Page 26 of Falling for Her Grumpy Boss

Instead of easing, it drives deeper.

My stomach tightens again, harder this time, and I feel it climb higher than it should, past the point where it usually softens. My breath comes back in short, uneven pulls that don’t steady, and I press into him again without thinking, chasing it even as it edges into too much.

It keeps building.

No pause.

No release.

Just that same pressure, sharper now, spreading through my chest, down my legs, through every place it can reach. My body follows it, stretched along the line of it, like I’ve missed the moment where I should have come down.

Like I’ve been carried past it.

Too far.

My fingers slip again, my muscles tightening and giving at the same time as it surges through me a second time, stronger, deeper. My hips jerk forward, chasing it, and I lose whatever control I had left as it breaks through me in waves that don’t wait for each other.

One hits.

Then another.

Close behind.

I can’t hold it back.

I don’t try.

I let it take me, every pulse, every jolt, until it finally begins to slow, the tension easing out of my body in uneven pieces. My legs loosen, my stomach softening as my breath drags back in, shaky and incomplete.

I sag into him, still feeling the aftershocks where his hand remains, each small movement sending another tremor through me.

It fades.

Not completely.

There’s still that pull underneath it.

That sense of having gone past something steady… and not wanting to find my way back.

I lie back, breath still uneven, watching him lift away from me. The air feels cooler where he’s no longer there. His mouth glistens, and something low in my belly tightens again at the sight. His chest rises and falls, slower than mine, controlled, but there’s nothing calm about the way he looks at me.

His hand slides up my thigh, “I’d really like to continue, but only if you want to.” His gaze meets mine, like he’s giving me space to pull away if I need to.

I don’t.

My fingers reach for him instead, brushing his wrist, guiding him closer.

“Yes,” I whisper. My voice is still rough with the earlier climax.

Something shifts in his expression, a quiet release of tension, and then he moves.

I watch him as he straightens, as his hands go to his belt. The soft clink of metal sounds loud in the quiet. My pulse picks up again as he works the buckle loose. He fumbles with the fabric, impatient as the zipper catches for a second before giving way. I blink when he frees himself, the sight of him hitting me in a way that makes my stomach dip and my breath hitch all over again.

His slacks frame his cock as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a square package. My gaze is glued to his hands as he rolls on the protection with quick, practiced movements. I’ve seen it a hundred times and always found it a necessary step, but also a bit of a mood killer. Somehow, watching Dylan do it is sexy.

I shift in my chair, letting my knees fall open.

Dylan