Page 8 of One More Shot
Dane is blissfully unaware. His fingers are still pumping in and out of me and although I can recognise a tiny pinprick of pleasure stirring inside me, it’s not enough to latch onto.
‘—get a condom?’
I belatedly realise that Dane has stopped fucking me with his fingers and is back on his haunches again. He’s looking at me curiously, his thick brows knitting together in the middle slightly.
‘What was that?’
‘I said I’ll go grab a condom.’ He suddenly looks uncertain, and I realise the look on his face isn’t curiosity – it’s concern. ‘But I don’t have to. Not if you’re not feeling it.’
I feel myself flush beneath him, and I’m grateful that thedarkness hides how warm my face must be right now. ‘I’m fine,’ I say as I push up onto my elbows and give him a slow, sweet kiss.
So the foreplay didn’t get me there. That’sfine. The night isn’t over yet. We’ve still got time.
When I pull away, he’s got a dopey grin on his face.
I quirk a brow as I lean back down onto my bed. ‘Condom?’
He hesitates for half a second, then nods and quickly fumbles for the jeans he discarded earlier. I’m sure he finds the condom and gets it on in record time, and the fact that he’s as eager as I am to continue with this sends a burst of confidence shooting through me.
Maybe this time.
He comes to hover over me, his lean and muscular arms bracketing the side of my head as he uses his knee to nudge my legs apart and settle there. ‘You sure?’
I feel a spark of pleasure alight in the pit of my stomach as the weight of his dick rests gently against me. ‘I’m sure.’
He grins, his dimple making a quick reappearance, before he kisses me again. I get so lost in the kiss – the feel of his tongue against mine, the soft little groans that spill from his lips when I nibble on his bottom lip, how I can feel his heartbeat racing as he presses his chest into mine, like he can’t get close enough – that the feel of him slowly sliding into me makes me gasp.
He groans as he sinks into me, and it doesn’t take long for us to develop a pace that suits us both. Again, it feels good. But it doesn’t go beyond that. It’s not great. It’s not mind-blowing or life-altering. It’s justgood. And good isn’t enough for me, apparently.
I try to focus on the small knot of pleasure I can feel building within me, but it’s pointless. I can’t hold onto it for long enough for it to build into something worthwhile.
The realisation that I can’t get there with someone like Dane – who may just be the most attractive man I’ve ever brought back home with me – is a depressing one.
It’s also a realisation I want to deal with alone.
I need this to be over and I need Dane out of here so I can wallow in my own self-pity until Sasha comes sauntering home tomorrow afternoon and she can commiserate with me.
I squeeze my legs tightly around his waist, close my eyes, and huff out a few loud and well-practised moans. The noises come to me with ease. Too easily.
Sasha thinks that it’s terrible that I fake it – ‘they should know that they suck’ – but I’ve come to learn that it’s infinitely better than the alternative. For a lot of men, there’s nothing more ego-bruising than being unable to make the girl you’re sleeping with come. And I’ve learned first-hand that when a guy’s ego gets bruised, they can get mean.
Cruel, even.
I don’t need that again. Not tonight.
So I dig my fingers into Dane’s skin, arch my back off the bed, and moan like this is the best thing I’ve ever experienced. Like Dane is shattering my whole world with his well-timed strokes, and I’ll never be able to get enough.
Like he’s absolutelyruinedsex for me.
I’ve done this move plenty of times before and it usually does the job pretty quickly, but when I peek open an eye, Dane has stopped moving and that curious-slash-concerned look is back on his face again.
‘What?’ I ask, frowning. ‘Is everything all right?’
He blinks at me for a few seconds and then slowly –excruciatinglyslowly – pulls out. ‘Are you—’ He pushes himself up, leans back and frowns. ‘Are you faking it?’
Now it’s my turn to blink. I don’t think anyone’s ever been able to tell that I’ve faked before. It’s a terrible thing to brag about, but I’ve got my moaning down to an art. ‘No,’ I lie. ‘No, of course not.’
‘You were!’ His expression flits from offended to amused and back again. ‘Was it not good? You weren’t enjoying it?’
