Page 159 of Wrong Number Right Doctor

He fucks me harder. My legs tighten around him, my whole body jolting with every thrust. I can feel how wet I am, can feel the slick drag of him sliding in and out of my pussy, can feel the pressure building too fast already because I’m still sensitive from before and because there’s too much of everything tonight—too much anger, too much wanting, too much him.

His hand leaves my breast and slips between us. The second his fingers find my clit, I almost scream. Instead I bury my face against his neck and moan into his skin while he keeps fucking me standing, one hand working my clit in ruthless little circles, the other holding me up like I weigh nothing.

“That’s it,” he says quietly. “Come for me.”

I shake my head once, not because I don’t want to, but because it’s too much, because I’m going to make noise, because I’m going to lose it and there are still people outside and I can hear blood rushing in my ears and his cock is hitting that exact spot every time he thrusts.

He bites my breast. Not hard enough to hurt. Hard enough to tip me over.

I come with both legs locked tight around his waist, my face buried in his shoulder, trying and failing to keep quiet while my whole body shakes around him. The orgasm hits so hard I almost go numb with it. He keeps fucking me through it, and I swear I can feel him smile against my skin when my pussy clenches around his cock.

“Good girl,” he mutters.

I would hate that if I weren’t so busy coming.

He gives me maybe three seconds to breathe before he starts moving harder again, chasing his own finish now. I’m still pulsing around him, still too sensitive, still making these broken little sounds I can’t seem to stop, and every time he thrusts I feel the aftershocks jump again.

“Fuck, Maggie.”

That sound from him nearly does me in all over again. His control is finally slipping. I can hear it. I can feel it in the way his grip tightens on my thigh, in the way his mouth finds mine without finesse now, in the way his cock drives into me like he’s trying to erase the rest of the night with one thing that belongs only to us.

He comes with a rough groan against my mouth, still holding me off the ground, hips jerking once, twice, then going still while he empties himself inside me.

For a few seconds neither of us moves. I’m still wrapped around him, breathless, dress a mess, tits half out, my body trembling in little aftershocks while his forehead rests against mine.

Then he kisses me once, slow and filthy and almost tender, which is somehow the worst part.

I laugh weakly, still panting. “This is a terrible coping mechanism.”

“Yes,” he says.

“Just checking.”

He shifts his grip on me, keeping me up even as my legs loosen around him. “You want down?”

“No,” I say immediately.

That gets the smallest huff of laughter out of him. Then he kisses my breast one more time, softer now, and finally lowers me to my feet.

For a few seconds, neither of us says anything. We’re both breathing too hard. My dress is twisted, one strap half down my arm, my underwear somewhere around my thighs. Dalton fixes himself first, because of course he does, then reaches for me without asking and starts putting me back together.

He pulls my dress up properly. Straightens the strap. Smooths the fabric over my hips with brisk, practical hands that don’t match the way he had them on me a minute ago. I bend to step back into my underwear, and when I come up again, he’s watching me with that same look he gets when he’s about to say something difficult and has already decided saying it matters more than whether I want to hear it.

I know that look now.

It makes my stomach tighten.

“What?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer immediately. He just keeps looking at me, jaw set, eyes too clear now, the heat of what we just did cooling too fast into something else.

“Dalton.”

He exhales once through his nose. “There’s something I need to say.”

I laugh a little, still breathless. “That’s never a good opening.”

“It isn’t.”