Page 122 of Off the Grid

“I know, baby. It feels so fucking good,” I say, unable to take my eyes off her. “Just like that. Fuck my cock like you mean it. Like you want it. Like you live for it.”

I live in sensations. The tightening of her thighs on my hips. The slap of her pussy against my pelvis as she picks up her pace. The feel of her arousal dripping off my balls. The sound of the mewl deep in the back of her throat. The scent of her perfume tickling my nose. The feel of her muscles bunching beneath my fingertips with each piston of her hips.

“I’m gonna need you to come for me, Cam,” I groan as she slams down harder on me.

“Like that?”

This woman . . .

“You’re so goddamn gorgeous riding my cock like that.”

She lifts so that just the tip of me is inside her and teases me as she pulses there. “Or like this?”

“Fucking cock tease,” I murmur but my smile is dirty and my cock aches it’s so hard.

“Tell me what you want, Riggs,” she says.

“You.” I grip her waist and hold her still so I can piston up into her. “Just fucking you,” I grunt out with each thrust.

She gasps and leans forward, hands on my shoulders, tits swaying in my face.

I can’t resist. I take one in my mouth. Swirl my tongue around its bud as my orgasm builds and builds and builds.

“Come for me,” she coaxes in that throaty voice of hers. “Fill me up. Show me what I do to you.”

What you do to me?

Ruin me.

Wreck me.

Own me.

Every part of me is tense. Riding an edge. On the verge of control snapping as I wait for her to come. To call out and jerk her hips over mine.

But I can’t do it.

I can’t last.

The orgasm hits me like a bolt of lightning. Fast. Fierce. It burns in my body as it ricochets from my toes to my fingertips. I ride the electric current. The white-hot heat it creates has me seeing stars.

I come hard. My body jerking, cock twitching and lungs grasping for air as my heart races and my mind fills with the haze of bliss.

My hands ease on her sides as I come out of the climax coma.

“Don’t move,” she whispers as her pussy suddenly tightens around me.

Her moan fills the warm night air. Her lips part, her head’s thrown back, her hands are cupping her own breasts, and her breath hitches as her body slips into the coma with me.

Jesus, she’s a sight to behold.

Camilla Moretti.

There you go owning me again.

And as soon as the thought hits, Camilla says, “Dismount,” and playfully falls sideways so that she lands on her back with a thump as her laughter rings out around us.

“What’s so funny?” I ask, propping myself up on my elbow amid our tangle of clothes beneath us.