Page 74 of The Longest Shot
My underwear is soaked through, the black lace probably ruined, and the evidence of my complete capitulation brings heat to my face. As he touches me, he groans when he finds outhowwet I am, and then his mouth reaches my neck and makes a claim hard enough to make me gasp.
Visible proof I let someone close enough to leave bruises.
My head falls back against the wall, and when his teeth graze where my pulse jackrabbits against skin, the sound that escapes me doesn't match any version of myself I've carefullyconstructed. It's unrestrained, unguarded, and—for the first time in years—uncontrolled.
I want him, and nothing is going to stop me.
"Jesus, you're perfect," he breathes against my throat, and the reverence in his voice is worse than hunger. Hunger is just biology, transaction, bodies doing what bodies do. But reverence suggests this means something, and that isfuckingdangerous…
He eases me off his lap, and the loss of contact feels like losing altitude too fast. Before I can recalibrate, he's on his knees on the carpet. The visual assault of it—this six-foot-three wall of athletic power kneeling like I'm something worth worshipping—is overwhelming and incredible at the same time.
His palms slide up my inner thighs, calloused from years of hockey, and the mix of tenderness and roughness makes me bite down hard on my lip. When his gaze drops to the soaked lace between my legs, the sound he makes is pure male appreciation.
He looks up, and those dark eyes ask a question my body has already answered.
Instead, I nod again, because I'm fully committed to self-destruction.
He hooks his fingers in the lace and drags it down slowly, knuckles grazing my slickness in a way that makes me gasp. The cool air hits my exposed pussy, and I'm hyper-aware of how wet I am, how swollen, how my body has already betrayed every defense I've built.
Then his mouth is on me, and any higher-order thinking becomes impossible.
All I can think is:ooooohhhh…
There's no learning curve, no tentative exploration. His tongue finds my clit with the precision of someone who's been thinking about this for three years. The first contact is so intense that a strangled cry rips from my throat before I can swallow it.
"Shit," I say, breathlessly, as my hands fly to his perpetually messy hair, not to push away but to anchor, and to hold him exactly where he is.
He works with the same focus he brings to defending his net. His tongue circles my clit in devastating patterns while two thick fingers push inside me. The dual assault is overwhelming: the wet heat of his tongue, the stretch of his fingers, and the scrape of stubble against my inner thighs.
A sound echoes from somewhere in the stacks—a book falling, a door closing, someone existing in our vicinity. We both freeze, and he looks up at me with my arousal coating his lips, eyes wide with shared recognition of how spectacularly exposed we are.
Logic says abort.
Logic says this is the universe offering an exit.
Instead, that reckless grin spreads across his face—the one from three years ago when breaking rules felt like foreplay—and he dives back in with renewed intensity, and his free hand comes up to cover my mouth just as another moan tries to escape.
The danger makes everything sharper and makes me even more desperate for him. The possibility of discovery should send me running, but instead, it sends electricity through me, so when I take one of his fingers into my mouth and start to suck, he groans against my pussy.
He's relentless, reading my body's responses like game tape he's memorized. When my thighs start trembling, when my breathing goes ragged against his palm, he doubles down. Three fingers now, fucking me with a rhythm that matches the assault of his tongue on my clit.
And just as I'm about to detonate, he pulls away.
The loss is so sudden, so cruel, that I nearly scream my frustration into his palm. But then he's standing, hands gripping my waist, lifting me like I weigh nothing. The desk is ice-coldagainst my bare ass, shocking enough to make me gasp, but the contrast only adds to the sensory overload.
He positions himself between my spread legs, and I can see his cock straining against his jeans, the outline thick and insistent. His hands shake harder now as he fumbles with his belt, then shoves his jeans down just enough to free himself. And when I seehim, well…
Well.
Maybe he's bigger than memory served, or maybe three years of nothing but battery-operated disappointment has skewed my perspective. His cock is thick, flushed dark with need, pre-come already glistening, and the sight makes something clench deep in my core.
He grips himself, guides the head to my entrance, and pauses.
"Do we need protection?" he says.
"I'm on the pill." I shrug. "And… well… I haven't been with anyone since you…"
His eyes widen in shock. "Yet you're on the pill?"
