Page 40 of A Bossy Roommate

I can’t come.

It would be so wrong to come.

Four.

However, my body does not see what could possibly be wrong with it. It’s welcoming the continued friction between us. It wants to conclude what the washing machine started. Badly. Desperately.

Three.

There’s no stopping this. My orgasm builds and builds and builds.

Two.

Another involuntary moan escapes my lips.

Another deep groan leaves his.

One.

“Eden,” he rumbles.

With the growling of my name, there is no escape, and I tumble over the edge—coming, coming, coming—and dropping my cupcakes in the process.

He lowers his arms and pulls me against him. My trembling legs circle his waist, his thick cock still clutched between my drenched pussy lips.

“Ahh-ahhh.” As he breathes heavily, his hips jerk up between my lips.

And jerk some more.

I feel warm fluid leaking through his shorts.

He presses me closer, his heartbeat loud against mine, his breathing heavy.

We remain like that for what seems like minutes, coming down from our highs, holding onto each other tightly.

Do not fall in love.

He moves his arms up, rests them on my shoulders, and presses his forehead against mine, one of his hands circling around my neck. Framed by moonlight, there’s wonderful softness in his facial expression. The sparkle has changed, but it isn’t any less intense. If anything, it’s more vivid.

I want to kiss him, touch him, feel him inside me.

“We better say good night,” he whispers in a hoarse voice.

“Yes, good idea,” I quickly whisper back, nodding (as if I’m fully agreeing), still in a daze.

My body screams,Why. My hips chime in,Please. My pussy joins the chorus,No.Nobody here wants to let him (and his assets) leave. It’s like a dysfunctional choir practice in the middle of an “O” symphony.

He nods, grabs my hips and lifts me from the running machine to put me on the ground. I’m careful not to touch him with my frosting-covered hands (squeezing too hard). He waits patiently until I—finally—regain my footing.

“Good night, Carter,” I say when my wobbly legs offer me support.

“Need help with anything?” he asks, but I shake my head.

“No, thanks. I’m good. I’ll clean this up.” I gesture to the poor cupcake mess on the floor. They were a sacrifice I had been willing to make.

“We’ll deal with it in the morning. Get some sleep. Good night.” He lets go of me, tenderly closes my robe that threatened to come undone, and leaves the room.

Standing frozen with still stupidly tingly nipples, I hear the door to his room close.