A good kind of trouble

This erotic story excerpt from Nothing But Trouble by Amy Andrews is published with permission.

Female friendly erotica by Amy Andrews

CC’s heart drummed in her chest, and her hands shook as Wade strode toward her with absolute purpose in his eyes. She shouldn’t be doing this. She absolutely shouldn’t be.

But her common sense had been waging a war with her body since she’d opened the door, and it had completely deserted about the time Wade had declared he’d wanted to brand her with his number.

All she cared about was getting lost in him. She’d missed him so damn hard and the rest, right now, was bullshit. She knew having sex with him wasn’t going to solve anything. That’d probably only make her cravings for him worse.

But she was a junkie, and Wade Carter was her drug of choice.

Their bodies sparked as they met, their mouths sizzled as they meshed. His groan was like jet fuel to her system, and she all but climbed him, locking her legs around his waist. He smelled like the ocean and tasted like coffee, and she kissed him deep and hard and long, her head thrumming to the frantic beat of her heart.

 

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Somehow he made it to the nearby couch, collapsing onto it, his hands clamped to her hips as she unlocked her ankles and dug her knees into the cushions on either side of his thighs. A chip packet crinkled beneath her shin, but she paid it no heed as she rubbed herself against him, the deep throb between her legs craving connection, craving the heat and hardness of him. The hard ridge of his arousal felt alternatively good and bad. Relieving and stoking in equal measure.

“Christ.” He tore his mouth from hers, his lips attacking her throat and moving lower, his tongue licking along her collarbones. “I missed you,” he muttered into the hollow at her throat, his hands sliding from her hips to her ribs to her breasts.

CC moaned as they cupped and kneaded, and he pushed her back slightly to watch as he plucked and tweaked and taunted her nipples until they were hard as diamonds.

He stared at his handiwork, licking his lips like they’d been sprinkled with Nerds, then latched on hard, first to one nipple then the other, switching back and forth in an endless pattern.

Delirium took hold. CC shoved her hands in his hair and held on tight, grinding her pelvis against his as he devoured her breasts. Then suddenly he was kissing her again, wet and deep and sloppy, his arms circling her back, pulling her close, the wall of his chest hard against the taut, wet peaks of nipples still tingling from the ministrations of his mouth.

It hurt a little. It hurt so damn good.

 

 

 

 

She reached between them then, hurting somewhere else a lot more, groping for his fly, shoving it down, her fingers brushing against his dick then reaching inside, freeing it from his underwear, palming him, squeezing him.

He groaned, and CC swallowed it up, her hands deft and sure as she guided his erection to the hot, wet heart of her, pulling her underwear aside with one hand as she centered him with the other, the thick crown of him notching into place at the slick heat of her entrance.

She was vaguely aware that this was their second time without a condom, which moved them from reckless to irresponsible, but she was damned if she was going to stop this ride now.

Her heart was tripping, and her breathing was labored, and every cell in her body throbbed with the need for possession.

CC wasn’t sure if she sank down or he thrust up. All she knew was that suddenly he was inside her. Deep inside her. And nothing else mattered but this man and this moment and this thing between them as she panted and moaned and moved up and down in time with his in and out and the pleasure built and built and built.

She kissed him, her mouth needing his, needing his full possession. Needing his taste on her tongue and his groans rumbling through her head and the harsh pant of his breathing. It careened out of control in a flash, her mouth hungry and reckless and greedy as he thrust higher and harder and deeper, pushing her over the edge.

Pushing them both over the edge.

The deep guttural groan of his pleasure was like an anthem in her head, and she rocked and bucked to its rhythm, riding it—riding him—all the way to the end, their hearts beating frantically in unison. The climax rolled over them like thunder, spinning them around and around, taking them to the highest high and leaving them gasping and sated and exhausted, panting and clinging to each other in the aftermath.

Begging for more? You can buy Nothing But Trouble or find out more about Amy Andrews.

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