Sugar on the Edge (Last Call #3)(60)

He slams into me, and I burn in pleasure. My hands grip onto his shoulders, and I bring my mouth down onto his hard. We both groan with mutual satisfaction, and his hips start pumping against me quickly. He thrusts in, pulls out to the tip, perfectly timing it and tunneling back into me again.

Every nerve I have is on fire, my blood singing in joy over the way he feels inside of me, and I urge him on. “Harder, baby. Faster.”

“You’re killing me, Sweet,” he groans into my mouth and f*cks me harder and faster.

“I’m getting close,” I tell him because I can feel the quickening of my pulse and my muscles starting to tense up all over.

“Me too,” he pants as he pushes his face against my neck. His lips latch onto my delicate skin, and he sucks at me hard.

Moving his hand between my legs, his thumb finds my clit and he starts circling it with swift pressure, matching the strokes of his cock as it works me over.

He’s brutal, he’s brilliant, and he’s completely mine.

Suddenly, I’m shattering, my hands coming to his head and my nails digging in his scalp. He slams into me one more time, so hard, I think I might have a bruise on my lower back, and then he is murmuring into my neck. “I’m coming. Fuck, I’m coming so hard.”

Start to finish, even including the time that Gavin knelt down and used my torn panties to clean his semen from between my legs, we couldn’t have been gone for more than ten minutes top. But damn… that was probably the best ten minutes of my life, and I was hungry to do something like that again real soon.





I’m exhausted. Only a week back from Chicago, and then I was jetting back out to The Big Apple. I’ve been in New York for two days, which were two days too many in my opinion. I had two book signings, a meeting with my editor, a meeting with the marketing team for my publisher, and finally, a meeting with Lindie. I was on the go constantly, meeting people, talking about my work, and promoting myself.

I hated every f*cking bit of it, mainly because I had to leave Savannah back home. She was supposed to come with me but the night before we were to leave, she wasn’t feeling well. By the next morning, her nose was running, her voice was hoarse, and she was coughing so hard that I was afraid she’d expel a lung.

I immediately jumped out of bed when I heard her, got her some Tylenol and orange juice, then pulled my phone out of my pocket.

“What are you doing?” she had croaked while she looked up at me weakly from the bed.

“Canceling my trip,” I told her as I flipped through my contacts for Lindie’s number.

“No you’re not,” she said, and her voice sounded like it was coated in razor blades.

“Babe… you’re sick. I’m not leaving you.”

“It’s a cold, Gavin. Just a cold, I’m sure.”

“I’ve never heard a cold sound like that,” I retorted, and she gave a deep, lusty cough as if to prove my point.

“You’re not canceling,” she said firmly. “I just need some cold medicine and rest. I’ll be fine in a few days’ time.”

“And who will take care of you while I’m gone?” I growled at her.

She grinned at me then… her nose red and runny, and she f*cking grinned at me. “You are so cute when you play mother hen,” she said with a laugh, and then another cough. “But I can take care of myself.”

“Let me at least take you to the doctor,” I told her, stuffing my phone back in my pocket.

“You can’t. You have to pack and get to the airport, but I promise I’ll go to the doctor if I’m not feeling better by tomorrow. Okay?”

I grumbled then, muttered a curse word under my breath, and watched as she grinned at me again and started clucking like a chicken. “Mother hen,” she teased.

I reluctantly packed, tried to give her a kiss before I left, to which she refused because she didn’t want me to get sick. I then had to point out that I had f*cked her silly the previous night and had my mouth all over her, including my tongue down her throat, and that I wasn’t that worried about getting sick. She still refused me and offered me a handshake.

I refused the handshake, crawled on the bed, and nuzzled my face in her neck. “Take care of yourself, Sweet.”

She sighed, stroked my hair, and murmured, “You too, Filthy.”

I called her yesterday. She had indeed not gotten any better and, as promised, went to the doctor. She sounded horrible but managed to tell me that he put her on some antibiotics and gave her a kick-ass cough syrup that she thought might have caused her to hallucinate that pink elephants were trampling through her room. I, of course, didn’t think that was funny and almost got on a plane right then and there to rush home to her, but she laughed softly into the phone, then hacked up another lung, and assured me she was fine.

As I was getting on the plane to come back this morning, she had texted me to tell me that she had to go work at The Haven because Jimmy, the guy that normally covered the Saturdays, was sick.

I texted her back with a pointed reminder, You’re sick too. Stay in bed.

I’m not as sick as Jimmy. Plus, I feel better today, she replied.

I wasn’t happy with her flippant attitude over her own health, and I made my displeasure known. I’m going to redden your ass with my hand when I get home.