Page 118 of Maybe You

I snap my head back and pin him with a look.

“Fuck me right the fuck now,” I snarl.

He finally, finally starts to move. His thrusts are deep and steady, and they make my nerve endings light up like fireworks all over my body.

I push back as he moves, urging him on. He wraps his arms around my chest and rocks against me in long, smooth thrusts that make my ass clench around him. And when he angles his hips just so, a burst of heat rushes through my belly, and I let out a loud moan.

“Fuck, baby,” he rasps.

Then it’s just friction and heat and need that builds low in my belly where it spreads outward.

Sutton’s cock stretches me open, pushes so deep inside me that I finally feel like every aching spot of emptiness is full.

I turn my head back, and we kiss, all teeth, tongues, and wet heat.

The slap of skin fills the room, accompanied by groans and gasps, until I feel like if I don’t come, I might just die. I try to warn Sutton, because somewhere there’s a hazy part of my brain that insists that Sutton wouldn’t like it if I died, and he’d fix it and make it right, but I can’t get the words out. The only thing that escapes my lips are desperate, incomprehensible pleas that sound more like sobs.

“I know, baby,” Sutton says hoarsely. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

He lifts his hand and spits, then wraps it around my aching cock. His grip is strong, bordering on too much, because as soon as he’s touching me, the orgasm rolls toward me, and suddenly I’m so overwhelmed I don’t know if I can even handle it because it’s all too much. My toes curl and my whole body tenses.

Sutton’s next thrust is pure violence. He slams into me so hard both our bodies move forward on the bed.

I come with a loud shout. I come so hard it hurts.

The rush of release claws through me and leaves me flayed open and unable to hide anything.

Sutton slams inside me over and over again, and each thrust sends waves of aftershocks through me before his arms tighten, and with one final thrust, his cock pulses inside me. He stays very still, plastered against me from head to toe, face buried in the curve of my neck, chest falling and rising with rapid breaths.

Recovery is like picking up pieces scattered all around me and putting them back together to make something new. I’m still me, but all new.

And this new Wren? This new Wren wants more. This new Wren isn’t so sure he can deal with keeping Sutton for now. This new Wren wants everything.

Especially after Sutton kisses the side of my neck and murmurs, “Be here. With me.” He sounds drunk. Drunk on me.

And then promptly falls asleep.

And I lie awake for a long time.

And love him.

I love him so much it hurts.

And that’s a fucking problem.

TWENTY-FOUR

The next few weeks are calm.

I mean, objectively, they’re not. It’s the last few weeks of school, so I’m buried in books and dealing with finals and writing papers and handing those same papers in.

Quinn gives me a week off. I spend most of that week in the library.

Early mornings.

Late nights.

Forgotten meals and abusing the vending machine.