Page 57 of Start With A Slap

His eyes fell shut.Bloody hell.

She undulated to work him in deeper, said in a hot little whisper, “Yeah.”

Music to his ears. He slipped another finger in, curved it toward her g-spot.

“Yeah,” she said, humping his palm in earnest. “Yeah...”

“Yeah?”

She answered by biting her lip and ripping his shirt buttons, then ran her chilly fingers down his quivering torso and wrangled him out of his zipper to tug, light and fast, at his cock. Taken by surprise, he nearly jetted in her hand.

What was it about this girl? Sever wasn’t easy to intimidate. He’d been with supermodels. Rock goddesses. Princesses! Porn stars! And yet this callow handjob made him sputter like a schoolboy? It didn’t make sense.

So, he pinned her hands to the wall and kissed her proper. He’d show her who was boss. No glorifiedsecretarywould rattle him off his game. He wasSever Mark! They’d named positions after him! They’d made sculptures of his?—

“Hahhh!” he breathed.

Holyfuck, this girl was spry.

Eyes stormy, Ivy sank down on his cock and tipped her head back, tongue darting over her lips.

He curled his pelvis up to spear her to the hilt, and she made the sweetest, sexiest noise he’d ever heard.

He pressed his face against hers, closed his eyes. “Oh, Ivy...”

“Shut up,” she said, cupping his mouth. “This isn’tromance.”

Wasn’t it?

Rain sheeting on either side of them, their animalistic cries echoing off the stone walls, they clung to each other under the bridge, bodies convulsing in an arrhythmic, passionate, revelatory dance.

No. It wasn’t romance. It was flamenco.

And it was so passionate, so revelatory, sostimulatingthat he knew he couldn’t make it last — especially when Ivy pinched his sensitive throat, using it for support.

So, he tore at her dress to fully access the inward curve of her spine: one of his all-time favorite body parts on a woman, and her coincidental Achilles’ heel.

On contact, she thrashed to and fro, pressing deeper into his throat. He moved to touch her in front; wildly shaking her head no, she returned his hand to The Spot.

He dug into her pressure points. She gasped, went rigid, began to tremor.

“It’s all right,” he panted. “No one’s listening, no one’s looking. Scream.”

Arms tight around his neck, pussy throbbing on his cock, warm nectar oozing down, she let loose a broken, guttural cry of release.

He shook her. “Look at me.”

The very picture of surrender, she looked at him. Staring at her, thrusting with increasing force, he erupted with an unchecked shout.

When it was over, she sagged into him, exhausted and spent. He was too, but his warm, comfortable, sound-proofed bedroom was waiting for them.

Careful, he put her down. “Don’t run off, all right? Just need my pants.”

As he buckled his belt, he noticed her fiddling with her dress, trying in vain to close it in the back. Brow furrowed, she said, “You broke it.”

She sounded like a little girl.

Taking off his jacket, he placed it gingerly on her shoulders. Touched her hair, her neck, and moved to kiss her there. For a fraction of a second, she recoiled, then clearly remembered that she no longer had the right.

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