I’d never felt anything close to what I was feeling emotionally at that moment. Physically I hadn’t either, but it was the emotions that were almost overwhelming and hitting me the hardest.
Lifting my head, I met her eyes. “I’m never leaving this position.”
“What—” she panted, “about your broken back.”
Shaking my head, I withdrew until just the tip of me was inside her, then I pushed back through her walls. “Fuck.”
With every movement, every slide and clench, I swore I’d found my place in life. I didn’t mean having sex, I meant having Sasha. She was my place, I was sure of it.
Before long, I knew I wasn’t going to last much longer.
“Touch yourself. I need you to do it because—” I broke off as Sasha’s hand skimmed across her abdomen, stopping between her legs.
On the next punch of my hips into her, I felt the tips of her finger graze my cock, and the niggling tingle that’d warned me of my impending explosion shot to the appendage in question just as her walls began to spasm around me.
The male orgasm feels like an electric current that shoots through your spine to your balls and dick. It’s like hell, it’s like heaven, and it steals your breath.
Even if she described what she was feeling at that moment—which I’d be getting her to do later—I’d never fully understand what Sasha was going through as she came at the same time.
Judging by the scream that came out of her and her nails digging into me, it had to be close to the ecstasy I was going through.
And, as I lost the feeling in all of my limbs, I made a promise to myself to make her feel it again.
Soon.
Repeatedly.
Chapter Eleven
Sasha
What have I done?
I mean, I knew what we’d done, and we’d kept doing it in the three days since. But if there were rules in life, getting involved with anyone with the last name Townsend was one of the ‘do not’ rules.
I could hear my dads reciting them even now.
Don’t accept candy from strangers, Sasha.
Don’t get into strangers’ cars, Sasha.
Don’t eat food off the floor, Sasha.
Don’t forget to text us regularly to let us know where you are, Sasha.
Don’t break the speed limit, Sasha.
Don’t be overly confident when you’re driving. Confidence leads to death, Sasha.
Don’t wear your underwear over your shorts, Sasha. (Although, admittedly, I hadn’t heard that one in about fifteen years, it still hit me every time I got dressed.)
Don’t forget to have a fully charged phone when you drive, Sasha.
Don’t fall for the first boy who calls you pretty, Sasha. They just want in your pants to play and run.
Always use protection, Sasha. The consequences of pregnancy are for life, not just for Christmas.
Don’t get ideas about the Townsend-Rossi boys, Sasha. They’re pretty, and one day they’ll make panties disappear just by breathing, but even though they might not mean to, they’re heartbreakers.
I wouldn’t say my panties had disappeared just because he was breathing, but I’m reasonably sure I was going to get my heart broken.
Did that stop me from going back for seconds? To put it frankly: did it hell.
Although kudos for me, I remembered number ten on the list, so there were no consequences for me. I could still enjoy Christmas when it came around.
The other problem was, it’d been my first time. I’d not only ignored rule number eleven, which would lead to the eventual decimation of my heart, but I’d lost my virginity to a Townsend.
Technically, I’d lost the evidence of it years ago, and I also had two vibrators I’d ordered online once I’d arrived here. I hadn’t used Amazon, obviously, so the poor guy who picked my orders didn’t have that mental image in his head forever. Instead, I’d used an online sex store that had a massive inventory of the things.
I’d also used a pre-paid credit card, so my dads didn’t see ‘Love Thrust’ on my statement. No one wants their parents ringing up and asking what that was or thinking outside of the box and looking it up online.
But in terms of the first time a male had been there, yup, it was my first.
Not that I’d ever tell Jackson that. Hell no! He’d probably run for his life or change his name and appearance so I couldn’t bother him. I wouldn’t, but he’d likely make that assumption.
Thoughts like that should depress me. Wasn’t that what happened to women with men like Jackson? But for me, maybe I was wired wrong, but I’d come to the conclusion that I was going to have to just enjoy this for as long as it lasted. When it was over, I’d be civil and smile, but any affiliation with him would leave my brain entirely, even if I had to have hypnotherapy. I’d looked it up online, and it seemed like it’d be a good thing to try.