Page 38 of Double Apex

His hands wring my hair, and the pain is sharp but delicious. He’s holding me in place, his hips slamming in an exquisite arc—not just chasing his own lust, but in a motion clearly engineered to herd me toward ecstasy again.

His tense breaths carry a hint of a growl each time wecollide. There’s nothing tender here, no mercy in the way I buck against his thrusts, the way my nails rake him, the unintelligible raving that spills from my bruised lips, right along with the sweet juice he’s gouging out of me with his perfect cock.

Whatever witchcraft he’s used on my pussy is working, because I’m probably a half minute from another climax, and that has literally never happened during a missionary fuck. I’m not sure if it’s his imposing size, the slight curve that seems to hit everything just right, the smell of his skin, the savage music of our mingled groaning and panting, the smacking of sweaty skin.

Through my fog of arousal, a flutter of anxiety appears like a lighthouse in the distance, the dim warning beam telling me:This sex is too good not to want it again. I’m doomed.I don’t realize I’ve babbled it aloud until Cosmin slows, fixing me with a fevered look.

He crushes my mouth with his, and the sore spot I bit earlier flares.

“You’re right,” he says. “We’re both doomed. I claim this castle, and I will write my name in every fucking room of you.”

The words storm past the walls in my heart with the same heat I feel in the blissfully aching territory below the skirt rumpled around my waist.

Cosmin grasps my wrists and locks them over my head, and my legs encircle his waist just so I can keep holding him. The words I want to say are hiding behind my kiss-ravaged mouth.Yes, absolutely fuckingyes, we’re going to do this forever.But I’m as scared from the neck up as I am turned on from the neck down. Wanting him this much is terrifying.

How did I ever think we could do this casually?

Electric tremors roll up my thighs like warning thunder and my eyes squeeze shut. I thrash my head to the side, my hair a tangled pool beneath me.

He shifts gears with my body, using the same unerring timing he has behind the wheel, grinding against me slow and steady and slick, with almost the motion of wiping fog off a mirror.

I feel his lips touch my earlobe, biting it, then saying quietly, “Closing your eyes won’t conceal you, sweet girl. I’ll find you anyway.”

My eyes snap open, and I can feel I’m glaring, my face doing something unexpected and possibly homicidal.

“Fuck you, Ardelean.” I drop my trembling legs to the bed as a lush warmth blooms from a pinpoint, right where he’s rubbing me. There’s no reeling it back. It opens into a chasm that drowns me in sudden pleasure. “Fuck you!” I cry over the white roar of climax.

“No,” he throws back at me. “Fuckus!”

He releases my wrists and his arms move behind my neck, holding me hard like a rag doll as he pounds into me, saying against my neck, “Us… us… us…!” with every thrust. My insides are soft and twitching with aftershocks.

With a broken, stifled cry that’s half euphoria and half like grief, he buries his face against my neck and tenses, shoulders rigid, arms like cables around me. I can feel him jerk and pulseinside me, and instinctively I smooth my hands down his back and clutch his ass, pulling him closer in that moment, greedy to claim every bit of him.

His hot breath gusts against my neck, and he’s murmuring something in what I assume is Romanian. The same series of words, three times, each sentence a little quieter until he sighs, kissing my shoulder and lifting his head to search my face.

There’s no way I look good—I was crying before we even started this insanity.

He shifts half off me, propping up on one elbow, and a pang of loss ripples through me as his body withdraws. Usually I have all the afterglow tenderness of a nineties gangsta rap song and can’t wait to eject a guy the second he’s done, but as the heat from Cosmin puddles beneath me, his absence feels lonesome.

Clarity returns, and I realize what I just yelled at him. A shiver of mortification falls. I cover my eyes with a hand. “Sorry for cursing at you. I don’t know why I got angry.”

“I understand.”

His lips brush mine, and I keep my eyes open purely for the enjoyment of seeing him. This close to his face, now that we’re not tearing each other apart, I can see his simple details—the delicate skin of his eyelids, the dampness of the raw-honey-colored hair at his temples, the way his cheek dimples as he lifts one corner of his mouth in a smile that I’d almost think was shy if he weren’t a narcissistic douche-canoe.

He kisses me again, whispering something so quietly I doubt it’s even meant for me.

“What?” I whisper back.

He runs a thumb along my shoulder. “You’re so beautiful.”

“I’m going to have Doc Bartosz check your eyes so you don’t put my fucking car into a wall.”

He bites my shoulder, laughing, and pulls me against his chest in a little-spoon embrace. Sprawling an arm out, he grabs a pillow and tucks it under our heads. His heartbeat against my spine is slowing already, owing to his conditioning. He traces my engine tattoo with a fingertip.

“It was my hope to see this today,” he says, “but the manner in which it happened was unexpected.”

“Ford flathead V8, in honor of the first thing I rebuilt entirely on my own when I was a kid. Ten years old. I’d already rebuilt a Slant-6 and a Chevy small-block with Mo, but the flathead was all me.”

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