Page 2 of The Sweetest Return

“And you full of me.”

My pussy clenched around him.

Dre’s smile came slowly.

“Don’t,” I warned.

“I ain’t said nothing.”

“You were about to.”

“Wasn’t no need.” His mouth moved toward my ear. “Your pussy already told me.”

“Dre.”

“Wet as hell too.”

Heat climbed my face even though there was nothing this man had not seen, touched, tasted, or heard from me by then. That only encouraged him. His lips dragged along my jaw before he kissed me again, and the playfulness thinned beneath the heat. His strokes became more focused, his hips rolling into me with a pressure that made my breath come apart.

I tried to say his name again, but it left me strangled.

He liked that. I felt it in the way his body pressed heavier against mine, in the rough sound that moved through his chest before his mouth went to my neck.

“That’s what I wanted,” he said against my throat. “That pretty little cry.”

I should have had something smart to say.

I had nothing.

His hand slipped between us, and the first slow circle over my clit stole whatever pride I had left. My legs tightened around him. His dick stroked deeper while his thumb moved with the kind of patience that made my whole body tremble.

“Eyes on me.”

I gave them to him.

Dre wanted my pleasure and my attention at the same time. Having my body was not enough if I hid from him while he took it apart.

The mattress shifted beneath us. His chest brushed my nipples every time his body came down over mine, his skin hot and damp against mine. I knew the break in his breathing when he was trying not to cum. The tension in his stomach. The way his hips got heavier and his mouth rougher.

He knew me too.

When I needed to talk. When I needed another twenty minutes to be mad first. How I hated pickles, loved expensive perfume, studied until I forgot to eat, and needed people to let me solve my own problems before they swooped in with answers.

I knew the real Dre beneath the number twenty-two everybody screamed. The son who wanted his father’s approval even though it had always been freely given. The boy who called his mother after games. The man who sometimes lay beside me after everybody went home and admitted the attention scared him a little because everyone seemed so certain about his future when he wasn’t.

His fingers circled my clit again.

“Don’t stop.”

“I ain’t stopping.”

His voice was rough now, his control slipping. He fucked me harder, still careful with me but no longer careful with himself, and the orgasm that had been building beneath the jokes, his mouth, and his thumb rose fast.

Dre saw it.

Of course he did.

“That’s it,” he said. “Give it to me.”