Immediately, he sets the paddle on the counter and slows his pace. “What do you need, baby? I’ll give you anything,” he rasps out.
I need speed. Intensity. I need to be fucked good. And I trust this man, so I’m going to tell him.
“Give me the rest of my penance. Fuck me senseless till I scream,” I say, then I thrust my hand between my thighs.
Gabe pounds me in a ruthless rhythm as I feverishly stroke myself till I’m caught up.
My orgasm crashes into me, over me, around me.
It pulls me under, and I shout incoherent cries of pleasure.
The world winks off, but as it spins away, Gabe’s grunts and growls land in my ear, echo in my heart.
A few minutes later, when I look in the bathroom mirror, red marks bloom on my ass.
I smile.
Those marks are mine. My private marks from this man.
23
DOG KISSES
ELLIE
Can I go to bed now?
Because…wow.
After the sex, and then the shower—where he luxuriously washed my whole body, then rubbed lotion onto my bruised skin when we got out—I’m…utterly spent.
In the bathroom, he brings me a shirt. It’s royal blue.
A very familiar color.
I take it from him, holding it up, turning it around. Number eighty-eight.
When I pull on his jersey, I’m swimming in it. “It’s like a dress,” I say, gesturing to where the hem hits my thigh.
“A damn sexy one,” he says, and he pulls on boxer briefs. Nice snug black ones.
Then he scoops me up in his arms and carries me out of the spacious bathroom. “Where are you taking me?” I ask, laughing.
“Wherever you want to go, sweetheart,” he says, but he’s got a plan since he crosses the big bedroom, where I eye his king-size bed longingly, then brings me to the living room. Carefully, he sets me down on the plush, U-shaped gray couch. He sits next to me and rubs a hand along my thigh. “Stay the night,” he says.
“Mmm. That sounds nice. You wore me out,” I say on a yawn that I try to stifle.
“Good. You need your rest. Next week is a big one for you,” he says.
It takes me a few seconds to connect the dots. Oh, right. Next week. Just the reason I’m here. Just the start of my new life in Los Angeles. When I work on set. When we have our first table read. When we prep to shoot the first episode of my show.
My show.
“I still can’t believe it’s happening,” I say, a little giddy—maybe from the prospect of living my dreams, or maybe too from the afterglow of intense sex.
Or, possibly, a cocktail of the two.
“You deserve it,” he says, then takes my hand in his and starts rubbing the space between my thumb and forefinger. “These hands will get sore from all that writing,” he says. “Gotta take care of them.”