Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
PETRA
My underwear is absolutely soaked when I strip them off in my closet.
I don’t know how I could get so turned on walking to a car next to him, but it happened.
And then the car ride back, where he wrapped his arm around me and pulled me into his side, where I dragged my fingertips down his thigh and raked my nails back up.
If Stella hadn’t been in the back seat with us, there’s no doubt in my mind I’d have given him a hand job right there, even with Daniel in the front seat.
Slipping the jersey back on, I loosen the laces that run from the neck down the shirt so that it gapes open between my breasts. I want him to think of me like this every time he slips his own jersey over his head.
After I quickly brush my teeth and wash my face in the bathroom, I hear the glass door at the other end of my room opening as I’m drying my face.
I step out of the bathroom, my hair still up in a ponytail and my face still damp, as Sasha walks through the door from the solarium in nothing but a thin pair of jersey shorts.
I pause in the doorway, noting that the steel pipe that was threatening to break out of his pants earlier is gone.
It’s a disappointment until I realize that I can easily make it reappear.
As I lean against the doorframe, I cross my arms over my chest and can feel my boobs squeezing together, hopefully giving him a nice view of my cleavage.
He stalks across the room toward me, his eyes never leaving mine, but he stops about a foot in front of me.
My body, expecting his touch, reacts by stepping forward toward him.
I stop about an inch away, and he lets out a sound that’s half sigh, half groan.
He takes my hand in his. “Come here,” he says as he turns and starts walking back toward the solarium.
Once inside, he walks across the space to the low brick wall with the glass rising from it.
He steps behind me so I’m facing the lights surrounding Central Park and plants his hands on my shoulders, those thick fingers of his expertly running along the ridges of tight muscles there.
Holding Stella for half an hour while we waited for him was a lot more painful than I let on.
It would have been fine if she were awake, but as dead weight, it was a killer. Still, I’m not upset we waited.
I let my head drop back to rest along his collarbone as he massages my shoulders, then I tell him that my lower back is killing me too.
He gently slides his hands under the jersey and uses his thumbs to work out some knots there also.
The force of his hands on my back moves my upper body forward, and I plant my hands on the glass to hold myself upright.
Behind me, he steps closer and fits the length of himself between my ass cheeks.
“You’re not wearing anything under this,” he growls.
Instinctively, I push my hips back to slide along him. A low sound rattles around his throat, but he doesn’t stop massaging my back even as he pushes his hips forward to increase the pressure between us.
I watch the spectacular view of the city as his hands work their magic on my lower back for another minute until his hands move to my stomach and then up the front of my body to my breasts.
He cups them in his hands, rolling my nipples between his thumb and forefinger and in response, I push my ass back against him even harder.
He dips his head so his mouth is next to my ear and in a low voice tells me, “I am absolutely obsessed with your body.”
“Good.” I turn my head enough for our lips to meet, and kiss him gently, our lips toying with each other for a minute until he deepens the kiss and lets one of his hands trail down the front of me until it meets my center.
He drags two fingers from my clit, through my slick folds, back to my ass, then switches direction again.
My hips move to meet his fingers, wanting them inside me to fill the aching emptiness that’s suddenly desperate for him.
But he tortures me by dragging his fingers back and forth along my seam until I’m saying his name, begging him, “Sasha, please.”
“Still begging,” he teases.
The sigh that escapes my lips when he enters me with his fingers is otherworldly, and I can’t be responsible for the sounds that escape my lips as he begins stroking me deeply inside while his palm slides along my clit with each thrust of his hand.
Between the feel of his enormous cock along my ass, the miracle his fingers are working inside me, and the way he’s gently pinching my nipple with his other hand, he’s got me ready to orgasm in record time.
“I’m so close,” I whisper, then want to cry when his hand leaves my breast. But he uses it to push his shorts down his legs, then he’s back with his bare skin against my ass.
Then he’s moving again, and I’m having trouble deciding which I appreciate more: the way his long fingers can reach the parts of me that need his touch, or the way his rock-hard muscles are cradling my body from head to toe, making me feel protected and cherished.
I consider myself pretty well versed in sex, and this still feels different somehow.
More intimate, more meaningful. Less about getting off and more about the connection.
I mean, this is the first time in years that I’ve spent more than one night with a man.
I’m wondering if the same is true for him, or if he’s had successful short- or long-term relationships, when the pulsing deep in my core begins.
It spreads, making my legs shake beneath me and my arms feel tingly.
My breath comes in short inhaled gasps and long exhaled moans, and I don’t even know what I’m saying, but words are tumbling out of my mouth.
When my muscles stop pulsing around his fingers, he pulls out and I hear the rip of a condom wrapper, but I’m too exhausted to even move.
“When I saw you at the game tonight in my jersey, all I could picture was bending you over,” he says, one hand coming to my hip and the other guiding my back down so my hands are resting on the cast iron table next to us.
The jersey moves up my back as his lips trail kisses along my spine.
“Even mid-game I wanted to be inside you,” he says, his mouth next to my ear as his body cups mine.
Between my legs, he rubs the hard, long length of himself along my slickness.
My hands rest on the table, still warm from the sun even though the air is turning cold this late at night. A shiver of anticipation runs through my body. “I live to make dreams come true,” I say as I push my hips back into him.
His responding growl sends another shiver through my body as the realization that I can have this effect on him floods me.
He pulls back and then he’s stretching me open as he slips into me.
I’m still sensitive from my orgasm and the feel of him sliding along the nerve endings inside me, dragging that magnificent cock along the slick walls of my core, has me keyed up way too fast.
Then he wraps his hand around my ponytail and he must stand because his chest is no longer pressed against my back. A tiny tug has my neck arching backward.
“Look at me.”
I glance over my shoulder and am surprised at the possessiveness I see in his eyes as they scan my face and then travel down my body before returning to meet my eyes.
“You have no fucking idea what you do to me, Petra. Watching myself enter you like this—You . . . this . . . is even better than I always imagined.”
I’m sure my eyes go wide at the word “always.” He pictured us together like this? Is that what he meant last night when he said not seeing me like a little sister was half the problem?
“Everything about you,” he says as he drags himself slowly in and out of me, stoking a fire right between my legs, “is exquisite. Everything. Your smart mouth, your drive and ambition, the fierce way you care about people, your protectiveness. And this body . . .”
He picks up the pace, his thrusts coming faster and harder and leaving me breathless in the best possible way. “Talk to me,” he says. “What are you feeling?”
I’m too focused on his words, the feeling of his fingertips as they press into my hip, the way he’s hitting that spot deep inside me exactly as I need him to hit it, the way his hand is still wrapped around my hair holding my head in place.
It takes me a moment to find the right words.
“I feel . . . overwhelmed . . . possessed. I feel like I want to do this as often as possible. Like this is what was always meant to be between us.”
The last sentence has him grunting in agreement as he pounds into me, his movements forceful and gentle at the same time. Then he stops suddenly, pulling out right as I was starting to feel the first traces of my next orgasm.
“I want to see you,” he says as he flips me over, lifting me up and laying me back on the table.
“And I want you to see me too.” He pushes back inside me, then reaches his hands inside the open neck of the jersey and cups my breasts before bringing them up so that the neckline of the shirt holds them in place like a push-up bra.
“You like that I’m wearing your number?”
“I normally avoid jersey chasers like the plague,” he says. “But you in my jersey . . . it’s the biggest fucking turn-on.”
He hooks his hands under my knees, bringing them up to the sides of his chest. At this angle, he’s so deep, and I’m stretched so wide from the thickness of him.
His eyes are still on my breasts, so I bring my own hands up and cup them, rubbing my thumbs over my nipples.
I see the heat in his eyes, those molten gray irises swimming with lust, his pupils so large they almost take over the irises. “You like it when I touch myself?”
“Hell yes,” he grunts, his dark hair falling forward into his eyes as he looks down at me.