Page 17 of Viper's Single Mom
"Inside," Bea's voice cut through. "Both of you. Now."
Back in the diner, she handed me my purse. "Take the rest of the day. Tomorrow too. Paid leave."
The ride home on Viper's bike was torture. Every vibration, every turn that pressed me fighter against him, his body solid and hot between my thighs. His brothers followed but peeled off one by one with knowing looks.
Inside my house, the door barely closed before he pressed me against it.
"Izzy doesn't get home for four hours," he said against my throat, teeth grazing the spot that made me shiver.
"Then why are we still dressed?"
He pulled back to look at me, something raw in his expression. "You sure? After what you just saw?—"
"After watching you fight for me? Bleed for me?" I pulled his head down, speaking against his mouth. "I've never wanted anything more."
He lifted me easily, my legs wrapping around his waist as he carried me down the hall. In the bedroom, he set me on my feet, hands already working at my uniform buttons.
"Been thinking about this all morning," he admitted, pushing the polyester off my shoulders. "How you'd look spread out on these sheets. How you'd sound when I made you come again."
"Just once?"
His laugh was dark, promising. "Oh, sweetheart. Once was never going to be enough."
My bra disappeared, his mouth immediately finding my breast. I arched into him, hands fumbling with his belt, needing skin against skin. He helped, stripping efficiently until we were both bare.
"Look at you." His hands mapped my curves, worshipping every soft place Harrison had criticized. "Perfect. Every fucking inch."
He walked me backward until my knees hit the bed, lowering me down and following. His weight pressed me into the mattress, solid and safe and overwhelming in the best way. His mouth traveled down my throat, across my collarbone, taking his time like we had forever instead of stolen afternoon hours.
When he reached my belly, he pressed kisses to each stretch mark, murmuring praise that undid years of criticism. His hands gripped my thighs, spreading them wide, and the look on his face—pure hunger, absolute need—made me feel like a goddess.
"Could live between these thighs," he said, then proved it with his mouth.
The first touch of his tongue made me buck off the bed. He held me steady, finding exactly the right pressure, the perfect rhythm. My hands tangled in his hair as he worked me methodically toward the edge, then eased back, keeping me suspended.
"Please—"
"Not yet." He slid two fingers inside, curling just right. "Want you desperate for it. Want you to remember this every time you doubt how fucking perfect you are."
He built me up again, slower this time, until I was shaking, begging, promising anything if he'd just let me?—
The orgasm hit like a lightning strike, back bowing off the bed, his name breaking from my throat. He worked me through it, then started building again before I'd fully recovered.
The second one rolled through me slower but deeper, leaving me boneless and panting. He kissed his way back up my body, settling between my thighs.
"Ready?"
"If you don't get inside me right now, I might actually die."
He pushed in slow, steady, until he was fully seated. We both groaned at the sensation—him thick and hard inside me, stretching me perfectly.
"Fuck." His forehead pressed to mine. "You feel incredible."
He started to move, long steady strokes that had me wrapping my legs around him, trying to take him deeper. His control never wavered, keeping that same maddening pace even when I raked my nails down his back.
"Harder," I demanded.
"No." He caught my wrists, pinning them above my head with one hand. "Going to take my time. Make you feel every inch."
