Page 112 of Beloved Beauty

One rip. Gone.

“Hey! Those were cute.”

“They were in the way.”

She laughs, breathless. “You’re going to owe me new ones.”

I don’t answer because I’m already dropping to my knees, pressing a kiss to the inside of her knee first. Then one higher. Then another. Her legs fall open for me without hesitation, and I grip her thighs.

I work her slowly at first, savoring every gasp and shudder. Then deeper, more focused—tongue and mouth and hands, relentless in the way I know drives her wild.

“You taste like dessert,” I say against her.

Her hips shift, chasing the friction. “I’ve been eating pineapple, babe. Just for you.”

And then she stops talking and threads her fingers into my hair, holding on. Tight. Like she might float away if she lets go.

She gasps my name once—only once—before it’s all breathless moans and shaking thighs. Her body tightens, pulls taut like a bowstring, and then snaps.

She comes hard—legs trembling, back arched, head tipped back in a silent cry I feel more than hear.

I don’t move. Just hold her through it, kissing the inside of her thigh.

And in that moment—lit by nothing but the light coming through the kitchen window, with her sprawled on our counter looking like ruin and ecstasy—I swear to God, she might be the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.

I stand, breath still ragged, and reach for my belt. My hands are shaking—but not from nerves. From restraint.

Her eyes meet mine, wide and glassy, lips parted. Her dress is still bunched around her hips, her thighs glistening, her chest rising and falling.

I undo my pants in one clean motion and press forward—sliding into her with a thrust that’s pure instinct.

She gasps, her body arching into mine. “What are you doing? I’m ovulating.”

I freeze, forehead pressing against hers, my heart hammering. “You want me to stop?”

She blinks, breath catching, fingers digging into my shoulders. “God, no. But don’t come inside me.”

I nod once, jaw tight, and start to move. Slow. Controlled. Every stroke a war between caution and need. Her heels press into my back, her hands fisting in my shirt, mouth brushing mine with every breath.

“Fuck,” I grit out, hips stuttering. “You feel so good.”

“So do you,” she gasps. “It feels so good, Alex. Don’t stop.”

I don’t. Can’t. Every part of me is wrapped around her—inside her—and the edge is coming fast.

Too fast.

I grip the counter behind her, trying to hang on. Trying not to lose it inside the one woman who could undo me with a single word.

“I’m close,” I manage to say. My voice is hoarse. Strained. Desperate.

She nods, wrapping her arms around my neck. “Pull out. Promise me.”

At the last possible second, I do––barely––just in time to come on her stomach and dress, gasping like I’ve been punched in the chest.

We stay there, tangled and breathless, her fingers still threaded in my hair.

“Babe,” I groan, shaking it off. “I’m not sure my pull-out game is very good.”

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