Chapter 22
When Nick kisses her, the entire world collapses into want.
It’s heat and longing and relief, sweet fucking relief, like her first sip of oxygen after a lifetime underwater.
His hands are already wandering up the back of her cropped sweatshirt while she scrapes her fingers along his jaw and into his hair.
God, she loves his scruff and the warmth at the back of his neck and his hips, perfect hips pressing against hers. Every bit as desperate as she is.
Then he’s sliding one hand beneath her knees and picking her up, carrying her down the hall.
Ramona’s laugh is nearly a squeal. She winds her arms around his neck, trying to kiss his chin, the side of his face, as he navigates them to the stairs.
“No way am I missing the chance to get you in a bed this time,” he says, panting. Slowing down. Pausing halfway up to catch his breath. “But…I may have misjudged the distance to your room.”
She pats his chest, indicating he can put her down if it’s too much, but he only holds her tighter. “I’m renovating tomorrow. Or moving into a shoebox.”
Now that they’re stopped, she takes the opportunity to breathe him in. She presses her mouth to his rough cheek, letting his cedar-peppermint scent wash over her.
Any other man, she’d be worried whether he wanted her or merely the idea of her, and until recently, she thought Nick Navarro landed somewhere in the middle.
Now she has no doubt which side he’s on.
At the threshold of her bedroom, he slides her down his body, hands grasping for as much of her as he can get.
His mouth opens against her throat just as her toes hit the carpet, and then she’s dragging him over to the bed, climbing into his lap.
No, this is where she’s moving in—right here, with her legs on either side of his hips and his hands in her hair, the hair he washed so tenderly last night.
When she got dressed, she specifically chose an outfit she wouldn’t feel sexy in, but maybe the truth is that she was comfortable enough around him not to mind if he saw her in sweats.
Either he’s extremely turned on by French terry or he doesn’t care what she’s wearing, with the way he groans as his hands curve over her ass.
He squeezes her through her leggings, pushing her up against his erection.
He’s already so hard for her, a sensation that burns all the way down her spine.
Ramona can barely believe she has permission to kiss him everywhere she wants to.
It’s almost overwhelming, deciding where to start.
Then the gold hoop through his left ear quivers, and she gives it a nudge with her nose before she bites it.
Oh—somehow that’s even better than she imagined, especially when she tugs the metal between her teeth and he lets out the filthiest little moan.
“I’ve been wanting to do that,” she says, “for fucking forever.”
“Do it again. Please.” And so she does, harder this time. His eyes flutter shut, and the deep red that spills across his face is downright indecent.
He’s wearing too much clothing, and she can’t take another instant of not seeing him.
She swipes his glasses and stows them on the bedside table, voice catching in her throat while his fingertips map her lower back.
Because fuck, his face is pretty: rapt gaze, long lashes, faint lines on his forehead and creased beneath his eyes. She puts her mouth on every single one.
With zero grace, she tugs off his shirt, trying to be patient when it gets stuck on his watch. Then she reaches for his belt beneath her, tries frantically to unbuckle it while she’s still in his lap.
“Slow down. We have time,” he says with a laugh, tilting her forward to kiss her again. Only until class tomorrow morning, really. And that’s not nearly enough. “We don’t have to do everything right now.”
“This isn’t just a onetime thing?” The relief makes her dizzy.
“No. Not for me. Unless that’s what you want?”
Ramona shakes her head, because suddenly she’s not sure she can do this otherwise. “I want more, too.”
Now she allows herself to properly take in the sight of his chest. All that tan skin, the rhythm of his breaths, the curve of his broad shoulders.
The auburn hair dusted along his pecs and spreading downward from his navel.
Twin dimples on either side of his hips, just begging for her to put her tongue there.
“Oh, so you’re the only one who gets to look?” Nick asks, mouth quirking.
She scoffs. “You’ve already seen me in a swimsuit.”
He reaches for the hem of her sweatshirt. Yanks it off in one fluid motion. “Not the same.”
Her leggings are much more of a challenge, given the way the brand touted their buttery softness but not how impossible they are for your partner to remove in bed. She’s suing Alo Yoga first thing tomorrow.
Finally, finally, the cursed leggings are off, and Nick’s gazing at her mismatched bra and panties, eyes heavy with want.
“So fucking beautiful,” he says, his fingertips sliding under one bra strap. She reaches around herself to flick open the clasp.
With his mouth on her collarbone, he gently lowers her to the duvet.
His cock pushes against the fabric of his boxers in this way that makes her light-headed, certain she’ll faint before she gets her hands on him.
This is already different from the office, different from the open house, and not just because of the addition of a bed.
Maybe it still feels frantic, but now they know each other.
“The way I’ve dreamed about being able to do this again,” he says, rolling one nipple between his thumb and index finger while he trails his lips across her neck. “This curve of your shoulder…it fucking haunts me.”
He sucks on the soft skin there before giving her breasts his full attention, tongue and teeth finding a slow, agonizing rhythm.
Jesus, it’s already too good, and she doesn’t hold herself back from letting him know.
Crying out and rocking her hips and fisting a hand in his hair to press his face harder against her chest. Indulgent—that’s how it feels, as though now that they’ve established they’re not in a hurry, he’s going to draw this out as much as possible.
“You’re torturing me,” she says, absolutely drunk on him.
A dark laugh. Mouth on her navel. “Good. You’ve done plenty of it the past couple months.” He hooks a finger into the band of her panties and gives them a snap. “Exhibit A: when you left a pair of these in my bag.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m completely innocent.”
“Like hell you are,” he says, dropping kisses along her waistline.
Then he lifts his head, giving her a questioning look as he brings his other hand to her panties. Thumbs balanced on her hip bones. Waiting for her permission.
“Please,” she says, dimly aware every word from her mouth sounds like she’s begging.
Once he slides them down and nudges them aside, he swallows hard, taking her in. Her whole body, completely on display. There’s only a shadow of her recent shyness—because she wants him to see her. Wants him to look.
“Ramona,” he says in this low, awed voice. “I can’t believe you’re real. You are stunning, in every single way.”
And though she’s heard those words her entire life, they sound different in his voice. They mean something, coming from him.
Yet her first instinct is to turn away, suddenly bashful.
He tucks a finger beneath her chin and brings her back to him. “I’m serious. When you’re in a room…everything else might as well not exist.”
“You too,” she manages on an exhale as warmth blooms in her chest. Maybe it’s a compliment he hasn’t gotten enough, and he deserves to hear it just as much as she has.
She digs a hand into his scruff. “No professor should have a jawline as defined as yours. You’re just…
lovely. I never want to stop looking at you. ”
She’s worried for a moment that this mention of his job will pull him out of the moment, but he only blushes, because evidently she can still make him blush when they’re like this, and god, she likes that a lot.
He lowers his body to hers, kissing her harder just as she reaches toward the bulge in his boxer briefs.
He’s not giving her the right angle, so she stretches farther, skimming her hand over the outline of his length.
But then he grits his teeth. A flex of his abdominal muscles as he circles her wrist with his fingers.
“You haven’t—not yet,” she explains. “We’re uneven.”
When he brings her hand to his mouth and kisses her palm, she’s hit with a surge of affection. “This isn’t a transaction. You have to know by now. Giving you pleasure…gets me off.”
This takes a moment to compute.
“I—okay. Just trying to process years of bad sex.” Then she cringes. “Sorry, not to mention past partners or anything. It’s like I’m cursed when we’re together—my mouth just won’t shut up.”
A wolfish smile. “I’m very fond of your mouth,” he says, a gorgeous hint of pride in his voice as he skates his thumb along her bottom lip. “And you already gave me enough information to boost my ego.”
“But what about your superego?”
“Did you just make a psychology joke? In bed? I really think you’re going to ruin me.”
She didn’t know sex could be fun. Not like this.
God, the way he gives each part of her his utmost attention—her smart, thorough professor.
He researches the impact of his mouth beneath her ear.
Makes a hypothesis and tests it against her neck.
Runs that experiment a few more times with his teeth.
Presents his findings with a bite of her waist. She’s slick between her legs and trembling with want, but he makes her wait for it.
She used to think her body was a thing not meant for her to enjoy. With every touch, he seems intent on proving her wrong.
When his fingertips trace her thighs, her legs are already parting for him. She exhales in anticipation as he holds his hand to her center, already wound so tight that a single stroke could unravel her.