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furiously, tasting the sweat, wanting to feel his body against her own.
     
    God damn, can this woman kiss! Stiles thought as Bridget rose upright again and resumed her thrusting, each plunge down accompanied by a soft growling grunt of pleasure. He began to thrust against her, pushing up with his hips as she rocked back, driving himself deeper into her. “Fuck me,” he growled as they moved together. “Fuck me!”
     
    Bridget could feel the sweat beginning to trickle down her body as they moved, the many long many minutes of effort overpowering the cool of the room. They were both bathed in sweat and she flung herself down, delighting in the slickness of his skin against her own. He rolled, dumping her into the bed before crawling over her to settle behind her, lying on his side as he tucked in tight behind her. She loved being taken from behind and wondered if he would fuck her ass tonight.
     
    He settled in behind her, his orgasm on a hair trigger. Gripping his cock, tight, he steered it into her pussy again, then slid an arm under her head so she would be comfortable, cupping her upper breast in his hand as his other hand began to tickle her clit. Now it was a race, a race to see who could finish who first.
     
    Bridget could feel her third, and probably final, orgasm bearing down on her. She sensed they were in a dual, an erotic competition of the most pleasurable kind. She could feel the tension in Stiles’s body as he thrust into her savagely, his pants and growls as he wound himself tighter and tighter bringing her own orgasm close. She reached behind her, pulling his head to her neck as his groans grew louder and deeper, his fingering of her button more intense, his touch sending searing waves of pleasure through her. With a roar, his hand left her pussy and he thrust into her like an over-revved machine, bellowing into the night as he came. And still he slammed into her, crying out as he splashed into her, hot and wet, his hands pulling and tugging on her, his head pressed hard into her back. And still he fucked her.
     
    “Fuck!” she cried out, the word drawn out and staccato as he continued to pound into her furiously, overtaken by her own orgasm. She gripped the bed linens, pulling at them as she fought against the pleasure that threatened to overwhelm her.
     
    He felt her go limp as she came and he stopped his manic thrusting, gasping in relief and sagging into her as they lied together, panting from their exertions and pleasure. He pushed in deep, the movement making him gasp, then held himself there as he kissed her shoulder softly and their breathing slowed.
     
    He wanted to tell her how he felt, how he would never forget her, how she was the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with, but he held his tongue, as he always had. She belonged to another, and he wouldn’t ask her to stay and try to hold her against her will. He cared too much for her for that.
     
    She was alive, a feeling that she had only when wrapped in Stiles arms. She longed to stay with him, to be with him and feel like this forever, but she knew it was impossible. She closed her eyes, and in the damp and wrinkled bed, thought of what might have been until she drifted into sleep.
     
    As she relaxed into sleep, he held her softly, gently, his touch as tender as his fucking was hard. As her breathing became deep and steady, he kissed her on the shoulder. “I love you, Bridget,” he whispered for the first time, before sighing deeply as he held her and waited for sleep to take him.
     

 
    CHAPTER SEVEN
     
    Lindy woke, her eyes fluttering open in a dim room. The first thing she noticed was she didn’t know where she was. The second was that she felt like shit. Then it came to her. Bridget’s party, the tequila, J. J. Treble…and sex. She lied perfectly still as she tried to figure out how she felt, Treble curled into her back with his arm draped around her. After a moment she realized that she didn’t feel that much