Page 110 of Eight Count Heat
His rhythm falters at the small act of playfulness, his eyes darkening with renewed desire. "Careful, darlin'. My restraint only goes so far."
"Maybe I don't want your restraint." I rock my hips up to meet his, taking him deeper. "Maybe I want all of you."
A low growl escapes him, something possessive and primal that sends shivers down my spine. His next thrust is harder, deeper, setting a new pace that makes my toes curl.
"Like that?" His Southern drawl thickens with arousal, turning the simple question into something deliciously dirty.
"Yes," I gasp, fingers digging into his hair. "Just like that."
Bo takes me at my word, his controlled pace giving way to something more urgent. He shifts my leg higher around his back with one hand, angling me to hit exactly the right spot, as he braces against the headboard with the other. Each thrust pushes me closer to the edge, pleasure building in spiraling waves.
"Come for me, Reese," he urges, his voice rough with exertion. "Mark me with your scent before I mark you with mine."
His command, dominant without the aggression that usually comes with it from Alphas, pushes me over the edge. My orgasm crashes through me, intense and overwhelming. I cry out his name, curling up against him as my body clenches around his swollen cock.
"Good girl," he breathes. "Now relax and let me take care of the rest."
Before I can ask what he means, he's flipping us over, moving us with a speed and strength that's surprising and exciting all at once. Then his hands are gripping my hips, holding me in place as he fucks up into me, his powerful strokes sending aftershocks rippling through my core.
"Fuck," he groans, his head falling back against the pillow. "You feel so damn good. So wet and tight around me."
The praise is heady, spurring me to take charge. I lean forward, bracing my palms against his chest, and meet his gaze with a challenging one of my own.
"Is that all you've got?"
His answering smile is wicked. "Oh, darlin'. I haven't even started."
One large hand slides up my torso to cup my breast, his thumb rolling across the nipple. Then his hips surge upward, hard anddeep, and the breath goes out of me. He repeats the movement, pinching my nipple as he thrusts again.
Pleasure spikes through me, sharp and intense, and my body responds automatically. I start to move, rocking my hips to meet his.
"Fuck yes." Bo's voice is low, his eyes blazing with a heat that could rival the sun. "Ride me, sweetheart. Ride me like you did last night."
The request is impossible to deny. I ride him, matching the rhythm he set, grinding against him until my muscles burn with exertion. He keeps his grip on my breast, his other hand digging into my hip as he thrusts upward. Bo might be the epitome of the Southern Gentleman, but there's nothing gentle about the way he fucks.
"I'm close," he groans, his head tilting back. "Touch yourself for me. I want to feel you come while I'm buried inside you."
His words push me toward the edge. I slip a hand between us, finding the spot that aches for his touch, and begin to stroke.
"That's it, sweetheart." His hips surge up again. "Come for me again. Give me one more."
He's so big, so thick and hard inside me, and the friction of his movements coupled with my own touch is too much to resist. I come with a low moan, clenching around him, and his name on my lips.
"Reese," he groans, the sound low and feral.
"Please," I breathe. "Bo, please. Come for me."
It's the final straw. He growls low in his throat, his grip on my hip tightening as he drives into me, again and again. Then hisbody tenses beneath mine and he pulls me down to meet his last, deep thrust, his cock pulsing as he spills into me.
I collapse against his chest, breathing hard. He holds me close, his arms tight around my waist, as we both recover from the intensity. After a few minutes, his hand finds the back of my head, stroking through my sweat-dampened hair.
"That," he says, pressing a kiss to my forehead, "is how you say good morning."
I laugh, the sound unfamiliar after so many days of tension and secrets. "Noted for future reference."
The casual implication of future mornings together hangs between us, neither acknowledged nor dismissed. Just allowed to exist as a possibility.
"What time is check-out?" he asks, hand tracing lazy patterns on my back.
