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I know what she sees when she looks at me. A big, tatted motherfucker who could be either a fighter or an ex-con. Maybe both.
I’d pushed her, soaking my hand in the cream damn near coating her sex.
Eden is obsessively passionate about—Game of Thrones. In the past, I’ve tried to watch a few episodes of the first season with her. Couldn’t do it. Tapped out after Aquaman died.
“But you want to find out, don’t you?”
Trying to get pressure on that pretty, fluttering clit?
Maybe because the dark curls and petal soft, swollen folds are drenched with evidence of the desire I’ve stirred in her. Maybe because her clit is engorged and pulsing, peeking out from between her lips.
“It was either put as much distance between
us as possible or slam you up against the nearest wall, table, chair, or goddamn floor and fuck you until your voice gave out from the screaming.”
“You’ve come around my fingers and on my mouth. This time, you’re coming around my cock.”
“Oh fuck, yeah,” he mutters against my ear, rolling his pelvis again, giving my clit a tight, dirty massage. “I could come just from this. Just from this filthy little kiss on my dick.”
“Give it to me, Eden. I need it again,” he grates, the words muffled against my skin.
Shit. When am I not hard around her?
A small half-smile quirks a corner of her mouth. “I want you to come with me.” “I did. Two times last night,” I growl, the words escaping me before I can contain them.
I don’t really know what to do with the man who showed me I like a little bit of dominance and a lot of dirty.
“I’ve always wondered how an Irish fighter came to have Maya Angelou’s words tattooed on him,” I admit. “And why this poem.”
I cradle Eden’s hips. Lift her off me until only the tip of my cock remains between those beautiful, puffy, wet lips.
“Knox, please,” she begs, hips twisting, writhing. “I need to come. So bad. Give it to me.”
No way I can deny her. Not when she pleads so pretty like that.
