“Oh…” I say, and I think he’s already succeeded in that. Because all words have fled my mind, and the only ones I can remember are Spencer and cock and oh.
I point to the bottom drawer of my nightstand and recall one more. “Condoms.”
Spencer slides off the bed, removes the rest of his clothes, and opens the drawer. He pulls out the box, that same box he’d given me, then pauses. “It’s open.”
“What?”
“Why’s it open?” And his scowl’s returned, glaring at my form, leisurely sprawled on my creased bedspread. “Did—Did you…”
I sit up, face reddening from embarrassment. “No.”
I tap the inside of my elbow. “Skin test. I… didn’t want any more surprises.”
He looks away to put the condom on, properly humbled after his assumption. I glance at my hand, clenched around my duvet, knuckles white. He’d thought—believed I would—with someone else—as if I’d move on that quickly. I’m not—Well, I’m not him.
And I don’t ask the question on my mind. The cheerleader from the party. Or any number of girls he’d had between then and now, in the short week since we’d last been together like this. I don’t want to know.
I don’t want to ruin this moment, right now.
I lay down, arch my back, drawing his eyes back to me. I breathe his name.
He slides back onto the bed. Into my arms. Kisses me. I fall deep under the spell of the connection between our lips as he enters me.
And then I want to cry out. With joy and laughter, because there’s no uncomfortable tightness or burning or itchy pain this time.
Except I forget speech. Forget sound. My mouth opens in noiseless bliss, and I squeeze my eyes shut and forget everything and anything but the feel of him. Narrow in on that sensation of my body sweetly adjusting to the size of his.
“Fuck,” Spencer hisses in my ear with appreciative fervor. He presses forward, sinking in further, until he’s completely buried, his hips grinding into mine. Raising himself on both hands, his gaze shifts, watching as he pulls out, just the smallest amount, and dips back. He repeats the motion, sliding out farther. Driving in again a fraction firmer.
It makes me remember my voice. Or some semblance of it. Because the moan his movement compels from me is in my voice, yes, but it’s no sound I recognize as having made before. It’s raw, unfiltered, craving, yearning. Hungry for more.
Spencer’s eyes meet mine. “Kennedy?” he asks, and I know there’s another question between the lines. Are you okay? Is this okay?
It’s more than that. It’s exquisite. An addictive drug, and I need, I need— “More. More, Spencer.”
So he gives more. Jerks my hips and plunges in and out. When our furious coupling knocks the tower of pillows toppled next to the headboard, he bats all but one away. Wedges that pillow under my hips, rises on his knees, tilts my hips and spreads my legs wide, so we can both watch him sink into my wet heat.
I respond with vocal encouragement, wild and begging and so very, very loud, because he likes it. I like it. Like how he uses each and every one of my needy demands to drive his body into mine. Instructions like Faster. Harder. I want it harder. Give me all of your cock, Spencer. Right there, yes, right there. Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t you dare stop please please.
He doesn’t. Because isn’t that what he’d promised? No stopping. Not until the other team finishes. And I’m close, so close to finishing. An aching knot forms, deep in my core. Twisting and tensing and growing tighter and tighter and tighter.
“Fuck,” he says again. And it’s that word, that one simple word, that’s become a constant litany on his lips. Fuck, Kennedy. Fuck, this pussy. Fuck, that’s good. So fucking good.
A memory filters from the back of my mind. Of our last conversation, in this very room. Of using words like that for big moments. Important moments. For ultimate feeling. What does Spencer Armstrong feel when his body collides with mine? When he stares into my eyes with that savage, sexy scowl and says my name, paired with such a potent word?
Fuck.
His voice booms it again, his hips crushing mine and hitting just so on my clit, and it’s with that, with his body stimulating mine and imagining the intensity of the feelings behind his hoarse cussing, that the knot grows too tight.
It snaps. The rush of relief is so acute, so monumental, my body quavers under him, every one of my muscles contracting. I dig my hands into my sheets, throw my head from side to side, that unfamiliar, hysterical moan ripping from my throat with the utterance of his name. Spencer thumbs my clit, and I roll my hips with him, chasing down the final twinges of my rapture.
My body surrenders to it, limbs falling to the mattress, limp with pleasure. I can’t feel my legs. They’re gelatinous. Completely useless, and I’m sure, just as he promised, unable to stand.
Yet, though I may be spent, Spencer is far from it. He gives me a moment, let’s me catch my breath. But when he hoarsely pleads, “Kennedy, I need—”, I nod, urging him on.
He hooks both my knees over his forearms. And lets loose. Having thoroughly satisfied me, he hunts his own climax, relentlessly pounding into me. Neck and face flushing, grunting and groaning and I sob with need, my clit throbbing with a second wave, so close though I’d had one release already.
Spencer comes. Roaring out with that deep, raging voice. Like I’d heard before, but louder and more empathic now. Because of me, I think again, pride swelling in my chest. Me. I did that to him. He came that hard for me.
He cleans
