Caught in the Flames by Kacey Shea

in contrast to the fabric. I lick my lips when my eyes focus back at his visible bulge. I need him. Now.
    Reaching behind my back I unclasp my bra and allow it to fall from my breasts. I watch as his gaze goes straight to them. His fingers grip the elastic of his underwear and he yanks them down and walks to the edge of my bed, all strong and sexy man while palming his erection. My nerves bubble to the surface and the anticipation of this moment crashes over me.
    “Callie.” Chase moves onto the bed, one knee between my legs, then the other as he rips open the foil packet. “This is gonna be hard and fast, baby. But give me a few minutes and I’ll have li’l Chase up and ready for round two, because you—you are so fucking sexy right now and I know I’m not gonna last long. But I promise you, I’m making love to you all night long.”
    His words and the control they possess—the way he calls me baby, the fact he said make love, all of it—calms my nerves and my face fills with a smile. “Yes, please. I want you, Chase.”
    “I want you too, baby.” He covers my body with his own, braces his weight on his forearms just above my shoulders. He’s over me, hard and strong, and I feel so small and feminine beneath him. My fingers trace the ridges of his muscular abdominals, all the way down to where he’s hard just for me. I stroke him over the latex and he sucks in a breath. I love that. That as big and strong as he is, I still have the ability to control his reaction. I line him up at my entrance, and glance from under my lashes to find him watching my face with those melted chocolate eyes. Fuck . I love chocolate.
    We don’t say a word, but our gazes remain locked as he moves, thrusting hard and deep. I gasp. He groans. Our gazes never waiver. My body adjusts to him and he continues as promised, hard and fast, and it feels so good. I’m on the edge. So close, and I try to meet him there. I want to come with him. The connection I feel, it’s intense. It’s all over me, inside me, as his breath mingles with my own. Moans fill the quiet space above our panting. He’s everything. My everything, and all consuming.
    “Callie!” Chase shouts and thrusts once more before he pulls out and shudders his release. He drops his forehead to mine, but keeps his body held over me as not to crush me with his weight. He kisses my lips, softly, sweetly, and I wish I was experiencing my own orgasm right now. Not to be selfish. The sex was great. Phenomenal, even. But he’s catching his breath and I know how men are: once they come, they’re done.
    His lips leave mine and he moves off my bed, removing the condom to tie it off. “Trash?” he says and I point to the waste basket in the far corner. He tosses it inside and waggles his brows at me when it’s a perfect shot.
    “Now. I have some unfinished business to take care of.” His deep, low rumble sends shivers across my naked skin. He grabs my ankles and trails kisses down the insides of my legs, alternating sides, until he’s back at my core. “I love this pussy. You taste so good, Callie.”
    Within minutes the man’s made good on his promise and this time we make love, feeling each other, learning our bodies, discovering exactly what spots bring more pleasure. Dirty talk, sweet words, pants and moans—we share it all. I drift to sleep totally spent, fully satisfied, and wrapped in the arms of the man who has obliterated my idea of good sex. And probably ruined me for life. I don’t see how any other man could ever compare.

I hate PSIP. Post sexual intercourse panic.
    That moment of extreme anxiety I always seem to experience after hooking up with a new partner. Sometimes it’s immediately after the orgasm, during the quiet night when he’s snoozed out in post sex bliss that my mind starts to race. But in the case of the talented orgasm inducing Chase, it’s the morning after.
    Wrapped together in sheets and interwoven limbs, I wonder . . . was this a