Chapter 11 Lucy
Lucy
Is he about to do what I think he’s going to do?
’Cause that would be awesome.
I haven’t had a guy go down on me in forever—can’t remember the last time.
The thought sends a rush of heat through me, breath catching in my throat as his hands slide a little higher, his thumbs brushing over the inseam of my leggings. He’s watching me so intently, his dark eyes searching mine like he’s waiting for permission.
I should say something—maybe crack a joke to break the tension—but the words stick in my throat.
Instead, my hands tighten on the couch cushions, my heart pounding so loud I’m surprised he can’t hear it.
“Lucy,” he says, the needy sound of his voice sending a shiver down my spine.
“Mmm?” I manage to reply, my voice shaky despite my best efforts to sound composed.
“I’m about to eat you out so hard you’re going to forget every guy who came before me,” he murmurs, his voice rough, full of confidence, and utterly devastating.
Oh.
Oh . . .
That’s all I can manage.
His hands slide up my legs, steady and deliberate, pausing at the waistband of my leggings. He raises an eyebrow, giving me one last moment to stop him, but I don’t move—I can’t.
I nod, a quick, jerky movement that’s all the permission he needs.
His fingers hook into the fabric, and with a practiced ease, he starts to tug them down, his touch grazing my skin as he goes. The sensation sends a ripple of goose bumps up my arms, and I bite my lip, my heart thundering in my chest.
Yes . . .
I want this so bad.
I’m giddy with excitement.
So glad I shaved my legs this morning.
I release a shaky breath, leaning back into the cushions as he works the leggings off completely, then tosses them to the floor.
The room feels warmer, smaller, like it’s closing in on us, but in the best possible way. His hands slide back up my legs, lingering, exploring, like he’s mapping out every inch of me.
I watch, mesmerized, as he reaches the waistband of my baby blue lace panties, his fingers slipping beneath the fabric with a confidence that sends a shiver through me.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, his voice low and steady, though there’s a hint of amusement in his tone. “I take that as a good sign.”
“I’m not shaking,” I manage, fingers tightening on the couch cushions as his hands move, sliding the fabric aside. “You’re staring.”
He glances up, a slow, crooked smile spreading across his face. “Can you blame me?” Harris replies, his tone teasing but laced with something deeper. “You have the most beautiful pussy.”
Beautiful pussy . . .
I bite my lip, unsure of what to say—if there’s anything to say at all. He doesn’t seem to be waiting for a response. His focus shifts back to what he’s doing, his movements purposeful and unbearably slow.
I swallow hard, my fingers loosening their grip on the cushions as I try to breathe and focus on the way his touch feels, on the way he’s looking at me like he’s a starving man and I’m his next meal.
“Perfect,” he whispers. Grins. “You’re not going to be able to walk.”
Oh . . .
A shaky laugh escapes me, but it’s cut short as his lips brush against my inner thigh.
It’s soft at first—deliberate—like he’s savoring every moment. My head tips back, and I release a gasp, hands slipping from the cushions to thread through his hair.
Harris’s movements are slow and unhurried, as if he has all the time in the world to drive me absolutely insane.
He licks the sensitive skin on my inner thigh. Kisses it.
His mouth presses a series of soft, maddeningly gentle kisses up my thigh, each one sending a fresh wave of heat coursing through me. When his lips finally touch where I want him most, I can’t help the broken sound that escapes my throat, fingers still running through his hair.
He doesn’t stop, doesn’t pause to tease.
I lift my head to look at him, hands clutching at his hair.
“Oh my God,” I gasp, my voice trembling as my body tightens in response to him.
“Look at me,” he demands, voice low and commanding, the vibrations of it sending shivers through me.
My gaze drops to meet his, and the sight of him between my legs, his dark eyes burning with desire.
He sucks.
Sucks more, as if his life depends on it. As if it’s his job.
I watch, eyes glassing over. Face flushed.
Legs spread.
I am wanton, and it feels incredible.
“Yes . . .”
The pressure inside me coils tighter and tighter until it finally snaps, and I shatter completely, my body trembling. He doesn’t stop, drawing out every last ounce of my release, his hands firm and grounding on my skin.
Aftershocks ripple through me, leaving me utterly spent and weightless.
He doesn’t move right away, his lips brushing kisses against my inner thigh.
“You’re so sexy.” Harris slides his hands gently up my thighs, caressing them—going from teasing and confident to soft and reverent.
“I’m so limp right now.” I nervously giggle.
“I’m not.”
Not sure what to say to that.
I stare at the ceiling, blinking rapidly, trying to appear nonchalant while my brain scrambles to process the situation. Is this a date?
I shift slightly, feeling the absence of my panties like a glaring neon sign over my head. Where are they?
The floor?
The couch?
Oh God, what if they’re on the coffee table? I act casual, leaning around Harris’s broad shoulder to get a glimpse of the living room, my eyes darting over the couch, the floor, anywhere my underwear could have landed in my frantic scramble to get undressed.
But there’s nothing. No sign of them.
“Looking for these?”
He’s holding my underwear with his index finger, swinging them ever so slightly, a devilish smirk on his face.
“Yep,” I say, nodding furiously. “Thanks. I’ll—” I lunge, but he pulls them out of reach, his grin turning downright sinful.
“Please. Allow me.”
I swallow as I watch Harris deliberately slide my underwear up my legs, the soft fabric brushing against my calves, knees, thighs. His hands are warm and firm, his touch just this side of too slow, and the way he looks up at me through his lashes makes my breath stutter.
“There we go,” he murmurs, his thumbs grazing the skin at the tops of my thighs before he tugs the waistband back into place, his hands lingering just a moment too long.
My entire body is on fire, and he knows it.
Harris rises to his feet, that devastating grin still firmly in place. “Now,” he says, his thumb tracing a lazy line along my hip, “we need to finish our movie. And we’ve barely touched the food.”
Oh.
Right.
The movie and snacks.
Clearly—since he’s putting my clothes back on—he’s not planning to strip me completely naked and have his way with me on the couch. Oddly, I’m somewhat disappointed—is that weird?
“Yeah, totally. The movie. Pizza.” My voice comes out awkward and a little too chipper as I snatch my bottoms from the floor and pull them up my hips. I’m not about to sit here in only my thong.
Harris leans back, stretching out like he owns the place—and grabs the remote from the armrest. “You want to start over from the beginning or pick up where we left off?”
“Uh . . .” I glance at the screen, where the characters are bickering as they enter a restaurant for dinner. “Where we left off is fine.”
He is so close.
Smells so damn good, and now I know what his mouth feels like . . .
I shift slightly, tucking my legs beneath me in a poor attempt to create space between us. But Harris notices, of course. His arm dips lower, his fingers brushing my shoulder. It’s barely a touch, but it sends a ripple of heat down my spine.
Wow. Who knew the smallest touch could create this much chaos?
“I don’t do this kind of thing,” I admit quietly, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
“What kind of thing?” His brow furrows slightly.
I gesture vaguely between us. “Fooling around with people who take my classes.”
He chuckles, the sound low and warm. “We met before I was in your class, remember?”
I roll my eyes. “I meant guys I don’t know how to handle.”
He’s amused. Grins. “I’ll let you handle me any way you want while I’m in town.”
My heart sinks—an involuntary, unwelcome reaction that surprises me. I shouldn’t care. This is casual. Temporary. I’m not foolish enough to think it could be more.
He studies my profile while I chew. “Lucy,” he says, his voice coaxing. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”
Nothing.
Everything.
I glance at him, his expression open and curious, and for a second, I consider brushing him off. But something about the way he’s looking at me—earnestly, as if he actually gives a shit—makes me pause.
I go for honesty.
“I’m . . .” I clear my throat, searching for the right words. “Trying to figure out how this works.”
“This?” He raises an eyebrow.
“This fling.”
“Fling,” he deadpans, lips twitching. “You’re so cute. Who said this had to be a fling?”
He’s teasing me. I can see it in the way his eyes are crinkling at the corners.
“Um—the fact that you live in Arizona?”
He laughs softly, the sound low and rumbling, and for some reason, it makes my stomach flip. “Fair point,” he admits, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “But that doesn’t mean this has to be meaningless.”
I narrow my eyes at him skeptically. “You’re telling me you think a few days of . . . whatever this is means something to you?”
He is so full of shit!
Harris’s head tilts as he considers my question. “I’m saying it could. If we want it to.”
I’m thrown off by his candor.
He says it like it’s the easiest thing in the world, like the logistics don’t matter. Like I’m not here and he’s not there and it wouldn’t be a massive pain in the ass to try.
“Harris,” I start, trying to inject some logic into this before we get swept up in a discussion about it. “I repeat: You live in Arizona. We barely know each other. This has temporary written all over it.”
“And?” He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “Why does temporary have to mean it’s not worth it?”
I blink, pizza halfway to my mouth.
I stare at him, my mouth opening and closing as I try to come up with a rebuttal.
The truth?
I don’t have one.