The One Who Loves You (Tickled Pink #1)(58)

I freeze.

“I’m on top.”

Is she—an unexpected bark of laughter slips out of my lips, because she is.

She’s serious.

She’s shoving my shoulder and shimmying around until she’s straddling me.

Of course she is.

“Oh God, don’t do that,” she says, her voice breathy and desperate.

I flip her onto her back again. “Do what?”

“Laugh. Do not laugh. I can’t take it today.”

Before I can press her on exactly what that means, she shifts her hips, rubbing her pussy all over my cock, and my eyes cross.

It’s been too long if Phoebe Lightly is doing this to me.

Or you like her too much, one of my shoulder angels tells me.

Warns me.

Whatever.

My dick’s driving this show, not my shoulder angels.

And Phoebe.

Phoebe is definitely driving this show, and she demonstrates by nipping at my lip again while she executes some kind of ninja move that has us rolling over once more, crashing into the bookcase, her poised on top of me, leg trapped between me and a row of engineering textbooks, her breasts sliding against my bare chest, and then she’s sliding onto my dick while she does a magic trick with her tongue in my mouth.

Fuck, she should not feel this good.

She’s tight and slick and demanding around my cock and desperate and hungry in her kisses.

She’s eager. Engaged. Bossing me around without saying a word.

I know she’s using me. I’m an escape. A tool. A means to forget where she is and why and with who.

And I don’t care.

I thrust up to meet her rolling hips, and she breaks the kiss with a curse.

Her eyes roll into the back of her head like my cock’s the best cock she’s ever had, like I’m doing the same thing for her pussy that her magic-tongued asshole boyfriend did for her in college.

Fuck. I have to forget I ever overheard that.

One cure.

And that’s showing her that yes, yes, I am the best she’ll ever get.

She lifts her hips and lowers them again, pulling me deeper, squeezing me tighter.

Taking back all the control.

I don’t think so, boss lady.

I twist, and I’m on top again.

“You aren’t easy, are you?” She strokes a hand down my chest while the other teases the rim of my ear, and she smiles.

She smiles.

Her wet hair is plastered all over her face. She has no makeup. No jewelry. Fine, pale eyelashes. Her nose is just a smidge too big for her face, her chin stubborn, her cheeks naturally round.

If she weren’t rich, no one would call her pretty.

But when she smiles, she’s the sunshine cutting through the thunderstorm raging outside.

No, not the sun.

She’s the moon. Lurking. Hiding. Phasing in and out, waiting to positively glow until she finally escapes out of the shadow of her normal world.

She tilts her hips again, squeezing her inner muscles around my cock, and fuck, she feels so good.

I pump into her.

She meets me thrust for thrust, arching her hips and shoving me so we’re rolling all over the floor while we’re rutting like wild animals, my balls aching with the need for release, her pussy so tight and slick, her gasps and moans and kisses and touches and eager participation driving me wild.

Of course she’s driving me wild.

She’s Phoebe Lightly.

She doesn’t do anything halfway.

Including stress-relief fucks.

“Oh my God, Teague,” she gasps as I get her beneath me once more and slam deep inside of her. “I’m coming. I’m coming.”

Her legs clamp around my ass while she tilts her pelvis hard against mine and squeezes my dick so tightly with her pussy that I couldn’t hold out one more second if the fate of the entire universe depended on it, and suddenly I’m coming, too, wild and deep and desperate, groaning in relief into the crook of her neck while her fingers dig into my back and her glorious body spasms and clenches around my cock, coaxing my release so thoroughly that the strain pulls in the pit of my gut.

Jesus.

Fuck.

One time will not be enough.

Holy hell.

Phoebe Lightly is a damn witch. A goddess. A goddess witch who knows how to use her body to play mine until all time and space are suspended, with nothing but this desperate need to bang her all over again, before I’ve even finished the first time, surging through my veins.

Her legs fall away, her head thumping to the floor as her inner walls release their grip on me, and I ride the last waves of my own climax while trying not to collapse on top of her.

“Fuck,” I whisper.

I can’t lift my head.

Can’t look at her.

If there’s even the slightest chance she’s feeling half as satisfied, as happy, as right, as I am in this exact moment, despite all the ways this is wrong, I don’t want to know.

I can’t know.

Phoebe Lightly is a distraction.

She’s not real.

She’s not my future. She shouldn’t be my present.

But she’s seeping into my bones, and I don’t dislike that nearly as much as I should.





Chapter 20


Phoebe


Marriage is something I used to think I’d only consider for the right man, with the right name, the right genes, the right look, the right job, and the right inherent respect for the fact that I would be the one who wore the pantsuit in the family.