Page 65 of Forty, Flirty & Fake-ly Yours

No thoughts. Only rhythm. Only the thrum of our hearts.

Only the subtle strings syncing us together like a samba in our souls.

With Rosalind, I am someone else—something else.

I’m like a fucking animal with no need for numbers.

Acting on instinct, I deepen the stroke. My fingers tangle inside her reddish-brown mane of hair as she bites into my shoulder.

I can feel her breath, hot and fast against my neck. I can hear her moans, soft and desperate in my ear.

I pick up the pace, my body driving into hers. She cries out, her nails digging into my back.

Her body jerks, her full breasts squeezing into my chest.

"Don't stop," she breathes out.

She's close, so close. I want to feel her come undone around me again.

I reach between us, finding her clit with my thumb. I circle it, matching the rhythm of my thrusts. She cries out, her body clenching around me. I can feel her orgasm building, her body spiraling into a sensuous that draws me deeper, grips me tighter.

"Come for me, Rosalind.” The words are as anguished and deliciously tortured as I feel.

And Roz’s body obeys. She comes, her fingertips digging deeper into my skin as she gasps into the open air, her walls tightening around my nearly numb cock. I ride out her orgasm with her, feeling her body squeeze me dry.

It's too much, too good. I can feel my own orgasm building, my body tensing, tightening, muscles locking into place.

“Roz,” I rasp, every ounce of my body feeling owned by the woman I’m inside, “you are everything, sweetheart.”

I thrust into her, once, twice, then groan, my body pulsing, shaking, shuddering with the force of my climax as I come inside her. I can feel her body, warm and snug around me, a subtle whimper falling from her full lips, as I lower my brows to hers, looking into her hooded gaze.

I chuckle, then kiss her again, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

“Jesus Christ. That was..." I start, but words fail me.

"Statistically significant?" she suggests with a soft laugh.

I press a kiss to her forehead. "Definitely not something that can be quantified."

"I think we just proved that some things are better left to chance."

I nod, pulling her closer. "I think you're right."

As we lie there, the fire casting warm light over our bodies, there's no room for algorithms or calculations. There's just this – her body against mine, her heart beating in time with my own.

There's just us, together, in a way that can't be crunched into what I now know are insignificant fucking numbers.

Sometimes, the best things in life can't be predicted. Or computed. Or assessed.

But they can be felt.

Absolutely, perfectly felt.

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404: TRUST NOT FOUND

ROSALIND

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