Page 67 of Bronson

He laughs. He gives my ass a slap underneath my skirt. “Not a very patient kitty you have there. Is it?”

I bite my lip, holding in a cry as he plunges within me.

I groan, his cock filling me.

I’ve never had sex standing up before and the pressure within me is intense. He’s so much… deeper. I stretch and burn to take him in. The burning fades to a liquid heat. He pulls back, then thrusts within me again.

I’m panting. Sweat is forming at my hairline. My legs tighten around him—I feel as if I weigh nothing. His hands grab my ass cheeks, squeezing.

I’m putty in his capable hands.

Our mouths meet. He kisses me hard. My lips instantly bruise.

He takes a step, me in his arms. My back presses against the wall of the stairwell. He plunges within me again, my core tightening, my pussy wrapping around his cock. I moan, leaning my head back, inviting him to kiss my neck.

He does.

I’m in ecstasy.

He nibbles and sucks at that delicate spot by my collarbone.

I can’t breathe. I can’t speak.

My body melts against his. He fucks me harder, faster. My lower back rhythmically bumps against the wall.

It’s thrilling—dirty hidden sex. Pressed against the wall. Held up by his arms, his cock.

These stairs will never look the same to me.

I will never look the same.

He loves me.

He’s whispering my name in my ear. His voice is tight, thick with pleasure. His hand presses against my breast, his other, my ass. A storm brews within my core. The clouds gather, preparing for lightning to strike.

I throb. I ache. My nails dig into his shoulders.

There’s an explosion within me. I shudder. I can take no more. I try to push him away but he thrusts and pumps, fucking me even harder. My hips are digging into the wall, my head is pressed against it. I’m shocked as I feel my core tightening again. Even tighter. Another explosion. I shudder, pant, beg. He keeps going and when I’m sure I can take no more, we come together in one immense burst of light and heat and passion.

Our skin is sweaty, our limbs weak. Our hair and clothes are a disaster. You can smell the scent of sex in the stairwell.

He looks at me, his face breaking into the most beautiful smile. He looks light, free, content.

“I love you, Paige Silverman.”

He kisses me. I’ve never been happier.

The weeks fly by like days. Bronson and I fall into a comfortable rhythm. Work all day, dine and dance the evenings away.

Every weeknight he takes me to dinner somewhere different. Five stars with crisp white tablecloths, where the servers call me Miss.

Dive bars where we share huge plastic cups of foaming beer, grinding our hips against one another on the sticky dance floor in our designer jeans.

Food carts where we stuff our faces with the world’s best tacos, empanadas, fried fish.

Friday nights I stay over. He cooks for me. Pasta, steaks on the grill, huge salads. All accompanied by chilled white wine and a homemade dessert, courtesy of Mary.

Saturdays we get up early and walk to work together. As per our tradition, I beg to stop for doughnuts. He argues about it, then lets me pull him by the arm into the heavenly scented bakery. I get a glazed buttermilk for the walk and a chocolate frosted for Alice. He orders a black coffee for himself and a soy vanilla latte for me and one for Alice. I’ve gotten her hooked on the drink.