Page 132 of A Little Secret
“I mean…” His cock drags out of my channel, and he thrusts into me again. It isn’t hard and fast. It’s torturously slow, causing my lungs to bottom out with need and frustration and want. So much fucking want it’s not even funny. Fisting the sheets, I peek up at him and point out, “Well, would you look at that. This is doing it for me. Apparently, corny and horny are a good mix.”
He snorts. “Did you just rhyme?”
“I don’t know, maybe? Corny. Horny. Thorney. Ha!” I smack his butt, urging him to keep his pace. “Come on, Thorney. Make me come, Thorney. You’re such a peach, Thorney.” I grin up at him. “Yup, I’m definitely a poet in the bedroom. Now, come on. Pick up the pace, boyfriend.”
“I like it when you call me boyfriend.”
“And I like it when you fuck me.”
He stops moving. “Not fucking you, remember?”
“Feels like fucking,” I muse. “Or at least, it would if you kept thrusting these hips, boyfriend.” I grab his ass and squeeze, but the bastard doesn’t budge.
“Say you love me back,” he orders.
“I’m sorry, did I miss that part?” I bat my lashes up at him. “Because I’m pretty sure you didn’t drop the L-word.”
“I alluded to it.”
“Alluded, huh? Sounds like a technicality to me.”
“Not gonna say it?” he prods.
My eyes narrow. “Say what?”
His mouth twitches along with his cock, and I nearly choke on my moan.
“I see what you’re trying to do here,” I grit out.
“And what am I trying to do?”
“Trying to get me to admit it first. Very sneaky, Thorney.”
With a scoff, he eases into me again, driving me insane. “Please tell me that nickname doesn’t stick.”
“Leaving me horny while being corny, Mister Thorney.” I laugh. “I mean, the poem practically writes itself.”
Leaning closer, he drags his teeth against my throat, then laps at the small scrape. “Pretty sure I should find poetry while my cock’s buried inside you a turn-off.”
“Yet here you are,”—I skate my fingernails beneath his gray T-shirt up and along his spine—“stalling because you don’t want to be a two-pump chump, am I right?”
Lifting his head, he quirks his brow. “Are you rhyming again?”
I grin. “Maybe.”
He grips my thigh and tugs it higher around his waist. With a hard push of his hips, he thrusts deeper into me until I’m pretty sure I can feel his cock in my eyeballs.
“Ooookay, sir.” My jaw drops at the intrusion, and he rocks his hips, pressing his pubic bone against my clit. “Yup. That’ll do.”
His mouth finds my neck again, and he sucks softly. “I love you, too.”
My eyes fall back in my head as I try to focus on our conversation instead of the fact that I’m pretty sure he’s never been deeper. “I didn’t say it.”
“Yeah, but we both know you’re thinking it.” He lifts his head and kisses me, thrusting his tongue into my mouth while I suck at it greedily. When he pulls away, I groan infrustration, and he adds, “Who else would appreciate this smart mouth?”
My face scrunches. Because first of all, he most definitely appreciates my smart mouth. When it’s on his cock, or when I use it to get myself into trouble. Like right now. Because boy, am I in trouble when it comes to my feelings for this man. And it’s funny, because he has no idea. How many times I would say something snarky or sarcastic or just plain old ludicrous, and Drew would only return it with a look that made me feel…stupid. And I never let it get to me. I’d simply shrug it off, assuming it’s a normal reaction. But with Griff? It’s different. It’s always been different, and I always wrote those differences off, telling myself it’s because he’s known me longer. Of course, he understands my sense of humor, but now? Now, I see it for what it really is. Yes, he’s known me my entire life, but he doesn’t just get my sense of humor. He gets me. All of me. My quirks. My perception of things. My sense of humor. My beliefs. And he doesn’t simply understand it. He accepts it. He values it. He values me.
Lips bunching on one side, I stare up at him, slipping my hands out from beneath his shirt and skating my fingers across his five o’clock shadow as he slowly pumps into me.