Wild Love (Rose Hill Book 1)
Wild Love: Chapter 31

I don’t know why I expected my request to be met with a laugh or a smirk or an eye roll. That’s how Ford and I operate—that’s us. Being honest? Being nice? It’s new and uncharted, and I don’t know what to make of it.

But he does.

He doesn’t miss a beat, helping me to my feet and turning me to him. His chest is hard against mine, his hands are gentle on my cheeks, and he kisses me like he can’t get enough. It feels like he wants to be touching me everywhere he can.

Kissing. Stroking. Undressing me. He whispers my name against my skin like a prayer, and before I know it, I’m naked, seated on the desk, and he’s dropping to his knees before me.

My knees part and I revel in his sharp intake of breath as he pauses to take me in. The way his rough hands slide up the insides of my thighs before hooking my legs over his shoulders. And the way his eyes flash up to mine as he drops his head closer to my core.

I feel exposed and vulnerable as he stares, just looks at my spread pussy for a few beats. Eyes twinkling like I’m the most exciting thing he’s ever seen.

I almost combust on the spot when he growls, “Oh fuck yes,” before lifting his gaze, smirking his stupid, cocky smirk, and then kissing my clit. A deep groan rumbles in his throat as he tastes me for the first time and my eyes roll back in my head.

I’ll be replaying that noise in my head forever.

He starts slow, but neither of us has any restraint. Our fervor is on a constant upswing. My hips push forward, begging for more. His tongue presses into me, and my fingers grip his hair yanking him closer.

I broke every speed limit to get to you.

His teeth graze along my pussy, and my head tips back.

There’s nothing funny about the way I want you.

His fingers slide in as he sucks, and my legs clamp around his neck.

It just makes me love you more.

He twists every ounce of pleasure from my body, his free hand blazing a trail of heat up over my stomach, strumming my nipple as he works me over.

“Ford!” I gasp his name as my orgasm hits me like a freight train. Hard, fast, and relentless. My body shakes as I come apart around him. I hold him just as tight as he holds me.

When the waves subside, he pulls out his fingers and stands over me, hand cupping my cheek. “What I meant to say earlier is I’m fucking obsessed with you and I have no idea how to handle it.”

At those words, I reach forward, wrapping my hand around the root of his hard length that juts out above the waistband of his underwear. Every hot, hard inch of it. It’s huge, and I know I’ll be feeling it tomorrow.

His head drops as he kisses my cheek. It hits me that I’m totally naked and he’s not. I’m fully exposed, and he’s not.

Except maybe he is.

I shed my clothes, and he shed all his barriers.

I run his head, the pearl of cum beading there, over my pussy and moan at the feel. His hands graze up over my ribs, and he holds my breasts reverently. Cupping. Squeezing. Then twisting on my nipples as I swipe him across my already sensitive clit and murmur, “What else? Tell me more.”

I want him to feel just as naked as I do.

“What I meant to say earlier is I’ve dreamed about this.” I drop my head to his chest and breathe him in. So have I. The thought filters through my mind and I recognize its truth.

“What I meant to say is I missed you like crazy this weekend.”

I nod, my forehead resting against the damp base of his throat while I guide his length back into me. “I missed you too.”

He sucks in a shuddering breath as he fills me. My shaking legs take their place around his waist this time as he clears off what’s left on top of his desk. It all goes flying as he lays me back and slides in to the hilt.

He moves, slow and achingly tender. I feel every inch, every ridge, every vein. He fills me so completely I almost can’t stand it.

My hips move with him, and my skin breaks out in a light sweat.

We don’t talk—we don’t need to. We both know. We understand each other so damn well.

“Rosie. Rosie.” When I sit up to hold him, he chants my name against my neck, and I shiver. He sounds so undone. All for me. My nails rake down his back. “This is…”

My legs clamp him more tightly as he fucks me with increasing abandon, and I whisper against his skin, “Perfect.”

Our eyes catch and something passes between us. Understanding. Agreement. We both know this is perfect. Him. Me. Us. Nothing has ever felt more right.

His jaw flexes as he pumps slowly into me, searching my eyes. He’s always watching my eyes so closely. I usually find it unnerving, but right now it does nothing but make me want more from him.

So I lie back on the desk, let my legs fall open, and start to play with myself while Ford takes me in. That expression of reverence—borderline disbelief—back on his face in full blinding force. But then I bite my lip and pinch my clit and his expression turns downright wicked.

It’s that cocky grin and slow bob of his Adam’s apple that tips me off. He pulls out and then slams in hard. Again. And again. Steady, even, powerful strokes that shake my entire body.

Ford fucks me senseless on the top of his desk. Scattered office supplies and a shattered computer surround us. But all I see is him. He looks like some sort of avenging god working me into a frenzy. Flushed cheeks, disheveled hair flopped over his forehead, veins bulging on his forearms while his abs flex with every thrust.

I think I could come just from savoring the view I get by lying with spread legs beneath his hard, heavy body.

His hands hold me open wide, and his eyes stay locked on mine. And when I fall apart again, he watches me like he’s committing another moment to memory.

He’s always staring at me like this. Like he worships me.

Then he drapes himself over me, fusing his lips to mine, and pumps into me until I feel him finish. I feel everything.

Every pulse. Every kiss. Every touch.

If this is how it feels to be fucked like Ford Grant loves you, I want him to love me forever.

I hold him close. Hugging him to me even he’s still inside me.

I can feel his heartbeat on my chest and his harsh breaths against my neck.

“You know what I hate the most about you, Ford?” I ask.

“What’s that, Rosie?” He pants my name, runs his nose up the line of my neck, and tightens his hold on me. “That hating you is downright impossible.”

My voice cracks on impossible, and with that, we both know that I don’t hate Ford at all.

In fact, it might just be the opposite.