Page 64 of The Worst Best Man
“You get me for tonight. Don’t fuck it up.”
It was enough for him. For now. He spread her thighs and gripped her hips and had the satisfaction of hearing her voice break on his name when he pushed into her. She was so fucking tight, even after the warm up he’d given her. He buried himself to the hilt, pinning her to the bed with his hips.
Something snapped. Something he didn’t understand triggered, as if he were one man a second ago and now a brand-new one.
Her eyes, so bright and glassy, stared into him, into his soul. And she could see into his. Into the emptiness there that he was never free of.
But he wasn’t so empty now. They were connected. They were one. He could feel the aftershocks of her orgasm tremoring around his cock. He could read her thoughts if he tried hard enough.
He wouldn’t last long. Not with her eyes glazing over like that and those round tits tempting him. “Franchesca,” he whispered her name as he finally began to move in her.
She brought her hands up and stroked over his shoulders, down his arms. A gentle, soothing touch. It felt like something had broken inside of him and now there was light getting in through the cracks.
She had bewitched him. Or he had contracted some kind of tropical fever.
She cried out, and he saw tears in her eyes. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, nails carving into his skin. He’d treasure the marks, hoped they’d stay.
He was done thinking. Done doing anything but feeling because she was getting tighter around him and he was swelling impossibly thicker in anticipation of a release that could wreck him.
Franchesca’s breath was coming in short bursts, and he felt sweat dot his skin. It was heaven, moving in her, being surrounded in her heat. He leaned down and closed his mouth over one pert nipple.
She arched against him, and all sweetness, all tenderness, was gone. They were animals in heat, clawing at each other, blindly scrabbling for a pleasure too intense for words. He released her breast and grabbed her hair, burying his face in her neck. She hiked her thighs up around his waist drawing him in deeper, and when he bottomed out in her, when she screamed his name brokenly, he felt it.
The detonation.
His own orgasm was on a hair-trigger, and when she closed around him, he exploded inside her. Pump after pump, he couldn’t stop coming, and neither could she. Every thrust, every hot rush of come, she met him, squeezed him, pleaded for just one more.
He emptied himself into her welcoming center, but he felt anything but empty now. There wasn’t cold, calculation at his center. No. There was something warm and bright and dangerously real.
He felt wetness against his shoulder, heard Franchesca sniffle.
His gut tightened. “Franchesca? Frankie? Are you okay?”He was still inside her, and she was fucking crying. It gutted him.
“Oh, my God. I’m so embarrassed.”
He wiped a fat tear from her cheek with his thumb. “What is it? Did I hurt you?”What had he done?
“No. I think it’s just because the wedding, and I was stressed, and those were the two most powerful orgasms of my entire life. And now I’m blabbering and embarrassed and holy fuck, Aiden. What was that?”
He dropped his forehead to hers, relief coursing through him.
“Are you sure you’re okay? I didn’t cross a line or something?”
“You didn’t shove your dick up my ass without asking first, so I think we’re fine. Can we just pretend this part never happened?”
“What part?”
She laughed and another tear escaped. “Oh my God. Maybe you don’t suck so bad after all, Kilbourn.”
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
“I could eat an entire buffet in under ten minutes.”
He wanted to kiss her on that tear-stained cheek. Kiss her and stay buried inside her where he felt somethinggood. But he didn’t do that sort of thing. And she wouldn’t trust it if he did.
“Let’s see how many dishes we can order from room service,” he said, reluctantly sliding out of her and reaching for the phone.
Chapter Twenty-Five
