Page 38 of Mile High Coach

“Does it matter where?” I ask, pulling away, eyes flicking to the bedroom, then back to her. Part of me wants to get her in my bed, open up the comfort and possibility, but I have always loved a good couch fuck.

The game is still playing on the screen, but it’s the last thing in the world I care about right now. It’s one of the rare moments in my life in which something takes precedence over the game.

It takes her a moment to recover from the kiss, and when her eyes refocus, she shakes her head and says, “No. I’ll just want to lay on my back after, tuck my knees to my chest.”

A hunger rises up in me at the sound of that—something new, foreign. I want to help her with this, make a baby happen for her. And I’m going to love the process.

I kiss her again, tangling one hand in her hair and using the other to push her down on the couch. Her legs fall open and I push one knee between them, applying pressure that makes her groan.

Not for the first time, I recognize the fact that Lovie is gorgeous. A knockout.

She could easily show up on the front of a magazine, all smooth skin and perfect proportions. Even now, she looks like something from a photo shoot. With her hair spread over the arm of the couch, and her eyes dark, unfocused, she looks like something I could swallow whole.

And so I do, sliding down her body until I reach the waistband of her jeans. I unzip them, hook my thumbs in the loops, drag them down her legs, watching as she lifts her hips readily for me. I slide them onto the floor, heart pounding in my throat at the thought of tasting her again.

But when I get her panties off and lean down to settle myself between her legs, she stops me with a gentle tug on my hair that makes my cock jump, already pressing hard against her leg.

“What?” I ask, but I’m not sure the word comes out fully formed. Instead, it just sounds like a grunt, a barely-there, lust-thick note.

“You don’t have to—” she clears her throat, looks up at the ceiling, and my eyes wander down to her chest, the way her breasts rise and fall with her breathing. “This is about sperm, remember?”

“Sure.” I maintain eye contact, lean down, and press a kiss to the inside of her thigh. “And this is about getting me in the mood, Waters.”

“You’re—” she stops, clearly distracted. I smile against her, savoring the way she reacts to me. The control I have in this moment. When she can, she manages, “You’re not already in the mood?”

“What can I say?” I slide my tongue through her, and when she starts to squirm, I reach up and grab her ass, her hips, keeping her in place. “I’m playing hard to get, Waters.”

I touch her and taste her until she comes apart for me, and I lap up every last drop of her, my cock straining heavily against my pants. The moment she has her breath back, she’s reaching for them, popping the zipper, which basically undoes itself at the slightest suggestion.

Then I’m kicking them off, and she’s stripping her shirt over her head, trying to reach back for her bra. I want to tease her—to tell her that this is just sperm, so why does she need her shirt off?

But the sight of her naked breasts knocks the words from my brain, and I lean forward, taking one of her nipples in my mouth, biting gently, bringing up my other hand to pinch her other nipple until she starts to buck her hips against me.

“Are you in the mood yet?” she gasps, which makes me laugh against her skin. When I pull back, she’s smiling, too, but the kind that’s tinged with pain—anticipation. Want.

For a second, our eyes catch and hold, then I’m breaking away from the moment, running my palms up the inside of her thighs, pushing her legs open and slotting between them.

She lets out a noise when I notch myself in her entrance and lets her head fall back, one of her hands gripping the top of the couch.

When I slide inside her and find her tight, wet, her legs wrapping around my waist, I close my eyes and send up a prayer that we end up making a baby—but that it takes a lot more than a single try.

Chapter 17

Lovie

Here’s the thing about Harrison Clark—he doesn’t hesitate.

He doesn’t hesitate when he spreads my legs and thrusts inside me. He doesn’t hesitate when he reaches up, pressing a hand against my stomach so I feel every inch of him. And when he doesn’t like the angle we’re at, he doesn’t hesitate to reach up, grab my ass, and haul me closer to him, bracing one of his thighs on the couch and tilting his hips so I’m covering my mouth with one hand, trying not to scream too loudly.

“Let it out,” he says, reaching up and grabbing my wrist, tugging it down, placing it over my breast instead. “I want to hear whatever you’re feeling, Lovie.”

I should tell him no—that we should be quiet. That we could bother the neighbors.

But there’s something about not having to think, just getting to react. To make noise, to take up space—and so I do.

When I whimper his name, he lets out a low noise of approval, and I try it again, realizing my hands are still on my breasts, and Harrison put them there.

So I touch myself, feeling stupid at first, but letting the pleasure override the self-consciousness. When I open my eyesagain, getting ready to tell him that I’m close, I find Harrison watching me with an open expression, his pupils blown and black, his attention focused on where my fingers pinch my own nipples.

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