Flirting with Disaster (Jackson: Girls' Night Out 2)
“Is this what you want?”
“Yes,” she gasped. This was what she wanted. To be fucked as if he’d die if he didn’t get deeper.
His hands grabbed her hips and pulled her up on her knees, his fingers digging in hard as he thrust again. Isabelle put her face into her pillow and moaned. He’d given her too much, too soon, and the pleasure bordered on pain. She loved it.
He held himself still inside her for a long moment, letting her feel the way her body was trying to stretch to ease his way. She heard him let out a long breath as if he were gathering himself before he began to move inside her.
He started with a slow, hard rhythm that made her fists curl into the sheets. “Yes,” she gasped into the pillow. “Yes, like that.”
“I love fucking you,” he rasped.
“Yes,” she said again. She wanted him to love it. She wanted to be the best he’d ever had. She wanted him still thinking about it ten years from now when he was settled down with someone nicer, someone more stable, someone whose entire life wasn’t a lie that kept her from the world. If this was all the love she’d get from him, then she wanted him to love fucking her more than he’d ever love it with anyone else.
She forced her fingers to unclench from the sheets and slipped a hand down her stomach.
“Yes,” he said. “Touch yourself. It’s so fucking hot when you do that.”
Not as hot as it was for her. Her clit was hard under her hands, her pussy slick. She rubbed herself and arched into his next thrust, trying to take him deeper, deeper. So deep it would hurt.
He held her still and fucked her as she
touched herself, her cries getting louder as her pleasure built. She loved his hands so tight on her. His cock so big. The sound of his hips slapping into her ass. The way her clit got tighter and tighter with every stroke.
She loved the way he was polite and reserved, and then he fucked her just the way she needed. Just like she— “Yes,” she cried out as the orgasm built into impossible tightness inside her.
She keened as the pressure crested, and then suddenly it was upon her, taking her under.
She felt the cry in her own throat, but she couldn’t hear it past the rushing pleasure, and she couldn’t feel anything of his body anymore, only hers. It was nearly violent, as if she’d break apart in joy, but finally the waves ebbed and she could hear again, could feel his fingers on her hips and his cock so tight inside her.
She was shaking, gasping for breath, and he was so strong and still behind her. She was wondering if he’d already come, too, but then he moved within her, a slow, long stroke. His hand left her hip and smoothed over the small of her back, tilting her hips up even more as he fucked her. Her thighs shook, but she didn’t give in to the weakness. She stayed on her knees for him, because that was what he wanted.
His strokes quickened as his breath got ragged, and she expected him to crash into her with his orgasm, but in the end, he held himself still. So still. His hips hard against hers as he buried himself deep. She felt his cock pulse inside her as he came, but his hips didn’t move.
She’d never felt a man come like that. As if he wanted to feel every cell in his body as he climaxed.
His breath left him on a long sigh, and he finally pulled free of her. Isabelle collapsed, facedown. She couldn’t quite breathe, and she didn’t quite care. She was exhausted, in every way possible.
She heard Tom return to the bed. She felt the sheets settle over her naked body and then the comforting weight of the blankets. Even better, he slid in next to her, and his heat soaked through her sweat-cooled back.
“Is it all right if I stay?” he murmured near her ear.
Isabelle thought she nodded, but she wasn’t sure. She just moved back until her ass was pressed tight to him, and she fell asleep.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
TOM WOKE TO the smell of frying bacon, and he floated there for a long minute, warm beneath the covers of his childhood bed while his mom made Sunday breakfast. It was a strange feeling. Half contentment and half a niggling awareness that he’d have to get up soon and go to church for two excruciatingly boring hours.
He frowned. No, the worry was something darker than that. His mind touched on his brother before it shied away in horror. That was when his eyes opened, and he looked around in a panic, wondering where he was and if his brother was still dead.
His brain finally recognized that he was in Isabelle’s bedroom. And yes, his brother was still dead.
But there the darkness was, hovering above him. Not grief for Michael, but something more urgent.
He had to help Isabelle. Keep Gates away from her. Or deliver Isabelle to him, if that was the wisest option.
But he didn’t think it was.
Tom glanced around, looking for his phone. It was in his pants, probably, somewhere on the floor. But at least he found a clock. It was only 6:15. If he jumped in the shower right now, he could be at the judge’s in twenty minutes. Thirty if he stayed for bacon.