Mr. Knightsbridge (The Mister 1)

“Are you ready?” I asked as I positioned my cock at her entrance.

“It depends. Are you going to torture me again?”

“I’m going to fuck you. No more torture.”

“Then I’m more than ready.” She ran her hands down her body then pulled her legs wide apart. Fuck, I wasn’t even inside her, but just knowing that in seconds I would be was enough to have my jaw tense and my cock jerking in my hand.

I moved inside her, just enough so she’d feel me.

“Oh God,” she said on a sigh as if she’d been lost in a desert for days and I was giving her a cold glass of water.

Slowly I inched into her, and

she took deep breaths as if she was trying to control her orgasm, as if a single stroke of my cock was going to tip her over and have her coming. That didn’t hurt my ego.

I shoved in the last centimeter, wanting to get as deep as I could, and she arched her back, lifting off the bed.

“So deep, Beck.”

It was deep, tight, and fucking perfect.

I had to take a breath. I wasn’t ready to give in, and I wanted her to come again.

I withdrew just as slowly, trying to get used to the feel of her around me. Trying to get used to how she looked—the way her breasts shifted as I moved over her, the way she bit down on her bottom lip in concentration, the way she looked at me as if I’d wrapped up the moon and given it to her.

I wasn’t sure I’d ever been aware of anyone in bed before. Not that I wasn’t focused on a woman’s pleasure—that was always part of the package. But compared to how I was taking Stella in—how I wanted to savor it all, remember it—it made me see that before her, it had always been anatomical, biological. With her it was . . . different, burrowed deeper somehow.

She grasped my arm. “You okay?” she asked, pulling me out of my own head.

I was more than okay.

I nodded, pushing into her faster this time. She closed her eyes and pushed out a heavy, slow breath. Christ, even her breathing was sexy.

I shut my eyes in an effort to block everything out—blanking my mind, seeing only white. I needed to focus. I began a rhythm, trying not to be so fucking aware of how soft and tight and perfect Stella London was.

“Beck,” she whispered, bringing me back to the moment. “It’s so good. How is it so good?” She trailed her fingers down my back, and I couldn’t stop the guttural roar that rippled up from my gut and out of my throat.

Sweat gathered at my hairline—not from the physical but from the mental effort of holding myself back from pouring into her. My cock was swollen with need, my muscles heavy with desire, and I kept thrusting, kept pushing into her. I needed to make it good for her, but more than anything, I wanted to keep these feelings, these new sensations that floated around me, whispering and wondering and new.

“Beck, Beck, Beck,” she began to chant in panic.

“Hey,” I said, folding myself over her so my chest was flat against hers.

“I’m so close and it feels so good. I don’t think I can stop it.”

I exhaled, almost relieved it would soon be over. I couldn’t stand this any longer—I couldn’t bear how fucking good it was.

I knew I wouldn’t be able to stop my orgasm as hers arrived. “Shhh,” I said, pressing a kiss to her neck. “You can come, baby.”

She blinked lazily and her hands dropped over her head. I felt it begin. The pulse under her skin, the tiny shiver that morphed into a shudder. She arched her body, and it flicked a switch in me.

There was no more holding back. I pulled back and thrust in one more time, my orgasm creeping up my spine, circling and spinning, higher and higher until it exploded into every cell in my body.

It pulled every ounce, every molecule of energy from me, draining me of everything but the sensation of coming. All I felt was the buzz of her skin against mine and how fucking perfect that was.

I slumped against her, burying my face in her neck, and she tightened her grip around me, as if she thought I might go somewhere.

As if I could.