CHAPTER SEVENTEEN #3
He loops his arm around the small of my back as the first notes begin, which bleed into ridiculous lyrics.
A cackle bursts from my lungs. “Is that … Jack Black? What the hell is this?”
“Tenacious D’s ‘Fuck Her Gently.’ ” His eyes crease with mirth, and he sweeps me into his embrace. “I can handle your wrath, Tess. You can rage. Hit me. Scream. Broad shoulders and a huge dick, remember?”
Despite the flirty humor, his words are sweet and intentional, but a phrase about being balled discreetly is crooned in the background, so it’s impossible to get freaked out by his statement. I’m also lost as to why he’d choose this song to accompany that point.
“I remember,” I whisper, curling my arms behind his neck. “The broad shoulders anyway.”
“Cute.” He pecks the corner of my upturned lips. “You’ll be an expert on how huge my dick is here in a minute. I’ll make you come, and I’ll take your anger, but I want that musical laughter too. You don’t give that very often. It’s mine.”
A boulder of emotion lodges in my throat. “Maddox?”
“Yeah, baby?”
“I need you to stop talking and fuck me now.”
Without hesitation, he spins us around, carries me to the panoramic view, and flattens me against the wall of windows. He places my palms beside my head, presses my breasts to the cool glass, angles my hips just right, and issues his command. “Don’t move.”
I maintain my bug-splattered-on-a-windshield position while glancing over my shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of him. “Well, don’t take all day about it. You wouldn’t want the sun to set before you railed me for all to see.”
He chuckles softly as the distinct crinkle of a condom wrapper hits my ears. Seconds later, he’s behind me, nudging me to peer out at the city as he swipes the head of his cock through my sopping core in viciously slow torture.
I wiggle my ass, my patience long gone despite having already come twice.
“So greedy.” His amusement rings through that as the playlist shifts to a more sensual tune.
He fists my hair while he continues teasing me. My scalp prickles. My nipples harden, the jeweled barbells clanking against the glass. My entire body trembles with need.
“This is it, Tess.” Letting go of my hair, he slinks his hand to the apex of my thighs, whirling my clit in a decadent cadence that has my vision hazy—the Mississippi River and the skyscrapers and the French Quarter speckled with silver dots in broad daylight—as his lips ghost over my ear.
“The sight of you so desperate and needy is my goddamn undoing. Beg me to make you mine.”
I’m so heady that I don’t fight him. Again, I surrender. We’ll worry about what that means tomorrow. Tonight, I’m whomever Maddox Noire needs.
“Please,” I pant.
“Please what?” he rasps.
Without a second thought, I concede. “Make me yours.”
Before I’ve uttered the S, he languidly pushes inside me, working himself in and out, past some resistance.
He pauses once he’s completely seated, both of us adjusting to the stretch with a melody of unbridled groans.
I’m so full. My limbs quiver. My sweaty palms slide down the glass.
My calves flex to raise me up to my tiptoes—anything to heighten the feel of him within.
It’s already more than I can take and everything I’ve ever craved.
His forehead rests on my temple with a shuddery breath. “Jesus, you feel good. Un-fucking-real.”
“You’re, uh … a lot,” I mutter, nearly blinded by the sensations.
“Hurt?” he manages.
“In a good way. Move,” I plead—or demand—in a voice I hardly recognize, lust-drenched and strained with a hungry quaver. “I can take it.”
“Of course you fucking can,” he praises with an edgy timbre. “Your cunt was made for me, Nightmare.”
Contrary to the title of the song he played, he is anything but gentle.
He heeds my petition and plows into me with punishing thrusts, owning my every cell.
His hands roam, tweaking and brushing and commanding.
The rings of his ladder conquer my G-spot with alarming precision.
And he uses the window to his full advantage, smashing my breasts against it to garner the friction my nipples yearn for, so I am truly exposed to the city at large, declaring I’m his from a bird’s-eye view.
“Fuck, Tess. You should see how goddamn good we look. The way you swallow me. Your pussy weeping and molding to my cock.” With one hand still on my clit, his other wraps around my throat, lifting my chin to stare at New Orleans. “We both have a perfect view. You see my kingdom, and I see my queen.”
His queen.
I can’t fully process that sentiment because he drives into me more vigorously, his embrace on me tightening to secure better leverage, and in a flash, I’m teetering on the brink. “I’m gonna … I’m gonna come, Mad.”
“I’ve got you,” he husks out, the vow cascading over my scorching flesh to elicit glorious chills. “Going with you.”
Our collective moans harmonize with the music, the soupy air and our panting breaths steaming the glass before us.
But I don’t lose sight of the city or the reflection of the sculpted man pounding into me.
He’s everywhere. Everything. Pulsing inside me with an exclamation of promises I don’t fully comprehend, but long to get lost in. At least for tonight.
“That’s my girl,” he growls. “So fucking pretty, coming on my cock.”
And as we both shake and soar, a cresting wave of oblivion as vivid as the sunset surging through us, he etches himself on my insides, branding me, his words claiming the same.
“You’re all mine. Everything you see is yours. This is your fortress now, baby.”