Page 85 of For the Plot
“I’m not going anywhere,” he growls, pulling back just enough to speak. “I want to feel you come on my fingers, baby. Drip down my wrist. Make a fucking mess.”
My orgasm crashes through me like a tidal wave, tearing the breath from my lungs. I cry out, thrashing against his hold as pleasure rips me apart.
He keeps going. Keeps licking, sucking, fucking me with his fingers until I come again, this time so fast and sharp I nearly sob.
“Too much,” I pant, shaking.
He pulls back slowly, his face wet, lips glistening, pupils wide. He crawls up my body, settling between my thighs as he drags his shirt off. The muscles in his chest flex with every movement, his abs tight and carved. He undoes his jeans and pushes them down just enough to free his cock.
But he doesn’t rush. He just stares at me. “You okay?” he asks softly, brushing hair from my face.
I nod, breathless.
“Words, Skye.”
“I’m okay,” I whisper. “I want you.”
His jaw ticks and he gives me the same answer he always does. “I know.”
He strokes himself once, twice, then he lines up and pushes in slowly. The stretch burns. He’s big. Thicker than I remember. But I’m so wet, so open, that he slides deep with one long, torturous thrust.
We both groan. He holds still, breathing hard. Then he starts to move. Slow. Deep. Every roll of his hips hits something that makes me moan. It’s not fast. Not frantic. It’s steady. Purposeful. Like he’s savoring it. Like he’s savoringme.
I clutch his back, nails digging into his shoulders as he drives into me over and over, dragging pleasure through my entire body. His hands grip my thighs, spreading me wider, angling deeper.
“God, you feel good,” he grits. “So fucking good. Like you were made for me.”
My heart skips. I shouldn’t feel it. But I do. Every inch of him. Every word. Every look. It’s too much. And not enough. He leans down, running his mouth along my throat, then he kisses the side of my neck so softly.
“You’re shaking,” he whispers.
“You’re ruining me.”
His hand cups my jaw, tilting my face toward his. And when our eyes meet, something shifts. The air goes heavy. The rhythm slows even more. It’s not just about fucking my boss or getting over the last guy with someone new. It’s aboutthis.
The way he watches me like I’m precious. The way he fucks me like he needs it to breathe. The way he touches me like he’s afraid I’ll vanish beneath him. My hands slide into his hair. I arch against him, desperate to take him deeper.
His voice breaks. “Skye—don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m not a mistake.”
“You’re not.”
His thrusts stutter. And then he curses, buries his face in my neck, and fucks me harder—still slow, still controlled, but deeper now. More intense. Like he’s trying to make me feel everything he can’t say.
I’m close again. So close I can’t speak. My hands tremble where they grip his arms. My breath comes in gasps.
“I want you to come for me,” he says, voice wrecked. “Right here. With me inside you.”
“I— Reece?—”
“Come, baby. Let me feel you.”
I shatter. My body arches, legs locking around his waist as my orgasm hits. He groans, sliding himself into me twice more before he follows—grinding deep, pulsing hard, filling me with every broken breath.
We stay like that for a long time. Bodies tangled. Breaths synced. His head resting on my chest. His arm slides under my waist, holding me close. I run my fingers through his hair, afraid to speak. Afraid I’ll break whatever spell this is.
