Page 90 of Bleacher Report
I smirk against his lips, feeling a rush of power that’s heady and electric.
"Then take me already," I whisper, my voice raw with need.
The steam rises thick around us, turning the world soft and hazy as Hunter lifts me again, pinning me against the tile, his mouth trailing down my throat, my collarbone, lower still.
The vibrations of the dryer are a ghost of a memory now—nothing compared to the pulse building low in my belly, the throbbing need only he can ease.
His hands roam every inch of my body with slow passes—mapping me, worshiping me, like I’m the only thing that’s ever mattered.
“Hunter...” I breathe, nails scraping lightly down his back, my entire body quivering for him.
He groans, hips rocking between my thighs as he holds me up, his hardness sliding between us, pressing low against my belly.
“God, Peyton...you feel so fucking good.”
The water rushes over us, the heat from the spray mixing with the furnace of our bodies. Our kisses turn desperate again, needy, like we’re both chasing the same inevitable crash.
Hunter curses softly under his breath, tearing his mouth from mine. "Don’t move," he growls, voice wrecked. "Condom."
I shiver from the loss of his heat, wrapping my arms around myself even with the hot water pounding down around me. He jumps out of the shower, searching the bathroom for a condom, the sound of a zipper, and then the sound of a foil being ripped open.
The sight of him—water dripping off his hair, muscles flexing as he rolls the condom down his thick length, the sheer focus in his eyes—nearly undoes me.
Before I can even think, he’s crowding back into my space.
He lifts me again, pressing me up against the cold tile, and this time there’s no hesitation.
Our mouths crash together, hot and clumsy and hungry.
One strong arm bands around my lower back, holding me up with almost no effort, while the other grips the back of my thigh, hitching my leg higher around his hip.
I wrap myself around him, desperate for more friction, more pressure, more him.
Then I feel him—hot, hard, perfect—nudging at my entrance.
He pulls back just enough to catch my gaze, his forehead resting against mine, breathing ragged.
"Last chance, Peyton," he rasps, his voice breaking around my name. "Tell me to stop if you want me to."
I shake my head wildly, digging my fingers into his wet hair.
"I don't want you to stop," I whisper. "I need you."
That’s all he needs.
Hunter thrusts forward in one long, hard stroke, sinking into me inch by inch until he’s seated fully inside.
I cry out, the stretch almost too much, almost too good, my head falling back against the tile with a soft thud.
He groans low and brutal, like he’s barely holding himself together.
"Fuck...you’re so tight."
The first few thrusts are slow, deep, like he’s savoring every second, every pulse and squeeze of my body around his. Each push drives me higher, winding me tighter, until I’m panting against his mouth, clawing at his shoulders.
“Hunter—please—”
Whatever control he had snaps.
