging grips to her hips, delving my tongue inside her mouth and sending my moan deep into her throat. And still—yes, already—I need more. Always more…

“Ohhhh, man.” But instead, she’s dragging away with a cute little whine, giving back as good as I’m giving in the disgruntled glare department. “You really would’ve done it, wouldn’t you?” she charges. “Told Chase to look into buying that company. Had six cases of prepackaged soup delivered up here.” She adds a little grin. “And dealt with Anya chucking every single can at your head…”

“Worth it.” I’ve rarely been more sure of a statement—and guarantee she knows it, as I change my hold into a tight circle around her graceful curves. “I’d face a thousand soup can firing squads for you, woman.”

She doesn’t hide the massive chomp on her lower lip, minimizing her laughter by a little. She’s not so successful with the glints in her eyes, like sunshine on the Caribbean, as she rewards the metaphor with a solid kiss. “You know what kind a visual I just got on that, right? Especially with you standing here like this?”