5. Broken Pickers

brOKEN PICKERS

M y heart is pounding out of my chest.

I just invited this man I barely know to watch a movie…in a bed.

Reece's gaze scans the main room, brows gradually lowering. "Watch a movie…where?"

"It's…um…in the bedroom." I shrug. "If you're uncomfortable with that, I totally get it."

He unfolds from the table to his full height, reaching his massive arms overhead in a spine-crackling stretch; his black long-sleeve T-shirt rides up as he arches his back with a chest-rattling groan that—for reasons I'm deeply uncomfortable examining—makes my core clench and my sex pulse with arousal. It may be the hint of bare stomach, or the semi-erotic sound of his groan, or just…him.

Is it too late to rescind my offer? I'm not sure I can have him in the bed with me. I might do something foolish.

"A movie sounds great, actually," he says. "I'm about puzzled out for now, myself."

Well, I guess it's officially too late. Not that I want to rescind it. I haven't enjoyed anyone's company as much as I enjoy Reece Morgan's in a very, very long time.

I lead the way into the room and take a spot on the left side of the bed, nearest the bathroom; I keep close to the edge, on top of the comforter. Reece goes to the other side and settles his huge frame closer to the middle than the edge. He reaches down to the foot end and tugs a blanket up onto us both.

I grab the tiny black remote and thumb on the TV, bring up Netflix, and scroll through the top suggestions.

"Apparently, Nate and Nadia are documentary fans," Reece remarks as I flip through the recommendations, which are almost entirely documentaries of some sort, with a few action movies and a few rom-coms.

"What do you like to watch?" I ask.

He rolls a heavy shoulder. "Depends." He frowns thoughtfully. "Honestly, I don't remember the last time I just sat down to watch TV. I'll turn something on when I'm cycling or on the treadmill, or on a flight to a shooting location, but I'm always doing something else—working out, memorizing lines, reading a new script."

I huff a laugh. "Actually, same. I watch reality TV while I’m on my Peloton or going over a brief or whatever. But just sit down and watch TV without anything else to do?" I shake my head. "Can't remember the last time."

"So, how about we pick a movie neither of us has seen before?" he suggests. "Something Christmassy and fun."

I eye him with an amused, bemused expression. "You like holiday movies?"

He laughs. "The movies I make may be mostly guns, boobs, and explosions, but I do enjoy watching other things."

"Reece, I didn't mean—" I start.

He winks at me, and my stomach does flips; winking should be stupid and annoying, but for some reason, that wink does things to my down-under. "I also like holiday-themed guns, boobs, and explosions."

I roll my eyes and snort. "Annoying." I reach the holiday row and flip through the options; on a whim, I stop on a Netflix Original Christmas rom-com. "How about this?"

He quickly reads the blurb and then shrugs. "Sure, sounds good to me." He flips the blanket aside. "I saw some microwave popcorn in one of the cupboards. You want some?"

"Yeah, sure." I'm waiting for the punchline, but he vanishes into the kitchen and I hear a cupboard opening, plastic crinkling, and then the microwave going, followed by increasing speed of popcorn popping; he comes back in a couple minutes later with a bowl of steaming popcorn, an unopened bottle of red wine, and two stemless glasses. “Wait…you're serious?"

He frowns at me as he tosses a handful of popcorn into his mouth, chewing as he pours the wine. "About?"

I accept the glass. "Thanks." I sip and then gesture at the TV with the glass. "The movie. You're seriously okay watching a cheesy Christmas rom-com?"

He settles in under the blanket, this time a little closer to me. “Uh, yeah? Why wouldn't I be?"

I shrug and press play. "Because every man I've ever dated has refused. Picking a movie with men, for me, has historically ended in a standoff, which I lose because I hate arguing, and we end up just watching something with guns, boobs, and explosions. Or, like, a World War Two doc."

He stares at me as if he can’t comprehend what I'm saying. "Seriously?"

"Yeah."

He shakes his head. "Then you have a broken picker, because you've dated some losers. Would I turn this on by myself? Hell no. But to me, the point of watching a movie with someone is to pick something you both enjoy. I can and will enjoy watching this with you. If I pick something that bores you, you'll just either fall asleep or scroll on your phone. And what's the point, then?"

"That's highly logical, Reece." I take a bite of popcorn. "Maybe my picker is broken.”

He laughs. "Mine too."

"Was Vivian your only serious relationship?” I ask.

He nods. "Yeah. I dated a few girls in college and when I moved to LA, but never anything serious. Not, like, casual, but the kind of relationship where you both know it's…not temporary, but…" he trails off, unable to find the right way to put it.

"You both know it's not going the distance, but it's still nice to have someone to be with," I fill in.

"Exactly." He washes down popcorn with a sip of wine as the opening credits roll on a pastoral winter scene. "That's what Viv should've been."

“Can I ask what made you propose?"

He laughs bitterly. "Rank stupidity." A sigh. "How much do you want to hear? It's not a good story."

"Whatever you feel comfortable sharing."

"Well, at first, she played the game well. Drew me in with her big brown eyes and her sweet, childish little voice. She has this air of innocence to her. It's part of her whole schtick—innocence juxtaposed with sultry shock value. So she'd be sweet, and then we'd get back to my place, and—" he cuts off, shrugging.

"Queen in the streets, whore in the sheets?" I suggest.

"Pretty much. So I guess it's not actually all that complicated. I confused sexual compatibility with emotional connection. But even the sexual compatibility eroded pretty damn fast. Once we got to the point where I was taking care of her financial needs, the sexy time sort of tapered off. She mysteriously got more headaches. She'd have photo shoots early, so she needed to rest. A networking meet and greet would go late. Always something, always some reason to push me off."

We lapse into silence as the movie kicks off. During a cutesy montage scene, I glance at him. "That's pretty shitty. You don't think it was…I don’t know…coincidental?"

"Oh, hell no. I know it wasn't." He huffs a bitter laugh. "Principal filming ended early, this one time. We were in…Croatia? I dunno. Somewhere like that. So I flew home to surprise her. Snuck in with flowers and a necklace I'd gotten her. She was in the bath, on the phone with a friend. And I heard her talking. I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but sometimes, you just hear something, and you have to hear the rest, you know?"

I pause the movie. "I know exactly what you mean—that's how I caught my last boyfriend cheating on me—I overheard him planning their next rendezvous. Court had recessed unexpectedly, so I was home several hours early."

"She was telling her friend, and this is not verbatim but pretty close, that I was a dupe and that she had me where she wanted me. She had just convinced me to introduce her to a director I’ve worked with a few times and got her an audition. She told her friend that once she got a good role, she was gonna start, and I quote this time, 'getting that big dumb oaf to think divorcing me was his idea because the moron married me without a prenup.'

“No."

He laughs. "Yes. Verbatim. And yes, I married her without a prenup. So, just to be transparent with you, Hercules flopped and cleaned me out of several million dollars, I spent two and a half years paying the most expensive divorce lawyer in LA, and at the end of it, I wrote Vivian a check for five million dollars just to sign the damn divorce and get out of my life. After selling pretty much everything I own, I'm basically back to square one, financially."

I shake my head. "And I thought my picker was broken."

"Well, that there’s what happens when your pecker is your picker," he says, exaggerating his drawl into a cartoon-like Foghorn Leghorn voice.

I snort, and then burst into laughter. "I'm sorry—I'm sorry. I'm not laughing at you, I swear. That was just funny.”

He grins at me. "You light up like the sun when you laugh."

My stomach flips, and my heart does funny things. "Reece."

He unpauses the movie. "For real. Man could get addicted to the sound of your laugh."

When was the last time anyone had paid me a compliment? Made me laugh? Gave me butterflies?

Helpless to resist his magnetism, I find myself leaning closer to him as the movie progresses. It's cute, adorable, cheesy, and fun. By the time the hero and heroine realize they're in love with each other, I'm resting my head on his shoulder and feeling drowsy. Popcorn, a couple of glasses of wine, and Reece's warmth and solidity are pulling me under.

I blink, startled, and realize I must've dozed off; a huge, solid, warm surface is my pillow. Something is thudding quietly, muffled and faint.

"Hmmm?" I mumble.

“Ssshhh. I got you." His voice is a low rumble against my ear.

I'm on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. The blanket is up around my shoulders, and his arm is draped loosely over my waist, his big hand on my hip, casually affectionate. I peer through heavy eyelids: the movie is over, and he's turned on a documentary of some sort, talking heads against a bokeh background. He has the volume almost off and the subtitles on.

I listen to his heartbeat and feel his heavy arm anchoring me, his warmth suffusing me.

I feel safe.

Comfortable.

And then I feel nothing, because I'm asleep.

Waking up happens gradually, by degrees. At first, I'm vaguely half-aware that I'm not asleep anymore. And then I'm aware that I'm starting to wake up. And then I'm grudgingly surfacing.

Once I'm awake, I become aware of my surroundings.

In my bed.

My cheek is on Reece Morgan's chest. My hand on his stomach, a thigh thrown over his. His breath wreathes hot against my hair, slow and steady. His hand is on my ass, loosely cradling one side.

And I like it.

I like all of this.

Instead of fighting it, I do some self-examination. I'm deeply, wickedly, madly attracted to him. Physically, he should terrify me. He's three times my size, and he has a self-confessed anger problem. Yet, not once have I ever felt anything but safe, comfortable, and protected. I feel seen. I've caught him looking at me, and I know he's physically attracted to me. Yet he hasn't hit on me. He did compliment my ass, and he can't possibly know how self-conscious I am about that part of my body. He's been honest with me.

I genuinely like him as a person, aside from being physically attracted to him.

He's as far from my usual type as you can get, though. Normally, I go for academic types. Fit, suave, well-dressed professionals. Lawyers from rival firms. Hedge fund managers. Tech bro execs. Guys with a healthy 401k, a diverse portfolio, and a penchant for wearing Italian leather loafers barefoot on the weekends.

But, I realize with something a lot like disgust, or perhaps horror, that I haven't actually liked any of them. They matched my carefully curated life. They can take me to the right restaurants and order the right wine and toss the keys to their Porsche to the valet unironically. They fit in my modern condo. They can take me to tennis matches and golf tournaments in Augusta.

And they're all assholes. They were aesthetic additions to my life.

I put all that out of my mind and focus on the moment—something I'm not great at, typically.

I'm warm, comfortable, content…and aroused. Maybe it's the giant hand casually cupping half my ass. Maybe it's the fact that Reece put me at ease with my impromptu Netflix-and-Chill suggestion when I clearly wasn’t implying the "chill" portion was anything other than chilling.

Maybe it wasn't clear. I don't know. I just know that Reece has been a nearly perfect gentleman—hand on my ass notwithstanding. And I happen to like how his hand feels.

Reece grumbles in his sleep, then shifts a little bit, angling toward me, pressing his nose into my hair; his hand tightens, now gripping rather than loosely cupping.

My pussy clenches, and I force myself to remain still. My hand doesn’t receive that memo, though. Resting on his hard, flat stomach, my hand steals down to the two-inch gap where his shirt has separated from his loose black joggers. My fingers find skin. Slip upward. The grooves of his abs ripple under my hand.

This is nice.

I don't exactly doze, then, so much as just float across the surface of awareness, drowsy and content, with a roiling ball of arousal burning low in my belly.

After a time that could be fifteen minutes or an hour, Reece murmurs something unintelligible, a waking-up sound. My eyes are closed, and my breathing is low and slow—I'm awake and aware, but I could probably pass for asleep if you don't know me.

He heaves a deep breath, and his abs harden to cinderblocks, and he arches his back, and his hand tightens on my ass. "Oh," he murmurs, sounding surprised.

His hand slides upward toward my hip.

"I didn't mind where it was," I whisper.

"Not asleep, huh?” he murmurs.

"Mmmm, not really."

His hand slowly glides back down, and this time, his touch is exploratory. Gentle, questing, a little hesitant. "You really do have an exquisite ass, Lilith."

"I'm self-conscious about it," I say, voice low as if speaking too loudly would do something to disrupt this moment. "So that's nice to hear. Thank you."

"Self-conscious?" He sounds genuinely shocked. "How can you be self-conscious about perfection?"

I make an embarrassed noise and burrow my face into his chest. "It's not perfect. It's out of proportion to the rest of me. I'm this tiny woman with a giant ass.”

"It's not giant. It's just right." He cups the upper cheek, squeezing and kneading. "See? Fits right in my hand."

"Because you have gigantic hands." I find his other hand and place our hands palm-to-palm; he can curl his fingers over the top of mine and almost totally engulf my hand in his. "See?"

"Exactly. That's what makes the proportions work."

I shake my head. "You're crazy."

"No, I just know what I like, and your beautiful, perfect ass is something I very much like."

I slide my hand back under his shirt, craving the feel of his warm skin and hard muscles. "I like the way you touch me."

He groans, sounding frustrated. "Lilith…you gotta be careful saying shit like that to me."

"Why?" I ask, sliding my fingertips over his abs, his diaphragm, and his chest.

He slips his hand under my Grinch sweater, finding skin with his rough, callused, powerful hand. Up my back to my shoulder blades, back down to the small of my back. His fingertip runs along the waistband of my yoga pants. "Because I'm crazy attracted to you, and I'm not great at self-restraint."

"Who told you you had to restrain yourself?" I ask. "I don't think I did."

"I don't wanna push, Lilith. I don't want to scare you."

"Reece," I whisper, lifting onto an elbow so I can look him in the eye. "I told you—I'm not afraid of you."

"Lilith—"

"Call me Lily," I say, exploring the hard mound of muscle that is his pec. "And maybe I should be afraid of you, but I'm not. Not once since I met you have you done or said anything to make me nervous, worried, scared, or uncomfortable. In fact, you've rescued me twice, cooked for me, made me laugh…held me while I slept."

"And you woke up with my hand on your ass."

"Did I seem to mind?"

"No."

"Reece…" I gaze at him, feeling like I could drown in his deep, dark brown eyes. "I don't know what this is, but I like you. I'm attracted to you. I—"

His mouth meets mine, and he rolls into me, puts me on my back, and levers over me. I sink against the pillow and lose myself in the kiss.

It's slow, luxurious, and exquisite. He takes his time, unhurried and reverent. Just mouths at first, his breath and mine, lips sliding and seeking, damp and warm. I hold onto his shoulders as he kisses me, and a moan escapes my throat. One huge hand frames the side of my face, and then he tugs my hair free of the loose ponytail and buries into it, fingertips sliding across my scalp.

Oh god, I've never been kissed like this. Never. He's plundering and ravaging and exploring, at once gentle and slow and ravenous and methodical.

My hands find his broad, smooth, hard, rippling back. I push his shirt up; he breaks the kiss long enough for me to peel it off, and then his mouth is on mine again, and now I'm exploring the vast expanse of his shoulders and back and waist. Good lord above, he's so goddamn big . Yet despite outweighing me by a hundred pounds, being beneath him isn’t crushing. He gives me some of his weight—just enough to shelter me, envelop me.

I skate my hands over his shoulders again, down his sides, and then to his waist…I hesitate and then clutch greedily at his butt. And holy hell, the man’s ass is hard as a rock.

He rests his weight on his left forearm, still kissing me, and then his hand nudges under the hem of my sweater. I suck in my belly as his touch ghosts over my navel and teases up my waist, halting at my diaphragm, just below my breasts.

Pauses.

"Reece," I breathe, lips moving on his. “Yes."

He cups my breast, groaning raggedly into my mouth as my flesh fills his hand. "Lily," he breathes. "So fuckin' perfect."

I moan, then, as his huge hard hand caresses and cups, one big thumb strumming my nipple into throbbing erection.

More.

I want more.

I need more.

"Off," I whisper, arching my back. "Sweater off. Please, Reece."

With another greedy, wondering groan, he pushes the hem up over my breasts. I arch my back, and he slides my sweater off. Bare from the waist up, my nipples ache in the cool air, and then his hand explores me, one breast and then the other. A hot line of arousal pulses between my nipples and my core, molten and surging.

I glory in his touch, pushing my breast into his hand as he frames the weight of one and then the other, and his mouth all the while is busy on mine, tongue now slipping and delving against mine.

I drive my hands under the elastic of his joggers and cradle the hardness of his muscular ass, digging my fingers in, petting, smoothing, scratching.

Gasping, Reece breaks the kiss. Gazes down at me. "God, Lily." His eyes burn with need, spark with arousal. "You are so fucking beautiful."

I withdraw one hand and carve it over his cheek, his jaw, scratching over his stubble. "So are you, Reece."

I've never felt so beautiful as when he looks at me, touches me. It eradicates my doubts, erases my inhibitions. I've never been an excessively sexual woman. I have needs like anyone, and when I get lonely and worked up and horny, I fill the need with a short-term relationship with one of the aforementioned types. I suppose part of the reason sex has never been a major pursuit of mine is that I have a hard time reaching orgasm. Very few of my partners—of which there've not been all that many—have ever been able to make me come. I don't expect it. It usually takes a lot of focused relaxation (a weird and slightly humorous oxymoron that is nonetheless accurate), a powerful clitoral stimulator, and a good hour or so.

Therefore, despite being more turned right now than I've ever been in my whole life, I have zero expectations that Reece can get me there.

I'm blown away by his gentility despite his massive size and power. His attentiveness to my arousal, his conscientiousness of my comfort level. Making sure I'm okay at each step.

Telling me I'm beautiful. Making me feel beautiful. I don't need to come for this to be one of the best moments of my life.

"Lost you, there," Reece says, rolling to his back so I'm laying on top of him, breasts crushed against his chest—skin to skin.

"Sorry."

"Don’t be. Tell me what you're thinking?" He brushes my hair away from my eyes, thumb tracing my cheek.

I shake my head. "You don't wanna know."

"Yes, I do."

"It might ruin the mood." I laugh, resting my forehead on his chest. “It already has.”

"Nothing is ruined. You can trust me, Lily." His hands roam my shoulders, my back, my butt.

"I was thinking about how you make me feel beautiful. I was thinking that I've never been so turned on by anyone in my life." I hesitate, wanting to hide, but I'm topless and straddling him, and there's nowhere to hide, and the truth slips out unbidden anyway. "I was thinking that I have no expectations."

"Expectations for what?" he asks, searching my face with his eyes.

"This. Reece, I…" I feel my cheeks flaming red. "I don't know how to say it."

"Try. Please?"

"It's embarrassing."

"Impossible." He cradles the back of my head, guiding my face to rest on his chest, my ear over his heartbeat. "You don't have to look at me. Just say it, whatever it is."

"It's hard for me to orgasm," I whisper. "I want to keep going with you, but you should know that. It's not you—it wouldn't be your fault. I've just always struggled with it."

"We don’t have to do anything," he says. "I just want you to feel good."

"Everything you're doing feels amazing , Reece," I say. "I want to be here with you. I want to do this. I like the way you touch me. I like touching you. I don't want to stop. I just don't want you to think you did anything wrong when I can't come."

"If that's the case," he says, sliding both huge hands down my back, hesitating at my waistband, "then I’ll just have to enjoy trying."

"Reece," I mumble, flushing hot in the face as he delves his hands under the yoga pants to cup bare flesh. "I really like the way you touch me."

"Funny—I really like touching you. You have an incredible body, Lily." He pushes my yoga pants down past my butt.

All of a sudden, I'm on my back again and Reece is above me, lips stuttering over my breastbone. I clutch the back of his head, bury my fingers in his long, loose, cool black hair as it drapes around my shoulders. I apply the gentlest downward pressure, an encouragement to keep going.

His mouth slips lower. He frames a breast in his hand, cradles it, nuzzles his nose along the inner curve; a gasp rips out of me as he tugs my nipple into his mouth.

"Reece!" I cry. "More."

He growls with animal pleasure as he toys with my breasts, worships them with hands and mouth. The hot, molten line of arousal between breasts and sex is a throbbing, aching connection—whenever he nips or licks or strums my nipple, my sex pulses, pounds, and seeps with arousal.

"Fucking perfect," he mutters again, "so fucking perfect."

Lower, then. Kissing between my aching breasts. Lower. My navel. Lower.

He gazes up my body, fingers curling in my waistband. "I have to taste you, Lilith. Please." His eyes meet mine, pleading and aroused. “Say yes, honey. Tell me yes."

I brush tendrils of raven-black hair away from his eyes. "Yes, Reece. Yes. Yes."

He hauls my yoga pants down my thighs, past my ass, and off, inside out, taking my underwear with them.

I'm naked, bare to him, writhing with anticipation and arousal and raw, aching need. His hands slide against my hipbones, cradle my thighs, nudges them apart. Hesitantly, nervously, I let him guide my thighs open.

He reads my hesitancy. "Lily? You okay? Should I stop?"

"No!" I whimper, shaking my head, eyes closed. "No. I don't want you to stop."

"You're nervous."

I nod. "Don't do this, often," I whisper. "I'm a little uncomfortable with it. But I…I want you to."

"Lily, if you're uncomfortable—"

"Reece." I swallow hard. "I just…most of my past boyfriends or partners haven't…done that. Haven't wanted to. Or they get frustrated and stop. So I just have a weird relationship with it." I laugh nervously. "I'm kind of a control freak. It's hard for me to relax."

Reece kneels over me, hands caressing my breasts again. “Close your eyes and focus on me touching you. Try not to think. Just feel. If you feel okay doing so, show me or tell me what I can do to make it better, okay?" He kisses my chest between my breasts. "My only focus right now is making you feel good."

I close my eyes as his mouth finds my nipple again, and I caress his nape and then hold on there as he kisses, licks, and nips my nipples into throbbing and aching erection, making me whimper and gasp. My thighs want to shut, but his body is between them, and all I can do is wedge them against the hard cliffs of his shoulders. He kisses my ribcage. The underside of my breast. My navel. His hands cup my breasts and his lips slide downward. Nerves jangle and arousal pounds.

Lips ghost across my hipbone. His bulk shifts downward. I don't know what to do with my feet, my legs. My hands are fixed in his hair. He kisses my thigh—the other.

Oh god.

Hot breath washes over my sex, and I suck in a gasp. "Reece," I whisper.

A finger trails down my seam. "Soaked," he murmurs. The finger dips just barely inside, gathering a hint of my essence. "Sweet as fuckin' sugar."

Embarrassment rattles me. "Reece, god. Did you just…?"

I wrench my eyes open and look down.

He does it again, dragging his thick fingertip down through my lips, bringing it away glistening wet; he pops it into his mouth, eyes closing as if tasting the sweetest dessert.

"Ohmigod," I murmur. “Reece, come on."

"Love the way you taste, honey," he whispers. "Need more."

"Oh god, Reece." I can't look away, can't close my eyes, can't take a full breath.

Without removing his eyes from mine, he presses his mouth to my sex. His tongue drives up, wet and ticklish and squirmy and hot. And then his tongue touches my clit, and a full-throated moan escapes.

As with everything with Reece so far, nothing has ever felt like this. My arousal is a boiling, burning inferno. Pounding through me, suffusing my every nerve-ending and synapse. Honestly, I'm a little frightened. If it's this intense and he's barely touched me…

All thoughts are blasted out of my mind as he does it again, a quick flick of his tongue against the bundle of nerves. He slides his arms under my thighs, draping my legs over his shoulders, and his hands grasp greedily at my breasts. His tongue flicks and flits, and fire sears through my body. I arch up off the bed as heat wrenches through me; I cry out, shaking all over as his tongue slithers and prods, swirls and swipes. He's unhurried, slowly devouring me. Every movement of his mouth is intentional, ravenous and eager. His tongue drives against me, and his greedy hands clasp and clutch and knead my breast and caress my nipples as I arch and buck, flex and crane forward.

"Reece!" I gasp. "Oh god, Reece. What—what are you doing to me?"

His only answer is to withdraw one of his hands from my breasts and tuck it beneath his chin. Gently, slowly, he slips his thick digit inside me. Immediately, my sex clenches around it, and he withdraws it, slides it back in.

"Oh god," I whimper. "Reece, oh god ."

He growls, a sound of primal satisfaction rumbling in his chest. His tongue flicks and swirls arrhythmically, ratcheting me upward toward a boiling, bursting peak that frankly terrifies me in its intensity. His finger inside me only adds to the mad, wild, fraught feelings.

His finger drives into me faster, and his now his mouth finally finds a rhythm, and my hips begin to buck, and gasps and grunts and groans leak out of me.

The universe is tilting around me, swelling within me.

I can't take it.

I'm going to detonate. Rip open. Catch fire.

"Reece—" I gasp. "Oh god. What—oh god. What's happening? What—what are you—oh god, oh god. Reece—oh god, Reece!"

"Breathe, Lily," he murmurs. "Breathe. Let go. Trust me. I've got you." As soon as he's done speaking, his mouth fuses to my sex again, hungrily ravaging me.

His voice soothes my nerves, and I suck in a gasping, shuddering breath. My eyes shut, and I focus on Reece wedged between my thighs, his finger sliding in and out of me, his tongue driving, driving, driving. The heat and pressure are unbearable, now, an exploding sun within my core, each shuddering, thrusting, shaking push of my hips against his mouth spreading the tingling, shattering, crushing cusp of climax higher and hotter inside me.

Light bursts behind my eyes all at once, and heat billows through me, and I'm seized by a giant hand, wrung out and crushed. A scream rips out of me, and I arch up off the bed.

Reece cups a hand under my bottom, lifting me, holding me to his mouth, offering me to himself as he relentlessly devours me. His other hand works at my sex, driving his finger in and out of me—and then, just when I think I can't take anymore, he adds a second finger, and I'm torn apart by a wild crescendo of shudders, a climax unlike anything I've ever felt before, anything I've ever even dreamed of.

Tears trickle into my ears and stain my lips, tasting of salt, and Reece continues his assault. The wondrous heat and mad pressure crack something inside me. My pussy pounds with a rush of heat. Every last inch of my body is shuddering. I'm thrusting against his mouth helplessly, and his fingers are driving, slicking, pushing and pulling me to yet another climax, this one even more intense than the last.

And that's when I understand.

This is an orgasm.

Whatever I may have felt before was…mini-quakes at best. Precursors. Mere shadows of the real thing.

This is what I've sought my whole life, what I’ve thought was a myth, what I always assumed I was just incapable of. Even the orgasms I’ve given myself, after an hour of sweaty, frustrating work, pale in comparison to this.

I weep openly, unable to stop myself. Sobs become wild shrieks, and another hotter, wilder wave crashes through me.

"Let go, Lily," Reece murmurs. "I've got you."

"Scared," I whisper

"I know. I've got you." He kisses my sex—an act of affection, making out with my nether lips as if kissing my mouth. "Trust me. I've got you.”

He renews his frenetic assault on me, tongue-lashing me until I'm whimpering nonstop, grinding my sex against his fucking fingers. He adds a third, and that's my undoing.

I clutch his hair and knot my fingers in it, and scream my throat raw as a hurricane unleashes inside me. The heat and pressure boiling in my core shatter, and the world goes white.

I'm paralyzed momentarily, unable to scream or breathe or move other than to shake uncontrollably, butt lifted off the mattress, his fingers pounding in and out with loud slick squelches that should mortify me but only make everything hotter, wilder.

Then, the white world goes black, and there's nothing at all.