29. Jackson
JACKSON
I can’t get close enough to my man.
But I can absolutely try.
I wrap my arm tighter around Stone’s chest, stroke him faster, and grit my teeth. I have to stave off an orgasm. Need his first. Need it badly.
But keeping it at bay won’t be easy.
Because . . .
“This is my favorite position,” I tell him as I rock into him, going deep, sliding almost all the way out, then filling him again.
“Yeah? Why?”
“Because I get to feel as much of you as possible. Get to have you so damn close to me,” I murmur, my lips brushing across his neck, up to his ear.
His cock jerks in my hand, and his breath comes fast and wild. “Same. It’s the same,” Stone says, his voice cracking.
“But there’s something I want to try next time,” I tell him, as my need for him unspools.
“Anything,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse. He’s so close, and I love doing this to him. I love giving him the most intense pleasure.
I push deeper, hold tighter, then kiss his earlobe. “Top me,” I whisper.
A shudder racks his body. “You want me to fuck you?”
“I want to feel everything with you,” I say, burning up at the prospect of him fucking me, lust tearing through me as I picture it. “Will you?”
He answers with a grunt. With a growl. Maybe with my name. Somewhere in there is a long, stretched-out yes as he detonates, coming all over my hand.
And I love it.
So much that my skin sizzles, my mind crackles, and I succumb seconds later, my climax tearing through my body as the world spirals away.
This man, this bliss—it’s all there is.
And all I want.
My body shakes as the aftereffects of my orgasm rip through me.
He’s still enjoying his, moaning, smiling, breathing hard.
A satisfied man.
My satisfied man.
I want to be the only one to ever make him feel this way.
“Mmm,” I murmur as I kiss his neck. I don’t want to leave him, but I need to ditch this condom.
I head to the bathroom, take care of business, grab a washcloth, wet it, and return to him, cleaning his chest. He’s flopped on his back now, supremely content.
Grabbing the blanket, I tug it off the bed, then toss it and the washcloth in the laundry bag in the closet. I snag another duvet, get in bed, and cover us.
Finally, I bring him into my arms, run both hands through his hair, and meet his eyes.
I see everything in them, and my chest aches.
I nearly serve up my whole entire heart.
But he goes first, his voice all gravelly sexy. “It’s incredible with you. I’ve never felt this way before,” he says in a midnight confession. “I never feel like you’re fucking a rock star.”
Emotion rips through me, flooding me as I drag my hand down his chest. “Because I’m not. I’m not fucking a rock star, Stone. I’m fucking you.” I spread my hand across his pecs. “I’m fucking the man.” I take a beat, drawing a breath, digging down deep. “And I’m making love to you.”
He shudders, parts his lips, and closes them again. Then he speaks softly. “Is that what you’re doing?”
“You tell me. How does it feel to you?”
“It feels that way, Jackson.”
“For me too,” I say, then I cover his lips with mine and pour all those emotions into a kiss—one that can’t possibly convey anything other than how desperately I’ve fallen in love with him.