He fills me again and again, his hand curled around my shoulder to keep me in place as he gives and gives. As my body receives. My pleasure registers somewhere outside of me, sounds that are hardly feminine, rough sighs and sharp gasps, whispered encouragements that overlay Whit’s masculine grunts. And then it happens—I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am because there is no soft buildup, just a burst dam of sensation that fractures through me as my fingers scrabble against the counter as though it could keep me from falling.
