Page 100 of Property of Tacoma
“That’s my good girl,” I praise, feeling her walls tighten. “So fucking perfect. Taking my cock so beautifully.”
“I’m close,” she pants, her movements becoming frantic. “So close.”
“Come for me, Angel,” I order, slamming into her harder. “Come all over my cock. Let me feel it.”
Her orgasm hits her like a freight train, and she screams my name, her pussy clamping down on me like a vise.
The sensation is too much, and I follow her over the edge with a roar, emptying myself deep inside her.
“Fuck, yes,” I groan, my hips jerking as I pump her full of my seed. “Take it all, baby. Every drop.”
We stay frozen like that for a long moment, both of us panting, as the water continues to pour over us.
Once I’ve caught my breath, I carefully lower her back to her feet, keeping one arm around her waist to steady her.
“I love you,” I tell her, pressing my mouth to hers. “So fucking much.”
She smiles against my lips, her eyes soft and sated. “I love you too.”
I kiss her again, deep and wet, pouring everything I feel into it.
When we finally break apart, I rest my forehead against hers.
“Welcome home, Angel.”
Her smile widens. “It’s good to be home.”
EPILOGUE
Two Months Later
“Honey, don’t blow a gasket, but I think Saylor has a boyfriend.”
Tacoma’s head whips around so fast I’m surprised he doesn’t give himself whiplash.
His eyes narrow to slits as they lock onto Saylor standing in line for the Pirate Ship.
More specifically, on the little boy holding her hand.
“The hell she does,” he growls, already jumping off the bench.
I watch, shaking my head and giggling, as my man stalks through the crowd like a man on a mission. His shoulders are squared, his jaw set in that stubborn line I love so much.
The fall festival is in full swing around us—kids screaming on rides, the smell of funnel cake and popcorn thick in the air, carnival music blasting from speakers.
It’s everything you’d expect from a small town fall festival.
I lean back against the bench, pulling my jacket a little tighter around me. October in Florida isn’t exactly cold, but there’s a slight chill in the air that feels good after the heat of the day.
With my eyes still trained on my man, I shake my head when he reaches Saylor and inserts himself directly between her and the poor kid who dared to hold her hand.
“Good lord.” I laugh.
The little boy is adorable with his shaggy blonde hair. He’s maybe nine or ten years old, but when he gets a look at Tacoma’s face, he takes a healthy step back, his eyes going wide.
Poor kid.
“Is this seat taken?”
