In self-preservation, I close my eyes, focusing instead on the thick heat of him inside me.

Our moans mingle as I lift my hips and begin to rock. There will probably be bruises on my backside from the way Warner’s fingers dig into me, urging me faster. Maybe it’s crazy, but I love the idea.

In fact, I want his touch everywhere.

My hands sneak back, covering his and prying the grip away.

“Fuck. I’m sorry. Too hard?”

“Not at all. But try here.” And just like in the mechanic’s shop, I press his palms over my boobs.

Warner mutters a string of curses as he kneads my breasts, rubbing his thumbs over my nipples before pinching them. Encouragements spill from my lips, and I bear down harder. Suddenly, Warner sits up, capturing a tight peak in his mouth, giving it the same ravenous attention he offered my clit earlier.

Gasping his name, I lose control of my body and the situation. All I want is more. I need him to break apart because I feel myself cracking. His mouth is on my nipple, his one palm on my ass and his other on my back, holding me to him. The man surrounds me, fills me, and continues to give me everything I ask for.

My arm snakes behind my back, landing on his inner thigh. I trace upward until I find what I’m looking for. When my light grip cups his balls, Warner’s head snaps back. His eyes meet mine, and I’m surprised to find them almost entirely black. I’m even more shocked to realize I like it.

“I’m close.” His voice is rough, as if pleasure has torn at his throat. “Come. I want to feel it.”

“Rub my clit.” I lean back enough to give him access.

The second his finger presses against the nerves, I know I’m done for.

“Yes. Like that. Just keep—” Words fail as my muscles tense again.

I release him, only to immediately dig my nails into the flesh of his leg. Then, the snap comes, and I’m clenching and crying out his name.

“Zoey!”

He leaves off my clit, using both his hands to grasp at my hips, holding me to him, grinding into me. I’m almost too lost in my orgasm daze to hear his triumphant shout. Warner bucks, once. Twice. Then, he collapses back on the bed, dragging me with him.

Our postcoital recovery isn’t relaxed. The two of us gasp and pant as if we didn’t breathe the entire time we moved together. My fingers and toes continue to twitch with aftershocks. I flex them to ease the tension from my orgasm. In fact, I need to stretch every muscle in my body.

Intending to do so, I roll off Warner’s chest, aiming for the space at his side. He catches me before I can get away, clutching my body to his.