“How is it you’re a thirty-year-old virgin?” Dillon’s voice rumbled through his chest beneath her ear. Oddly enough, lying with him this way felt like the most natural thing in the world. She’d never experienced this sense of closeness with anyone before and couldn’t imagine a place she wanted to be more right then than in his arms. An unspoken air of intimacy flowed between them, a quiet sense of shared contentment that made her feel warm and cozy. Neither had said anything for some time, they’d been moving by touch for hours now. She sifted her fingers through the wiry curls covering the center of his chest, while his trailed up and down her back, sending goose bumps skittering across her oversensitive skin. Outside the window, the morning sun chased away the shadows, filling the room around them with the first strands of light. Sometime after six Sunday morning, Emma lay with her head on Dillon’s chest, one leg tucked in between both of his. He nipped at the curve of her neck, slid his arm around her waist, and held her tightly against him. Her body shuddered against him, massaging his heat, and drawing his climax out to an intensity that rocked him. In a matter of minutes, she drove him to the brink of madness, tossing him headlong into the abyss. He groaned, moving with her, their rhythm increasing with every stroke, until he lost himself in her. She gasped and pressed that backside tighter against him.
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