Fast & Wet (The Fast 2)

In Russia, she told me she had a five-year birth control implant and, if possible, the sex is even better between us bare. I’m consumed with filthy thoughts about coming inside her, and she outright demands it now.

As God is my witness, there is nothing hotter than a good girl who gets very naughty in bed.

My hands wrap around her and cup her tits, her hard nipples pushing into my palms as she arches her back.

She turns her head. Our lips meet over her shoulder before she whimpers into my mouth, “Make love to me.”

I growl and pull her body in tighter, sinking as far into her as I can get, though it’s never deep enough. It’ll never be deep enough. “You want it slow, baby?”

I can’t stop my smile as she whimpers her ‘yes.’ This is her new favorite thing, this slow, passionate burn where it feels like we’re two candles melting into one. It’s her appetizer, as soon as she gets off like this, she begs me to take control, to fuck her hard until she loses herself in the surrender.

Lately, she wants the slow and quiet before the rough and dirty. I want to give her all of it.

Love isn’t a sufficient word anymore for how I feel about Em. Love was ten or so steps behind whatever ethereal dimension I’m flying through these days.

“Touch yourself,” I breathe into her ear as I take her hand and move her fingers over her clit. With a deliberate and torturous pace, I continue pushing into her, then slowly dragging out.

As if on cue, because I know her body better than I know my own, she rocks her hips and starts pushing, grinding hard backward into me. I’m so turned on watching her, feeling her spear herself onto me, using me to get herself off, that I let her. I guide her hips and help her.

I revel in everything that she is and the fact that she’s mine.

Just like old times, Emily was there to pull me out of my depths of despair in Singapore. She drew me back above the surface where buried demons don’t exist. It’s funny what having someone believe in you can do, how they can salvage you from your darkest hour.

She’s the only one who has ever loved me even after I made a mistake. The only consequence was that she loved me even more. It snapped something inside of me, something ancient and frayed that wouldn’t believe she could love me.

She lit the wick on fire, and it’s burning at both ends, now. For the first time in my life, I feel like I deserve her, that I can be worthy of her. And I will be.

Emily tenses and starts shuddering around me, begging me to come with her, to fill her up. Her words undo me like they always do.

In every way I know how, I tell her how much I love her as she clenches and cries, then collapses in my arms.

As the rain continues to come down and she looks out the windows, safe and tucked into me, I can’t think of anything in the world that is worth getting out of bed for.

Except, maybe Em’s stomach, which has just rumbled louder than the thunder outside our walls. I chuckle, and she throws the covers back, the loss of her heat and skin making me growl.

“Get up, I’ll make you eggs,” she starts piling her hair up onto the top of her head, stretching her naked body out before me like the goddess of seduction and temptation and everything that makes men lose their goddamn minds.

“Get back in bed, I’ll make you come again,” I counter.

“After, today is Eggs 101.”

I put a pillow over my head and grumble. She’s been on a kick teaching me to cook basic food, forbidding Liam from bringing over the prepped meals I’ve sustained life on for the past several years.

I have no intention of ever cooking my own eggs, and I’m grumbling about it, but she knows as well as I do that I’ll be in the kitchen with her in a matter of minutes.

I can’t pin place where it was, exactly, that I handed over my balls, but I haven’t seen them in weeks.

Never been happier.

“I’m going to jump in the shower, then I’ll be right there.”

Fifteen minutes later, I’m in the kitchen, as promised, but paying no attention whatsoever to the omelet instructions.

“You’re killing me with these damn pajamas,” I kiss her neck from behind while she whisks and talks about Gordon Ramsey’s eggs and why they’re the best. Something about the heat and the creme fresh, molecular gastronomy.

I’m fondling the penguins on her pajamas instead, which are wearing headphones and eating popsicles. Obviously.

Dressed up to the nines in silk and heels can be hot as hell—but dressed down, when a woman is comfortable and casual, that’s another level of sexy.