By: Katy Evans

I shudder as I beg him to please touch my nipples.

“You’re drunk,” he whispers as he looks down at me in only my underwear, his eyes wild with heat as my nipples almost poke into the air.

“Only tipsy,” I whisper, almost a moan. “Please don’t stop, I ache all over.”

With a notable clamp to his jaw, he reaches up and I feel his gloved hand sifting through my hair—then he looks at me, his eyes flashing as he seems to actually remember he’s wearing gloves.

He peels them off, one by one. “Are you certain?” he says.

A frisson runs through me when I see his hands. Strong, big, tanned. Oh god. Suddenly I feel those hands on my waist and he lifts me up to set me down on the marble slab, easing his body between my legs. “You certain?” he insists.

He looks intently at me as he begins tweaking my nipples, and I can almost see the rigidness of his self-control there, that if I say no, he will stop, but I nod, then he groans and pinches my nipples in the most delicious way as he bends over, fitting his lips to mine, hard this time. Superhard. His tongue plunging, twisting, hard and hungry around mine, bolts of pleasure shooting from my nipples to my toes, my mouth to my sex. The marble slab beneath me, the room, the hotel, everything falls away until it’s only hot, powerful, wet lips moving mine. Tasting me. Hands fondling my breasts, running down my sides. My thoughts spin, his kiss and touch rousing my passion like nothing ever has. My hands smooth up his damp chest and when I touch the metal of a piercing on his left nipple, I almost die.

“Oh god,” I gasp, the intensity overwhelming as my bum aches from the cold of the marble. “Take me to bed.”

He carries me to the room, throwing me to the bed like he means business. He flexes his hands at his sides as he jerks off his jeans and pulls out a condom packet. Oh god. His hands are huge, and tanned, with long fingers. A scar in his palm. I really want them on me. In me. He pulls down my panties, unhooks my bra.

“My name is Melanie,” I breathe, edging back on the bed as he strips me.

Naked. He’s moving with a predatory grace that sends my heart crashing into my rib cage and a flood of need between my legs. He whispers, “My name is Greyson, Melanie.” He puts my hand on his and starts kissing me as we work a condom on him, and I can feel his heartbeat throbbing under my hand.

I love the way he keeps kissing me, our hands touching his hardness, huge, thick, pulsing, as we get the condom on him, a pool of need gathering between my thighs.

He slips a finger into my pussy and watches my eyes roll back. “I fucking want in you,” he murmurs, kissing my throat. He turns his head to muffle my gasp and takes my mouth. “I’m going to give you the fucking of your life, princess.” His wet tongue slowly drags along the shell of my ear. “I’ll suck on you until my jaw hurts.” His low voice drives me so crazy I can feel pebbles rise up on my nape as he cups the back of my head and starts kissing me again. “Make you come as hard as you can come.”

He makes me so wet, my body starts bucking as he keeps sucking my breasts, making me pant.

I slide my arm up the coiled muscles of his chest. I rear upward and move my head to the source of his breath and whimper in the only way I know how to make him think about kissing me. He does. He gyrates his hips and presses against my hip bone as though he needs the contact, and makes a soft growling noise as he slips his hand between my legs.

I want him so much, I hurt.

I spread my legs wider apart and moan as he takes me. I squirm as my body begins tightening.

“I’m going to come,” I moan softly. “I’m sorry . . . I can’t . . . you feel too . . . good . . . I can’t . . .”

“Come,” he rasps, “it’s all right, we’ll do it again in a bit . . . come . . .”

Pure red-hot ecstasy radiates through my body, my knees falling open, my emotions whirling and skidding, my body clenching and clasping and unclasping his, his thrusts shooting currents through me until I do what his sinful body is making me do, and I come like a rocket.

I gasp from the force of my orgasm, twisting and arching beneath him. He pushes in as deep as he can go, and I shudder uncontrollably and whimper in gratitude every time he’s seated fully inside me, making me feel . . . the opposite of lonely. The opposite of sad or empty. And when my climax subsides and he’s still there—every thick, hot, hard inch of him snugly in my grip—my eyes flutter open, and I see him looking at me, with that look, wild, hungry, almost proprietary, but also strangely reverent and gentle as he starts to move in me again with expert precision, our eyes clinging, the way he fucks me gently now making little stars dance across my vision as another delicious climax builds and builds.

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