Then harder when she says my name like an answer.
I keep one hand beside her head, the other at her hip, watching, listening, checking every change in her breath. She meets me. God, she meets me. Not passive. Not performing. Her hands on my back, my neck, my arms. Her teeth in my shoulder when she gets too loud, exactly like I told her.
Pain flashes.
Pleasure follows so hard I nearly lose the rhythm.
“Bite me like that again and I’m going to embarrass myself,” I warn.
She laughs against my skin.
Then bites softer.
Wicked woman.
My woman.
No.
Yes.
Hell.
I kiss her hard enough to swallow both thoughts.
She comes apart under me with her mouth open against mine, body tightening, shaking, taking me with her so close I have to stop moving and breathe through clenched teeth.
“Derby,” she whispers.
There is wonder in it.
That ruins me more than the pleasure.
I move again, rougher now because she pulls me there, because she wants it, because her yes is in every arch and grip and sound. The bed knocks once against the wall. We both freeze.
From the other room, nothing.
Then she giggles.
Actually giggles.
It’s so unexpected and sweet and dirty in the dark that I drop my face to her neck and laugh too, quietly.
“Shh,” she whispers.
“You shh. You started this.”
“I did not.”
“You bit me.”
“You told me to.”
“You listened for once.”
She pinches my side.
I thrust on instinct, and her laugh turns into a gasp.