Sabrina

It’s too much.

Too much pleasure, too much bliss, too much goodness.

I’m lost in the sensations that rocket through me.

Tingles and sparks and wild roller-coaster loops.

I’ve become a neon woman, a sign blinking brightly against the night. Pleasure served here.

He makes love to me with his lips, and he fucks me with his tongue, and he spears my flesh with his fingers. They dig into my thighs, and this is the most intense thing I’ve ever felt.

I don’t have to think. I get to feel.

My nerve endings come alive. Heat flares across my skin as his tongue lavishes attention on me. He flicks faster, kisses more deeply, makes love to me with his mouth so wickedly that I fear I might not recover.

I believe I’ll be amenable to that.

Gripping the table for dear life, I rock against him, letting him set the pace, letting him control the tempo, knowing he’ll get me there.

He’ll get me everywhere.

I’m a comet tearing across the night sky, hurtling on a wild thrill ride through the cosmos.

I spin and spiral, and soon, soon everything turns to a blur and I’m soaring. I’m starlight and moonlight, flying so far above the earth.

I didn’t know it was possible to come this hard, this thoroughly. I don’t want to come down, not ever. I want to live inside these millions of sensations like diamonds in my body.

At some point, I breathe again. I blink open my eyes. I smile like a fool in love. “Thanks. May I have another?” I murmur. I mean it as sort of a joke, but he takes me seriously.

“As you wish.”

He scoops me up, carries me to the futon, and lays me down.

We reenact one of his fantasies. He spreads my legs, and in seconds, he has me so wild that he grips my hands, holding them tightly to keep me still.

Or stiller, I should say. Because I’m a live wire, writhing and thrusting as he licks me again and again.

When I near the cliff a second time, I murmur huskily, my throat dry, “Let me touch you, please.”

He lets go of my fingers, and I grab his head, holding on to him. Like that, I come again, his face between my legs, my hands wrapped in his hair.

A minute later, or maybe more, I open my eyes to find a gloriously naked and gorgeous Flynn standing at my side, stroking his cock. God, he’s stunning.

Reaching out, I trace the grooves of his abs, the cut of his arms, and I feel his hot, hard length in my hands. He shudders when I touch him, thrusting against my palm.

“You’re mine,” I whisper.

“I’m yours,” he murmurs. “And you’re mine.”

I sit up. I’m still in a daze, but I pull off my dress, and I’m completely naked. “Flynn, can we go bare? I’m clean, and I’m on birth control.”

“Fuck, yes. I’m clean.”

That’s all we need to know. He flips me to my knees, and I want to weep with happiness.

I hate missionary.

I love being taken.

He knows what I need, and he’s going to give it to me. He’s put me on my hands and knees, spreading my cheeks, rubbing the head of his cock against me.

I ache.

Exquisitely.

Deeply.

My body craves him like a filthy drug.

I am desperate for my fix, and he gives it to me, shoving deep inside with a carnal groan.

I cry out. “God, it’s so good.”

“It’s better than the first time.”

“I know,” I whisper.

And it’s not the position, though I love how he grabs my ass as he moves in me.

It’s not the depth either. But I adore how he’s reaching the ends of me, how I can feel him everywhere.

It’s not even how he pushes on my back, making me lower my chest to the futon. Or how he loops my hair around his fist, though all of that sends me into the stratosphere.

It’s how he loves me, even when he fucks me.

It’s better because we’re Angel and Duke, city explorers, wordsmith and mathematician, poetry reciter and poetry receiver, and most of all, we are us.

Loving and fucking, fucking and loving.

There’s no more role-playing tonight. We have no need to pretend because we both want the real thing.

As he goes deep another time, swiveling his hips and stroking me, I’m there again at the edge, coming like it’s all my body ever wants to do, like I’ve been trained to do this, like I can’t stop.

He grips me harder, groaning and turning wild. Saying my name. The way it sounds from his lips, like a benediction, like a rock song, like a primal scream of pleasure, is the highest high.

He collapses on me.

His arms slink around me, and he smothers my face in kisses, and I don’t know who wins the “I love you” game, but we both play it all night long, saying it, telling the other.

As I curl up in his arms, I know I’ve never felt this way with anyone else. I’ve never felt this safe, this content, this wildly, blissfully happy. I have no idea what tomorrow will bring, but I’ll be able to get through it with him by my side.

When morning comes we shower, learning how fun it is to get clean with my hands against the wall and his on my breasts as he makes me come again.

Then we dress, and I get ready to see Mr. Galloway. I walk Flynn to the door of the building and wave as he heads down the street.

He waves back, the morning sun haloing his handsome face.

I can’t resist.

“Wait!” I call out, racing down the steps and after him.

I run to him, and I throw myself at him, wrapping my arms around his neck, my legs around his waist, like a koala. He laughs and pulls me closer.

“I love you, Flynn Parker.”

“I love you, Sabrina Granger.”

“I want to kiss you again.”

“Kiss me again.”

We kiss, and we kiss, and eventually, I let him leave.

As I return to my building, an engine rumbles loudly by the curb. I turn in its direction, spotting an idling red sports car.

As I walk past it, the passenger door opens.

A woman emerges. Red flaming hair. Big sunglasses. Snapping bubblegum. Cowboy boots.

Maureen is here.