Page 130 of Reckless Hearts
I push back against him and take him in all the way in one swift motion, both of us groaning at the sensation.
The burning sting is right at the border of pleasure and pain, but I’m desperate for more, for deeper, for harder.
Marcus seems to understand because he knows my body as well as I do, reading every twitch and shudder.
He starts to move inside me, and my fingers dig into his forearms, my grip tightening with each thrust.
Am I trying to punish him?
Maybe I’m trying to punish myself.
Because Marcus is leaving me again.
He will always leave me.
The kitchen is filled with the sound of skin slapping skin and our labored breathing. The counter digs into my hips, a counterpoint to the soaring pleasure.
Marcus is inside me, pressed against me, his breath on my neck, but it’s not enough. It’ll never be enough.
“Harder,” I say because that’s what I need. I need him to leave his mark on me, inside and out.
Marcus obeys, his hips snapping forward with bruising force, driving the breath from my lungs.
I’m out of my brain, sobbing with pleasure as Marcus continues to nail my prostate on every thrust. My legs shake, threatening to give out beneath me.
Marcus’s hand snakes around to grasp my cock, stroking in time with his thrusts. The dual stimulation is almost too much, pleasure building to an almost painful intensity.
I’m caught between pushing back onto him and thrusting into his hand, my body no longer under my control.
“Look at me,” Marcus demands, his voice rough.
I turn my head, meeting his gaze in the reflection of the kitchen window. The sight of us together, flushed and sweaty, pushes me closer to the edge. Marcus’s eyes are dark with desire, never leaving mine as he continues to pound into me.
Then his rhythm falters, his thrusts becoming erratic. His eyes squeeze shut, his mouth falling open in a silent cry.
A low, guttural moan escapes Marcus’s throat as he comes. His grip on my hips tightens, pulling me flush against him. I feel every twitch, every throb of his orgasm.
Shit. Seeing Marcus’s face, feeling his warmth inside me, speeds my own orgasm. It catches me unaware, surging through me like a seismic event, shaking me to my core.
In the aftermath, we slump against the counter, our breathing ragged. Marcus peppers kisses along my shoulder blade, his stubble scratching deliciously against my oversensitive skin.
“Holy fuck Seb,” he says, his voice a whisper against my skin.
“I love you,” I say, breaking the cardinal rule of not ever making a romantic declaration in association with orgasms, but I don’t care.
I’m bursting with my love for this man, and he deserves to know it.
What’s more,Ideserve for him to know it. I deserve to let the man I love know he has my whole heart.
Marcus slowly pulls out. The loss makes me feel empty and cold.
He staggers to the kitchen chair, his hand over his face, his fingers pressed against his eyes.
“You don’t have to say it back,” I say. “I just want you to know.”
“Seb…”
Marcus looks up, and his face is in agony.
