Page 41 of The Beautiful Collision
The transformation that comes over his face nearly breaks me. All that exhaustion, all that bone-deep weariness from being everyone’s emotional support system—it melts into pure relief. His hands tighten on my waist, not to take control but to ground himself.
“Yes.” The word is guttural, torn from somewhere deep in his chest. “Fuckyes.”
Something savage and satisfied unfurls in my chest. I grab his wrist and pull him toward his bedroom, not bothering to navigate the party debris. A cup crunches under my heel. I don’t care. I’m a woman on a mission, and that mission is to lose myself in something real and raw and decidedly not family-approved.
When we’re in his room, I push him toward the bed, and he goes willingly, watching me with an intensity that makes me feel powerful and desired andseen.
“Shirt off,” I command.
He starts on it, but I’m impatient, so I step forward and grab the fabric, yanking hard enough that buttons scatter across the floor with tiny clicks. The ruined shirt hangs open, revealing that chest I’ve been pretending not to stare at for weeks. All those shirtless pull-ups. Every casual flex.
“Fuck,” he breathes, but he’s smiling now. Not his public smile, not the performer’s grin, but something private and wondering.
I push the ruined shirt off his shoulders, letting my hands map the terrain of his chest. He’s all hard muscle and warm skin, with a dusting of blonde hair that trails down to disappearbeneath his jeans. I follow that trail with my fingers, feeling his abs contract under my touch.
“Maya.” My name on his lips sounds like a prayer.
“Shh.” I push him down onto the bed, following the momentum until I’m straddling his thighs. “Let me take care of you.”
The words seem to hit him like a physical blow. His eyes flutter shut, and his head falls back against the mattress. When he opens them again, there’s something vulnerable there that makes my chest tight, a relief and a want all in one.
“No one ever—“ He stops, swallows hard. “Just… yeah. OK.”
I lean down and kiss him again, softer this time but no less intense. My hands work at his belt, and he lifts his hips to help me strip him down. Soon he’s naked beneath me, all that golden skin and corded muscle laid out like a feast. His cock stands proud against his stomach, thick and flushed.
I’ve had my share of men, but none of them looked at me the way Maine is right now. Like I’m something precious and powerful and terrifying all at once. Like I might save him or destroy him, and he’s OK with either option as long as I keep touching him.
I slide down his body, maintaining eye contact as I settle between his thighs. His cock twitches when my breath ghosts over it, and his hands fist in the sheets. And, suddenly, I want to both own and worship this beautiful, exhausted man who let me see him stripped of all pretense.
I start slow, just the tip of my tongue tracing the vein on the underside of his cock. He makes a sound somewhere between a grunt and a whimper, his hips lifting slightly off the bed. I pin him down with one arm, a silent command:Let me lead.
When I finally take him in my mouth, the broken sound he makes is my reward. I work him with lips and tongue and just a hint of teeth, finding the rhythm that makes his thighs tremble.His hands come up to tangle in my hair, but when I make a disapproving sound, he immediately lets go.
“Sorry, I?—“
I pull off just long enough to say, “Hands above your head.”
He obeys instantly, gripping the headboard until his knuckles turn white. The sight of him—spread out and submissive and trusting me completely—sends a bolt of heat straight to my core. I’m so wet I can feel it soaking through my panties, but this isn’t about me. Not yet.
I return to my task with single-minded focus, taking him deeper with each bob of my head. I’ve always been good at this, but tonight I’m inspired. Every trick, every technique I’ve learned—I deploy them all in service of reducing Maine Hamilton to a quivering mess.
I hollow my cheeks, I swirl my tongue, and I take him so deep my eyes water.
“I’m—“ His voice cracks. “If you don’t stop?—“
I pull back, letting him slip from my mouth with an obscene pop that makes him flinch. His cock glistens with my saliva, flushed dark and straining. He looks wrecked already, chest heaving, a light sheen of sweat making his skin glow in the dim light.
“Not yet,” I tell him, already reaching back to unzip my dress.
I make a show of it, standing beside the bed to let the fabric pool at my feet. I’m wearing good underwear tonight—a black lace Perla set that barely qualifies as clothing—and the way his eyes track my movements makes every penny worth it.
“You’re fucking perfect,” he says, voice rough with want.
I am not perfect. I’m messy and angry and disowned. But right now, in this moment, I feel powerful. So I strip off the rest of my clothes and climb back onto the bed. This time when I straddle him, there’s nothing between us. I can feel his cock pressed against my inner thigh, hot and hard and ready.
“Condom?” I ask, though all I want is to sink onto him.
“Drawer,” he manages, jerking his head toward the nightstand.
