Twisted (Tangled 2)

Drew compels me forward gently. Bending me over, so my hair brushes the bottom of the sink. And then he’s gone—out of my body.

And I ache with the loss of it.

Until I feel the head of his cock, wet with my fluids, stroking back and forth over the opening his fingers just occupied.

“Drew . . .”

It’s a keening moan, half pleasure, half pain.

All pleading.

“Say yes, Kate. Fucking Christ . . . please say yes.”

his voice is raspy. Raw.

With need.

For me.

And suddenly I feel powerful.

Strange, considering our current position, but still—I’m the one in control. he may as well be begging at my feet.

Waiting and hoping for my command.

I don’t think. I don’t weigh the options or contemplate the consequences. I only feel, submerged in rapturous sensation.

I let go.

And I trust.

“Yes . . .”

Ever so slowly, Drew presses forward into me. There’s a moment of pain—a stretching burn—and I inhale sharply. he pauses. Until I release my breath. Then, gently, he continues forward, until his most intimate flesh is fully ensconced in my own. Then he stays completely still. Letting my body adjust to the intrusion.

I feel his hand slide across my hip and down my thigh, coming around to my front. his hand goes under mine, his fingers rubbing in a circular motion. In that sensuous, magnificent way, before dipping inside me. Over and over and over again.

I always thought of anal sex as the ultimate show of domination, forceful, maybe humiliating.

But this doesn’t feel that way.

It’s primal . . . unexplored . . . but beautiful too. Sacred.

Like I’ve just given him my virginity. And in a way, I guess I have.

I move first, pushing back against him.

Giving Drew permission—wanting to know, to experience these new sensations. Needing to cross the finish line. With him.

It’s more than erotic. Beyond intimate.

Drew’s lips press against the skin on my back. Kissing and cursing and whispering my name. And then he’s the one moving.

Taking back control. Gliding in and out—tender but steady.

It’s divine.

My hand clasps over his at my clit. My legs tremble and I know I’m getting close. So close. Like climbing a mountain and realizing the peak is just mere steps away.

Our breaths come in deep open-mouth pants with each drive of Drew’s hips.

“Yes . . . yes . . . yes . . .”

Men’s orgasms are ninety percent physical. It’s easy for them to get off, regardless of where their thoughts are. Women have it harder. Our orgasms usually hinge on our mental state. Which means if you guys want to get us there? We can’t be thinking about that load of laundry in the next room, or the pile of papers waiting on our desks.

Which explains why it’s not Drew’s hand, or dick, that does me in.

It’s his voice.

With his forehead against my shoulder blade, he chants, “Oh God, oh God, oh God . . .”

It’s so unlike him.

he sounds open. Exposed.

Vulnerable.

This infuriating man, who always wants to be in charge, calling the shots. Who doesn’t make a move without examining it from every angle, turning it around in his amazing mind—the pros, the perks, the ramifications.

he’s falling apart behind me.

And as he whispers a litany of profanities and prayers—I fall over the edge.

Into ecstasy.

My head snaps back and my eyes close. And stars burst behind my eyelids as I tense and scream, and wave after dizzying wave of pleasure wracks my body.

Drew’s movements become uneven and jerky, more forceful and uncontrolled.

And a moment later he pulls my hips back against him, holding me there, as one long, last guttural moan spills from his lips.

Afterward, we catch our breaths. Still connected and quaking with aftershocks. his hands smooth up my arms as he slips out of me.

he turns me around to face him. his hands caress my cheeks, and then he’s kissing me.

And it’s so sweet. Kind and loving. Such a stark contrast to our desperate movements moments before.

I don’t know why, but my eyes fill with tears.

Instantly, Drew’s gaze turns worried. “Are you okay? Did I . . .

did I hurt you?”

I smile through the tears, because they’re happy ones. Because in some weird, unexplainable way, I’ve never felt closer to him than I do right now.

“No. I’m wonderful. Feel free to be not nice to me anytime.”

Then he smiles too. Relieved and satisfied.

“Noted.”

Drew picks me up and carries me to the shower. We stand under the warm spray and wash each other worshipfully. Then Drew wraps us in thick, heated towels and bears me to bed.

he pulls the blanket up over both of us and holds me tight against him.

And it makes me feel precious.

He makes me feel that way. Always.

Cherished.

Adored.

Was I sore the next day? A little. But it wasn’t so bad.

Too much information?

Sorry. Just trying to be helpful.

In any case, the aches and pains of the following morning were more than worth it, as far as I was concerned.

But what’s the point of all this, you ask? Why am I sharing it with you?

Because good sex? Really, really good sex?

Doesn’t need alcohol. And it’s not about compatibility, or practice, or even being in love.

It’s about trust.