“Fuck!” He gasped. He caught a fistful of her braids in his hand before clasping the back of her head and guiding her strokes. He slid the other hand inside her shirt and captured a breast, using his fingers to torment her nipple. Every pinch and tweak sent a jolt of electricity straight to her clit.

“Taylor.” Her name came out on a choppy breath. “I’m close.”

He tried to pull away, but she gripped his thighs, holding him still. She sucked faster, harder, relishing the knowledge that she could provide a brief escape from tonight’s painful revelation.

She felt him stiffen moments before hot liquid rushed into her mouth. She continued to suck, not releasing him until she was sure he was completely spent.

Jamar fell back on the bed, his chest heaving with his labored breaths. He leveled up on his elbow and looked at her with half-lidded eyes. “You’re not finished, are you?”

Taylor shook her head. “Nope. Not even close.” She slipped out of her clothes and climbed on top of him. Grabbing his wallet from the bedside table, she slapped it to his chest and said, “Condom.”

He fumbled with the wallet, but within seconds he’d removed the disc from the package and rolled it on. Moments later he was inside of her, his hands at her waist, his hips lifting to meet her downward thrusts. Taylor held on to his shoulders as she rocked back and forth, quickening her pace until pure, explosive pleasure erupted throughout her body.

She landed on his chest in an exhausted heap of satisfaction. Feeling blissfully drained, she was unable to move the few inches it would take to lie on the mattress instead of on top of him. She refused to budge; she was exactly where she wanted to be.

Jamar ran his hand along her hair, lifting one of her braids and wrapping it around his finger. “I can’t believe you did this in your parents’ house,” he whispered.

Taylor released a breathless laugh against his chest. “Believe me, I’ve done worse in their house,” she said.

“Such as?”

“I once smoked weed in my bedroom. My mom would consider that to be worse than giving my boyfriend a blow job. My dad?” She tilted her head to the side. “Let’s just say he wouldn’t approve of either one.”

“So you really were the wild child?”

“It’s all relative. The ‘wild child’ in the perfect Powell household is just your typical teenager in any other family.” She traced her finger along his chest, drawing swirls across his well-defined pectorals. “I meant to say this earlier.” She looked up at him. “Thank you.”

“Me? For what?”