Page 89 of The Overtime Kiss

Showing me what turns him on the most.

Making me feel like I’m drowning in his desire.

And I don’t want to come up for air.

With his tongue cartwheeling over me, I lose my mind, gasping as I detonate.

The powerful release steals my senses. It blasts through my body and mind.

I moan for days, gripping his hair as the orgasm seizes me. Sparks burst behind my eyes. Bliss radiates in my cells.

I’m still gasping from the orgasm, my body loose and noodle-y when I finally flutter open my eyes.

Tyler’s wiping a hand across his wet mouth.

Sexiest. Thing. Ever.

Before I can even say a word, or a thanks, or a wow, he shifts back on his heels, grips my waist, and lifts me, tossing me over his shoulder in no time.

I’m half-naked, and he’s already carrying me across the room.

“What are you doing?” I shout, then smack his back playfully.

His palm lands on my ass, a quick, sharp swat that zings through me. I shudder. No one has ever spanked me before. I kind of want to ask for another, but before I can get the words out, he says, “I’m giving you your second orgasm—that’s what I’m doing.”

Oh well, I can table the spanking for now then.

He rounds the corner and tosses me onto the bed. Then,he drops his palms to the mattress, bracing himself on those strong arms, muscles bulging, and stares down at me. “If memory serves, you wanted this too.”

He grabs my wrists, pushes them above my head, and straddles me. “Am I right?”

I look up at him—his overpowering frame, his intense eyes, his coiled strength.

“Yes,” I say, my breath staggered and needy, matching how I feel inside.

Because this—this is everything I’ve wanted. For him to hold me down, fuck me hard, wreck me.

“Fuck me like this now. Please don’t make me wait,” I beg, and I don’t even care.

His eyes flicker with dirty delight. He lets go of my wrists and sits up, grabs my hand, and says, “Take off my shirt. I know you fucking want to.”

“Presumptuous,” I say, but I’m reaching for the top button, hastily undoing all of them and spreading it open.

He does have tattoos. Like I wondered. Like I hoped.

I yank that shirt off so fast, then fling it to the floor. I press a hand to his right pec, tracing the dates inked there, recognizing them instantly. “You tattooed your kids’ birthdays on your chest?”

He presses his hand over mine, holding it tight. Gripping it like we’re both holding something sacred. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t have to say they’re what matters most to him. It’s clear. It’s clear in the way he holds my hand so my fingers can stroke the ink on his chest. So I can touch what matters most to him.

I’m mesmerized—not just by the ink, but by the feel of him.

The strength of his chest. The sturdiness of his body. The dark trail of hair traveling from his pecs down the ladder ofhis abs to the waistband of his pants, making my mouth water.

“I want these off,” I say, tugging at them now, boldness overtaking me.

I’ve never been bold in bed before—not because I’m shy, but because I’ve never really enjoyed sex.

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