Happily Never After

SEX FOR MYSELF.

My instinctive reaction was to defer, because I’d never called the shots in the bedroom. I mean, yes, I’d had my moments and was a big fan of the activity overall, but this was uncharted territory for me.

I’d never taken charge.

However, the results of my kissing experiment made me bold.

“Well, for starters,” I said, my voice husky like I’d never heard it, “I’m the only one nearly naked here. Lose the shirt.”

He didn’t say a word, but the flare of his nostrils made my stomach flip. He sat back on his heels, grabbed the collar of his white T-shirt, and pulled it over his head.

And holy fucking pectorals.

Max’s torso was immaculate—a long, wide V like the man was an Olympic swimmer. I had the urge to bite his taut stomach. His eyes were positively smoldering as he reached for his belt, but I wanted to do it. I sat up on my knees so we were facing each other, and I took over.

The rigidity of his jaw as I touched his buckle, as I slid the leather belt through the silver rectangle and unlatched the metal pin, dropped goose bumps over my skin. My fingers were shaking as I slowly released the leather from the clasp, careful not to touch those rock-hard abs as I unthreaded the long strap and pulled it free.

He didn’t move, but he sucked in a breath.

I unbuttoned and unzipped, and when his suit pants fell to the bed, I cleared my throat.

Holy fucking Calvin Klein boxer briefs, good God almighty.

His thighs were corded and muscular, and I suddenly felt like I was in over my head. Like, was I equipped to deal with this high-def version of a male specimen?

“Question,” he said, his voice thick as he leaned over me, using his body to nudge me right back to the pillows behind me. “I don’t want to mess with what you want, but I need to touch you.”

“It’s about both of us getting ours,” I said, raising my hands to his shoulders and pulling him down. “So you can totally—”

His hungry mouth cut me off, slanting over mine and feeding me kisses that were almost desperate in their passion. I dug my heels into the bed and ground my body against his, earning a sexy groan as I met his wild lips, taste for taste, bite for bite.

I didn’t know if it was possible to literally consume another person, to absolutely inhale them into your body, but I was trying, dear God.

“You are killing me,” he breathed into my mouth, and I arched my back as he unhooked my strapless bra and tossed it off the bed. His eyes were all over me—I could almost feel them on my skin—and instead of waiting, I drove my hands into his hair and guided his mouth exactly where I wanted it.

My head fell back on the pillows as his mouth did magical things to me, his tongue moving over me as if it already knew exactly what I liked.

And when I opened my eyes, the fiery way he watched me while tasting my skin was almost too much to bear.

I was burning alive and all he had was kindling.

Things started blurring together then, because he slid lower, dragging his mouth down my body while removing the one scrap of lace that remained. Instead of controlling my reactions, or thinking about them at all, I was lost to sensation. I moaned, I growled, I clawed, and I screamed. Everything in the world melted away except his hands, his mouth, the sounds he made, and my body’s explosive reactions.

When I dragged his mouth back up to me, kissing him in a mindless fervor because I was mad with lust, and reached for him, he grabbed my hand. I needed him, was frantic to touch every single inch of him. But he rasped against my lips, sounding like his teeth were clenched, “You cannot touch me, Steinbeck, without shattering me.”

“I want to watch you shatter,” I said, so turned on by the flush of his cheeks and the hair that had fallen forward onto his brow.

He looked like sex and pleasure, like the wanton ruler of everything I needed at that moment.

“I,” he said, moving his mouth to my ear and biting down on the lobe, “want to shatter inside you.”

“Yes. God.” Heat flooded my body, even hotter than the already-molten burn that was licking through my nerve endings. My eyes closed and all I could manage was, “Max, please.”

Thank God he knew what that meant, because he left me for but a moment before I heard the ripping of a wrapper and he was back. He was above me again, planking on roped arms, and then he slid deep inside my body.

I moaned at the sensation, the glorious feel of too, too much being exactly right. His body stacked pleasure and pain on top of each other, where one braided into the other to weave the perfect sensation, and I snaked my legs around his hips to pull him even closer.

He groaned, obviously appreciating the changed angle as he froze for a moment, his jaw clenched. “I might die from this, Soph.”

“From what?” I said on a breath as he started moving.

“From you being more than I’ve ever even known to fucking fantasize about.” His breathing was choppy, his words mere pants as his body went off. “This—is—madness.”

I reached up and pulled his mouth down to mine again, needing to fall into the wet suction of his kisses as he destroyed me with pleasure. We kissed like battle, ferocious and violent, while our bodies meshed like lifelong lovers who fit perfectly together.

Every movement was exactly what I needed, every touch a response to my body’s demands.

And his words were stoking the flames, higher and higher, amping the heat inside me like a witch with a spell. Max wasn’t a dirty talker, but he was a foulmouthed cheerleader, a fervent supporter of my body’s acceptance of his.

Fuck, yes, honey, you feel so fucking good.

Holy shit, yes, fuck.

Sophie, fuck yes, Soph, that’s fucking perfect.

I don’t know why, but his voice, cursing in my ear as his body crashed into mine, sent bolts of lightning through every single one of my nerve endings.

And when the wave slammed into me, pulling me under and sending a thousand stars to the darkened sky behind my eyes, I kissed him harder and brought him with me.