I’d often had this feeling when I was alone with Bennett that time somehow melted and the entire world outside simply dissolved into nothing. I’d been nervous with the anticipation of tonight, but once his weight settled over me—and his mouth moved to my neck, my shoulders, my breasts—instinct took over. I slid my palms up his back and over his shoulders and gasped as he returned to me, his tongue touching mine, pushing and demanding. The sounds of his excitement vibrated inside my mouth and down my neck as he grew wilder, needing to kiss and taste everything, all at once.
I suspected I knew this man better than I knew my own mind. I knew how to touch him, how to love him, how to get him to do anything and everything to my body. And so when his hands spread my thighs apart, thumbs circling and meeting in the middle to glide over my clit, and his eyes focused on my face as his lips clamped over the peak of my breast—studying, commanding, hungry for my pleasure—I lost any sense of anxiety over the night and knew we would forever be the fevered combination of Bennett and Chloe. Mr. Ryan and Miss Mills. Mr. Mills and Mrs. Ryan. Husband and wife. Bastard and bitch.
Kneeling between my legs, his hands framed my hips and he watched as he slid over my wet skin, before resting the head of his cock on my navel. I could feel my pulse thundering in my throat, and I lifted my hips, suddenly impatient for this, wanting to feel his weight on top of me, hear his desperate sounds in my ear.
“Should I say something profound before we begin?” he asked, smiling down at me.
“You can try,” I said, scratching down his stomach. “But I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”
With a light pinch to my nipple, he bent low, nipping at my jaw. “I love you anyway.”
As he slid into me, I shook, crying out sharply at the relief before gasping, “I love you anyway, too.”
“It feels so fucking good.”
“I know.”
I pressed my palms to his ass, feeling the contracting muscles, pulling him deeper into me and rising to meet his every push. Bennett’s lips moved across my cheeks, aimless, to my ears and my mouth. Down my chin to my neck. His words came out broken and desperate.
So much
Oh, God, Chlo, I don’t
Let me hear
Let me hear you
Tell me what you’re feeling, tell me
Tell me what you want
I sucked at his neck, watching his shoulders bunch as he moved and moved and moved over me. “I want faster. Closer. More. Please.”
He pushed up onto his knees between my legs, gripping my thigh and pushing my legs farther apart. “Fucking hell, Chloe, you’re so beautiful.”
I groaned, feeling the heavy drag of him sliding inside me; the pleasure was amplified by the way his eyes seemed to caress my skin.
“Reach down,” he whispered. “Feel where I move in you.”
I did what he asked, letting his cock move over my fingertip as he slid in and out.
He bent low. “Tell me what you feel.”
“Wet,” I answered, looking up at him. “Hard.”
His gaze burned and he stared down at my fingers on him. When he smiled, he looked dangerous, and it made my heart slam into my chest.
“I know,” he said. He took in my tangled hair, picked up one of my dirty feet, and slid my ankle up his hip. “You’re a mess, you greedy fucking girl.”
He slowed, pulling almost all the way out until I panicked and wrapped my legs around his waist. It felt like a match had been lit inside my belly and it burned, spreading like wildfire down between my legs, serving only to increase the impatient need I felt.