Page 199 of Midnight Curfew

“You’re a lousy fuck, too.” He groans, and I swear I feel him back up into me once. “Harder.”

And I can’t stop myself. Pulling his neck back, I dive in, kissing and sucking, his skin already salty as we pant and moan.

“Fuck,” he murmurs. “Yes.”

My insides feel incredible, like tiny fireworks going off under my skin. It’s going to take forever to not want him anymore. I’m so fucked. Jesus Christ.

“Where’s your grave?” I ask him.

“Harder.”

“Where?” I demand.

But I do what I’m told and give him what he wants. My orgasm starts to crest, my eyes closing as my head floats.

“Sea,” he finally replies.

I slow, processing his answer. Like burial at sea?

An image crystallizes in my head of him being dumped—sinking in the deep, lonely water, and I grit my teeth.

Why the fuck would he want that? It’s not like being cremated. You’re still there. At least for a while. Just no one can visit you. You’re just alone in the cold.

I look at his skin and his hair and the tail of his dark eyebrow, and it hits me that tomorrow comes before we know it.

I drop my forehead, smelling my soap on his skin.

And I go slow. Moving in and out of him, I let my hand roam, memorizing his skin and how my lips feel pressed against his ribs.

Reaching behind, he grasps the back of my neck, rolling his hips up to meet my thrusts. We moan, his growing faster, and I fight to keep my orgasm at bay until he comes.

Then he goes still for a moment—maybe two—and his chest caves as he digs his forehead into the bed. Heavy breaths leave his body as he squeezes me inside of him.

I kiss his hair.

Then, rising up, I pump fast and hard, my release coming after five or six thrusts. “Oh, fuck,” I groan.

I spill, my knuckles turning white as I grip him and the bed. Every muscle is tight, and I’m buried to the hilt, throbbing like there’s a pulse the size of my fucking arm in my dick.

I crash to the bed next to him, sweating and spent. Peeling off the condom, I toss it in the trash and pull out some Kleenex to clean up.

Dallas sits up, and I try not to pay attention. He’s not staying the night anyway.

I sit back, leaning against the headboard, and pull the blanket over myself.

He comes back from the bathroom, pulling on his jeans and grabbing his shirt from the floor.

I watch him take a seat and slide on his shoes, tying the laces before standing and slipping on his shirt.

Next time, he stays the night.

“No one else touches you,” I warn him.

He’s mine, and there are plenty of people to hurt if he fights me.

“And I won’t lay a hand on anyone else,” I say, “while you’re in my bed.”

“I don’t give a shit.”