The Secret (Winslow Brothers 3)

I’ve never been one to get worked up about other people’s past lovers. I’d be a hypocrite if I did. And while I’m sure he’s responsible for some raw talent, this kind of precision could have come only at the instruction of a woman.

He flicks his tongue against my clit and slides a finger inside me. The combination is so perfect that my back arches and my breasts push up into the air.

I moan, and my body is at war between wanting to come like this or wanting to come with him inside me. Eventually, though, I know there’s only one way that will leave me completely satisfied.

“Ty,” I whimper and gently tug at the hair on his head. His head comes up in question, a shine on his lips that isn’t a mystery. “I want you inside me,” I admit freely, opening my legs wider and prompting him to step in between them. He leans down over me to put a kiss on my lips, and I taste the lingering evidence of myself on him. A heady mix of sex and sugar and us.

He keeps up his sweet assault on my mouth as he works at his zipper between us, and then he enters me with one smooth, clean stroke. It’s not rough—it’s precise and efficient. I gasp at the feeling of fullness, and he smiles against my lips. “You feel so good, Rach. Every fucking time.”

I moan again, since that’s the only reciprocation of the sentiment I’m currently capable of, and wrap my arms around his shoulders. For some reason, tonight, I want him close. I want to see his eyes while he moves inside me, see the way his neck crooks when he comes.

I don’t need anything extra or fancy—I just need a front-row seat to him.

He sinks his head into my throat while his hips do all the work, and I hold on tight for dear life. The table shakes beneath us, and I’m hoping on a wing and prayer that it holds its ground through the onslaught.

Ragged breaths mingling, Ty thrusts and swirls his hips at the end and then repeats it over and over again. My skin is on fire now, the cold officially gone, and I can feel the tension of my pending orgasm all the way into the tips of my toes.

“God, Rachel.” Ty finds my lips again, running his tongue along the surface with a reverence I’m not expecting. It’s slow and poignant and feels like it means something. I just can’t put my finger on what.

But my orgasm can’t wait any longer, no matter how hard I try. Pleasure and hypersensitivity crash over me, tumbling me to the bottom of the ocean floor and repeatedly coming back for more. I’m caught in a tide, washing away anything and everything I’ve ever known other than this moment, for what feels like an eternity. I can’t blink, can’t speak—I can barely hear anything other than the roar of overwhelming fogginess in my ears.

This is, without a doubt, the most powerful orgasm I’ve ever had in my life—and with the way Ty and I have been for the last week, that’s saying something.

It’s so good, it hurts—and not just where it should.

My chest aches too, an overpowering feeling of something more nagging at my heart. Ty Winslow is so many more things than I knew.

And I’m beginning to think I might be becoming a fan of way too many of them.

Monday, February 25th

Rachel

The last student files out the door of Ty’s lecture hall, and a sigh falls heavy from my lips. It’s safe to say it’s been a long Monday.

Another week of sex with Ty has been extraordinarily great for my vagina, but it’s not doing a lot for my sleeping. Keeping up with our rendezvous and TA work and class and the bakery and everything else is a lot, and if I thought about it for even a second, the exhaustion would set in and put me into a two-day-long coma.

Not that I’ve taken any action whatsoever to stop it. In fact, I’m the one fanning the flames at least half of the time.

He’s just so hard to resist. Always smiling and teasing and joking. I haven’t had this good of a time with a guy in—well, forever.

I’m starting to gather my things from my seat at the front of the room when Ty slaps me on the ass and then takes off at a jog, yelling, “Tag, you’re it!” over his shoulder.

I roll my eyes at first, but after another drive-by slap to the ass, I’m on the run. We round the desk and jump off the stage platform and up the stairs to the back wall. He climbs over chairs and across rows in a couple of moves that I’m entirely incapable of mimicking in my skirt.