Page 208 of Where We Stay

He kisses me like he’s starving - tongue deep, teeth scraping, one big hand cupping the back of my skull so I can’t pull away. I catch his lower lip between mine and bite, hard enough to make him growl. The sound vibrates down my spine.

I break the kiss and back toward the bedroom, smirking. “If you want me, come get me, Mr. Ashford.”

His gaze darkens. “Blair.”

I turn and walk away, hips swaying. Two seconds later his arm bands around my waist and I’m lifted clean off the floor. He carries me like I weigh nothing, kicks the bedroom door shut, and slams my back against it. The wood rattles. His mouth crashes into mine again while his hips grind forward, the thick ridge of his cock dragging over my clit through my clothes.

“Teasing me in my own hallway?” he mutters against my throat. Teeth graze skin, then he sucks hard enough to leave a mark.

“I want you inside me. Now.”

He frees himself one-handed, shoves his pants down just far enough, and the hot, bare head of his cock nudges my entrance. He doesn’t push in—he drags the crown up and down my slick folds, coating himself, teasing. Every pass bumps my clit and I whimper, hips jerking.

“Dean—”

He drives in to the hilt in one brutal thrust. My cry is swallowed by his palm clamped over my mouth. He holds still, buried deep, forehead pressed to mine.

“You okay?” The words are rough, but the concern in them is real.

I nod frantically against his hand. “Don’t stop.”

He fucks me like that—standing, back to the door, every snap of his hips punching the breath out of me. My legs lock around his waist; my nails dig into his shoulders. The wet slap of skin on skin fills the room. He angles his pelvis so the base of his cock grinds my clit on every stroke and I start to shake.

“Fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight,” he rasps. “You gonna come on my cock, baby?”

I moan into his palm, eyes rolling back. He shifts his grip to my ass, lifts me higher, and pounds harder. The new angle hits something devastating. My orgasm crashes through me so fast my vision whites out. My pussy clamps down, pulsing around him, and he curses, hips stuttering.

“That’s it—milk me—fuck—”

He buries himself to the root and comes with a guttural groan, flooding me in hot, thick pulses. I feel every throb. He stays inside, rocking gently through the aftershocks, kissing my damp temple, my cheek, finally my mouth.

When he carries me to the bed he doesn’t pull out. He lays me down, follows, and starts moving again—slow, deep, filthy rolls of his hips that push his cum deeper. My oversensitive nerves spark and I claw at his back, leaving red lines.

“Look at us,” he whispers, tilting my chin so I can see where we’re joined. “You’re dripping down my balls, baby. So fucking pretty.”

I come again, quieter this time, a long, rolling wave that leaves me limp and gasping. Dean follows right after, groaning my name into my neck as he empties a second time.

We stay tangled, breathing hard. His thumb strokes my cheekbone. “You’re it for me, Blair. You know that, right?”

I nod, too wrecked to speak. He kisses my closed eyelids, my nose, my lips.

“I love you,” I manage.

“I love you most.”

He pulls the blanket over us, still buried inside me, and I drift off with his heartbeat under my ear and the taste of him on my tongue. It’s the best fucking sleep I’ve had in months.

* * *

I wake sometime after eight with Dean still asleep beside me, one arm thrown over my waist and his face buried in the pillow. He’s completely dead to the world, which feels deeply unfair considering what that man put my body through last night.

Not that I’m complaining.

I smile as I look at him, all messy hair, bare shoulders, and relaxed features. He looks softer when he’s asleep. Less like the grumpy mechanic who enjoys ordering me around and more like the man who buys his girls flowers and remembers exactly how I take my coffee.

God, I love this man.

Carefully, I lift his arm and slide out from beneath it. Dean grumbles something unintelligible into the pillow but doesn’t wake, so I start gathering my clothes from the floor. My jeans are near the bathroom door, my sweater is hanging off the lamp, and my underwear apparently didn’t survive the journey from the living room.