Page 191 of Collide
He leans up, taking my breast into his mouth while I ride him. His hand grasps the nape of my neck, the other rubbing my most sensitive spot.
He lets me take him.
Use him. Formypleasure.
Losing myself completely.
And when I do, when the sensation crests again, crashing through me in waves so intense I forget my own name, he follows, groaning my name, our moans echoing through the cabin. His body tenses beneath me before a strangled grunt falls from his lips as he spills inside me.
I collapse against his chest, breathless and trembling.
For a moment, there’s nothing but the crackle of the fire, the mad hammering of our hearts, the rise and fall of our chests as we come down.
Then, he laughs. Low and satisfied, his chuckle rumbles beneath me.
“What?” I mumble against his skin, still dazed.
“Fuck,” he hisses, forehead pressed to mine. “We’re gonna have to get you the morning-after pill when we’re back in Stockholm.”
My breath catches, and so does my gaze.
He grins, dark and breathless. “Didn’t pack enough condoms for what I’ve got planned for you.”
My lips part, pulse hammering.
“No condoms needed,” I whisper, dragging my thumb along his lips. “I’m on the pill.”
His eyes snap like I’ve said the magic words and unlocked something in him.
“Jesus,” he mutters. “I’m going to have so much fun with you.”
“Yes, please,” I whisper
He chuckles breathlessly. “How was that? For you?”
I meet his gaze. Deep and quiet. He wants the truth, but more than that, he wantsconfirmation—that I’d remember this for the rest of my life.
“Incredible.” I smile, wistful. My legs are still shaky, the tenderness between my thighs a quiet reminder of how deeply we’d been connected.
He smiles, chest lifting with a kind of quiet pride. “I told you,” he murmurs, brushing his lips against my forehead. “I’m great in bed.”
I snort. Smug bastard. “Great?” My voice is hoarse from moaning his name into the firelit room. “Bit of an understatement, don’t you think?”
He chuckles, the sound low, pleased. “I aim to please.”
And please, he did.
Because he wasn’t just great in bed. He was great on the table. On the couch. On the floor. In the shower. Out on the grass under the setting sun. Over the next few days, we’re a mess of limbs and lost inhibitions.
At one point, I half-jokingly mutter something about needing water for survival, and Alex—completely serious—carries me, bare-ass naked, to the kitchen, hand-feeds me strawberries, and makes me drink straight from his palm at the sink. While he helps himself between my thighs.
Another time, I tried to escape to the bathroom for a break, only for him to drag me back into the shower, murmuring something about how I’m too slippery to resist.
By the eighth—or is it ninth?—time, I accept my fate.
This man has no off switch.
And, apparently, neither do I.
