Page 18 of Made Man

“Yeah.” I crane my neck so I can kiss him. “Me,” I whisper in his ear.

“Always you,” he agrees, and he gathers me to him with an arm under my shoulders, hoists my thigh higher, and begins to fuck me like he means it.

I roll my hips as much as I can while getting jackhammered to see if I can rub my clit against something—a pubic bone, thatbig, hard belly—but I can’t reach, and he’s still dressed. I want skin, and I want to see him. Us. Together.

“Take your shirt off,” I gasp.

He immediately rips off his vest and shirt together, and then braces his forearms by my head. I glance toward our feet. He’s sucking in his gut. He’s so freaking cute. He’s obviously built; he’s just got a little layer of beer chub over the muscle.

I sneak my hand between us, tracing his happy trail. It’s thicker now. I like how it rasps against the soft skin of my stomach. I experiment with lifting my hips so I can feel the hair tickle my bare belly. I love it.

“Oh, shit.” That did more than I intended. The angle is somehow even more perfect.

“What do you need, baby?” he asks. His face is turning red. From the plank he’s doing on top of me or from trying not to come?

“I can’t reach my clit,” I whine.

“Okay,” he grunts and shifts, trying to hold his weight on one hand and reach between my legs with the other, but this is the backseat of a Lincoln, and we’re both grown-ass adults. He’s strong, but not Hulk strong. He collapses on me with an oof. “Hold up. Hang on.”

Somehow, with brute strength and grunts and curses, he manages to flip us so he’s on his back, and I’m on top, hunched over, still stuffed full of his twenty-five-ounce-tall-beer-can cock.

He grins at me, and all of a sudden, he’s eighteen again— the poor little rich boy, bitter, jaded, and mad at everyone in the world except me, his princess, the only person who can make him smile, who knows what his silences mean.

Tears pool in my eyes.

“Hey, hey,” he says, reaching to hug me to his chest. I stop him, bracing my hands on his stomach. I was right. Under thepudge, he’s hard as rock. “What’s wrong? Do you want to stop? We can stop.”

“No, I don’t want to stop.” I sniffle. “I just want the time back, you know?”

“I know,” he says, covering my hands with his, curling his fingers around mine, his eyes trained on my face like I’m a miracle or a revelation, like I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. I arch my back and smile.

I haven’t felt beautiful for years. I know I am, in a conventional beauty standards kind of way, but I’ve neverfeltit except for when I see myself reflected in Wyatt Foster’s eyes.

“You can’t leave me again,” I tell him.

“I won’t.”

“I won’t let you,” I warn him.

“Okay.” He smiles, and the emptiness that I learned to live with fills with warmth. I begin to rock.

Sweat beads Wyatt’s forehead.

“I love you,” I tell him, grinning.

“I’ve loved you longer,” he says.

I tug one of my hands free so I can play with my clit. His eyes track the movement, watching greedily. I toss my hair and ride him, chasing down my orgasm, knowing in my soul that’s all he wants—to see me come. To see me happy.

It comes on quick and powerful, crashing through me, cramping my insides so tight that Wyatt shouts and comes too, even though he was holding it together with that Lamaze breathing he always did to make sure he lasted when I sucked him off back in the day.

I fold forward and land on his chest, wobbling like a Jell-O mold. He immediately strokes my spine, exactly how I like.

“You remember,” I mumble.

“I remember everything,” he says.

I try to nestle closer, but there’s no distance between us, and there’s never going to be again. Back when we were kids, Iwasa princess, but not anymore. I’m a dangerous woman. Nothing and no one is ever going to take this man away from me again.

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