Bang by Ruby McNally Page A

an odd butterfly flutter that feels like nothing else in the world. He’s gripping so hard it feels like he’s holding her orgasm in the palm of his hand. “Fuck, Mari.” He’d be worried about hurting her if the pleasure on her face wasn’t so totally, mind-bendingly overt. His whole palm is wet.
    â€œThere,” he says as she relaxes. “That’s a girl.” He wants to tell her how insanely hot she is, to lick his fingers clean or get her to do it for him, but before he’s got two words to rub together she’s pulling his shirt off and working his belt buckle, yanking his jeans over his hips.
    â€œSay what you want,” she murmurs in his ear, this quiet begging. “Jack. Tell me what you want me to do.”
    â€œGet on the floor,” Jackson blurts.
    For a second Mari just stares at him and Jackson panics, terror making it feel like all the water in his body draining out at once. Fuck, she’s his work partner. Just because she maybe likes it a little rougher than he would have guessed doesn’t mean he can—that she wants—shit. “Only if you want,” he adds immediately.
    Mari smiles.
    She reaches up to pull a spare elastic off her elegant wrist, gathering her hair into a ponytail.
    Then she drops to her knees on his rug.
    The silence in the bedroom is so complete Mari can hear her own breathing. She scoots closer until she’s kneeling in the blue-black shadow of the bed, trying to get a better look at Jack’s face. Her heartbeat is in her throat and between her legs.
    â€œShit, Mari.” He reaches down and touches her cheek gently, tracing the shape of her mouth. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed where Mari left him, jeans around his hips and boxers still in place. When Mari opens her mouth to suck at his thumb, he swears.
    â€œShit yourself,” Mari murmurs, scraping her teeth over his knuckle. Then, as Jackson’s knees start to part expectantly on either side of her, she pulls off and sits back primly on her heels. “Show me.”
    Jack’s brow furrows. “Mari. What do you—” It takes a minute, but then she can practically see the lightbulb clicking. “Christ, girl, really?” Jackson swears. “Okay.”
    He stands, shucking his jeans and boxers. Then one heavy hand is on her head, making a loose fist around the base of her ponytail. “This what you mean?” His other hand is on his cock, pumping lightly. Marisol clutches her own hands together in her lap to keep from reaching for him.
    â€œI think it’s what you meant,” she says. All her limbs feel noodle-loose, neck included. She wants to rest her forehead on his thigh. She wants to lean up and kiss the bullet scar on his stomach. Instead she squeezes his thighs, letting her mouth fall open just a touch.
    â€œFuck.” The fist in her hair gets tighter. And then Jackson, her partner Jackson, who she’s known for ten years, is feeding his cock into her mouth.
    â€œMarisol.”
    Mari hums quietly, sucking until her lips are up against the ring made by his fist. Jack lets go with a quiet fuck , the hand around her ponytail loosening for a second as he fumbles with something on the nightstand. Then there’s a click, and the room floods with light.
    â€œI just want—” he starts. Mari looks up and he’s staring down at her, face flushed and twisted. The bedside lamp is orangey-yellow. “I gotta see.”
    Mari likes seeing too. Everything about him is beautiful, the soap-sweat smell of his body and how he’s just barely thrusting, the memory of that big hand squeezing between her legs like he was staking a claim. He’s tall. Taller still when she’s down here on her knees. She wants him to keep going, to pull her hair, wants him to use her a little. She’s trying to prove something, maybe, but also it just feels good. Jack’s not this aggressive, not normally.