Licking my lips, I couldn’t think of any other word he could say that’ll make me as salacious as ‘Darlin’.′
His voice is a husky Southern drawl of warm honey and bourbon. It washes over me in a sensual caress and nearly takes me over the edge.
When he says it to me, the world falls away. His fingers biting into my hips are one of the few reminders not to shatter in my climax. His teeth graze my skin in a teasing burn, branding me. His guttural groans fill my ears, telling how much I’m wanted. I respond is in my own pants and whimpers of how much I’m invigorated by the attention.
My back arch, a cry caught in my throat. I couldn’t keep myself up anymore; my vision blurs with tears and dark swirls. I bit into the pillow, trying to hold back cumming again.
A deep chuckle teases at my last resolve and I whimper. “Darlin’, why are you fight it? You were doing so well, milking my cock.”
I shiver as he seals his filthy words with a bite on the curve of my neck.
This man is going to wreck me. My thoughts were a self fulfilling prophecy from three years ago. If I knew shaking hands with Rhys Taylor Emmerson led to nothing but an emotional rollercoaster of sweet words, filthy sex, and a perpetual headache. I would prepared myself better, but there wasn’t a warning or instruction manual for an Emmerson man. I would avoided so much crap if there was.
After the first few months to a year, I accepted the inevitable. I was going to be wrecked by this man and return the gesture in kind. We can be a hot mess together.
A shift in the right angle and my hold shattered. I was gone in a second. White and black spots danced in my vision as I screamed in my orgasm and collapsed into a boneless pile. A few hard thrusts, Rhys follows behind me in a groan.
Curling up into each other after a swift cleaning up, I lace my fingers into his and let out a content sigh.
“Rhys, I love you.” I whisper sleepily.
He presses kisses into my neck and shoulders as he spoke. “I love you, Darlin’.”