“You can’t even . . .”

I run the head of his cock across the valley to the opposite nipple. He angles my head to the side and takes my mouth as I stroke him. Alex deepens the kiss until I’m dizzy, and breathing seems like an unimportant function. Bearing down, he covers my body with his. No longer able to maintain hand-to-cock contact, I use my feet to push his pants down to his calves. There are a few awkward moments where he struggles to kick them off, and I ineffectively attempt to help with my toes.

Impatient, Alex uses his free hand to get them the rest of the way off. We both sigh with relief when he settles between my legs again. He’s right there, hot and thick, eliciting one of my porn moans. That’s before he starts with the controlled glide.

Skimming the length of his arm, I tug gently on his wrist. He’s been fisting my hair like reins.

“Sorry.” He massages my scalp.

“S’okay. I’ve been reading a lot of Dom-sub stuff in my book club lately.”

Hair pulling isn’t even close to the same thing. It’s not like he’s tied me up and makes me call him Sir or Master.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Nothing. Never mind. It’s not important.”

I knead his ass to distract him; otherwise I’m liable to start ending sentences with Mr. Waters.

It seems to work. Alex’s eyes flutter shut and his mouth drops open as we rub against each other. I run my hands up his back, appreciating all those tight, hard muscles.

His lips are close to my ear, his voice soft. “You feel so good.”

I remember getting it on with my first ever long-term boyfriend in high school. The progression from dry humping to naked humping happened in stages.

We’d get mostly naked—the pants might come off and the shirts stay on—and line our parts up. Then we’d slide against each other without really having any fucking clue as to how to get each other off. In all the uncoordinated wet humping, the slip-and-bump would happen. Everything would stop. We’d look at each other and ask the question: “Just the tip?” It almost always led to the-whole-damn-thing.

This is what happens. Except Alex’s tip is beer-can wide. Okay, it’s not that thick, but it’s close. The sensation is a teaser, like one of those tiny spoonfuls of ice cream they give out before committing to a whole cone. I’ve already eaten Alex’s cone before, so I know exactly how good it’s going to be.

What I do next is highly irresponsible on so many levels. My justification is this: I’ve been on the pill since high school, Alex isn’t the hockey whore I assumed he was, and the gyno results came back clean.

All objections I may have die on my tongue as I dig my fingernails into his rock-solid ass and push down with my heels. He’s halfway in, give or take a couple of inches. His head snaps up and his face registers desire-hazed alarm. “No condom!”

We stare at each other, mutual conflict clear in our lack of action. Should Alex be wearing a condom? For damn sure. However, he’s already partway inside me and it feels incredible. This is an example of a lapse in judgment. It seems to be frequent where Alex is concerned.

I clear my throat. “I’m on the pill, and I’ve always been responsible up until now.” Great. Now I’ve admitted what we’re doing is the exact opposite of responsible.

He doesn’t retract the monster cock or give me any more of it. “I should put a condom on.” It’s supposed to be a statement, but his voice rises at the end, turning it into a question. He glances at his pants on the floor. “Fuck. My wallet’s on the kitchen counter.”

His forehead drops to my shoulder. He takes long, slow breaths. I do something else I shouldn’t as I tighten my thighs against his hips. I flex the beave.

“Violet—” It’s a lament. “I should—”

“We could—”

He lifts his head. “Are you sure?”

“Are you?”

I think it’s safe to say neither of us is sure. We’re committed to making this bad decision in the name of feeling good. His answer comes in the form of his hips sinking into mine. Holy hell, am I ever full. Of unfiltered monster cock. I moan like crazy and bury my face against his neck.

At the same time, Alex strings a bunch of words together which makes absolutely no sense whatsoever. It sounds like “flumothohshitregoo.”

“What?” I ask as he circles his hips.

Alex presses his lips to my neck, skimming his teeth over my skin. “This is unreal.”

“Mmm. It’s fantastic.”

His face is flushed as he lifts his head to look at me with intense, glassy eyes. A lazy grin turns up the corner of his mouth. “Fantastic isn’t the word. If heaven is anything like this, I wanna stay forever.”

Being compared to heaven seems like quite a compliment. “Thanks. You feel amazing, too.”

He has to readjust his position before he can start with the thrusting. I see now why the bed would’ve been better. All the friction makes my back sweat, and the leather under me has started to squeak. The hardwood floor isn’t an option, unless I want a bruised tailbone. I push on Alex’s chest.

“Should I stop?” His words are choked with disappointment.

I shake my head and continue to push. “Sit up, please.”

Alex doesn’t ask more questions. Instead, he folds back on his knees, bringing me with him so we don’t lose the connection. We maneuver awkwardly—well, I’m awkward, Alex isn’t. There’s some less-than-graceful fumbling on my part. Eventually, we’re both upright, and I straddle his legs. This gives me a fantastic view of everything. We both look down to watch him slide almost all the way out.