Page 38 of You've Got The Love
His words and the steady grind of his hips are too much. Pleasure coils hot and tight, and I can barely breathe, barely talk. “Bas—I—I’m?—”
“Yeah, give it to me,” he murmurs, voice like gravel and sin. “Come on my cock. Milk me,liefje.”
The filthy command sends me over the edge, my body clenching around him, shuddering as the orgasm rips through me. He groans low, drives in deep, and I feel him pulse inside me as he comes with a guttural sound, my name tangled in his voice.
We stay like that, tangled and trembling, until he pulls me onto my side and spoons me against his chest. His hand cups my breast lazily, thumb brushing over my nipple, and I can feel his breath against my neck as the rain continues to fall.
For a little while, it feels like the world can’t touch us.
The rain still hasn’t stopped. It’s soft and steady against the Copenhagen window, a lullaby I can almost fall into, as I try to pretend this is my real life.
Bas is a furnace at my back, his breath warm against the curve of my neck. One heavy hand rests low on my stomach, his thumb lazily tracing circles that make my skin tingle. I can still feel the echo of him inside me, even though we’ve melted into a tangle of limbs. My body hums with a slow, delicious ache.
I think he’s drifting off, but when I shift slightly, his hand flexes on me and his voice rumbles low in my ear.
“Careful,liefje,” he murmurs. “You keep wiggling that sweet arse against me, and I’m gonna take you again.”
A shiver runs down my spine. I roll to face him, and his eyes are heavy-lidded, pupils dark, that lazy hunger simmering beneath the blue. He looks like he could devour me all over again.Yes please.
I surprise myself by swinging a leg over his waist, straddling him. He lets out a low, rough groan that makes heat curl low in my stomach.
“Jesus, Amber,” he mutters, his big hands sliding over my thighs to my hips. “You’re gonna kill me. You on me like this… fuck, I could die happy.”
I lean down and kiss him, slow and teasing, letting my tongue brush his. His hands grip my arse, guiding me as I grind against him. He’s already getting hard again, thick and heavy against my slick folds.
“You’re so wet still,” he groans, his voice rough and reverent. “All over me. God, look at you.”
I lift slightly, lining him up, and sink down onto his cock in one slow, aching slide. We both moan.
“Fuck,liefje,” he grits out, head falling back against the pillow. “So tight. So perfect. Ride me nice and slow. Let me watch you take every inch.”
I start to move, slow and deliberate, rolling my hips the way I know will make him groan. His hands roam everywhere—up my thighs, my waist, my tits. He thumbs my nipple, then leans up to take it in his mouth, sucking hard enough to make me gasp.
“That’s it,” he mutters against my skin. “Ride me, sweetheart. Take what you need. Look at you—fuck—you were made to ride this cock.”
The filthy praise makes my whole body flush with heat. My movements get a little faster, a little needier, and he meets me with slow thrusts that hit deep. Every brush of him against that sensitive spot has me clenching around him.
I brace my hands on his chest, feeling his heart pounding under my palms, and he looks up at me with a mix of awe and hunger.
“Goddamn, Amber. Look at you riding me, all wet and open, those pretty tits bouncing for me—fuck, I’ll never get enough.”
The words unravel me. I chase my release with small, desperate circles of my hips, and his thumb finds my clit, rubbing slow and steady.
“Come on,liefje,” he coaxes, voice low and raw. “Cream on my cock. Let me feel you squeeze me.”
The orgasm hits hard and hot, my body clenching down around him, and he groans, thrusting up deep as he spills inside me, holding me tight against his chest.
We collapse together, sweaty and breathless, his hands still wandering like he can’t stop touching me. He presses a kiss to my temple and whispers, so quietly I almost don’t hear him, “Mine. Fucking mine.”
And for a few stolen hours in the rain, I let myself believe him.
Chapter 21
Bastiaan
The streets of Copenhagen are slick from the morning rain, glistening under a weak, silvery sun that can’t quite burn through the clouds. Puddles ripple under the occasional passing bike, and the air carries that damp mix of wet stone, sea salt, and street food. I pull the hood of my jacket up and keep my head low as I weave through the open-air market. Even here, surrounded by the smell of fresh bread and smoked fish, my instincts are sharp, every muscle coiled and ready.
The market is alive in a quiet, understated way. Vendors call softly to passing tourists, arranging pyramids of apples and strings of dried peppers with gloved hands. Someone is roasting almonds nearby, the warm, sugary scent mingling with the briny tang of the harbour. A gull cries overhead, sharp and sudden, and I flinch before I can stop myself. Every sound feels like a threat now. Every movement in my peripheral vision could bedanger closing in.
