34. Topping That
NICKY
I got ready for bed and then modeled my new sleep shirt for the guys: an extra-large Aftermath hoodie that hung to my knees. “Nice?” I asked.
Archer and Mal applauded. Ian got to his feet. “Looks like it’s bedtime, guys,” he said with a grin.
Archer did a perfect trumpet impression. Mal cried out at the end, “Charge!”
Ian chased me into the back lounge, mock growling at me. His playfulness was a magnificent contrast to the grumpy man I’d first met, hiding behind his hair and endlessly playing scales all day and night.
I shrieked when he tossed me bodily across the back sofa, giggles rising out of me in a fizz.
“Stay right there,” he commanded, attempting to look stern. “Don’t you move. I’ll get our blankets.”
He frowned when I tugged the hem of the hoodie down, so I pulled up a corner to my hip to let him know I was bare under the shirt. His eyebrows went up. “Uh-huh,” he said. “I’ll be back soon.”
I laughed. True to his word, he was back quickly, having stripped down to his shorts and exhaling the respectful scent of toothpaste. He flipped off the lights, flung a blanket over us, and curled to face me on his pillow.
I faced him too. “Selene was hard on you. I’m sorry.”
His hand covered mine when I lay it on his chest. “She wouldn’t have done it if she didn’t think—” He inhaled and ordered his thoughts. “If she didn’t think you and I had the potential to hurt each other. You know?”
I knew. I nodded. The mood had shifted from light-hearted to the intimacy of near darkness, cuddled together in the night. “I liked what you said about infatuation, though,” I said, thinking out loud. “This feels so intense, you know? Like, I can breathe better when you’re with me, and that’s crazy.”
“Crazy.” I could see the edge of his face from the low light in the hallway, but I didn’t need to see his smile to be able to hear it. “It’s like a temporary form of insanity, huh?”
“Insanity. That’s right. Like we’ve got a fever.”
“And we have to be careful because fevers break eventually.”
“Or kill you.”
“Exactly.” He stroked my head, smoothing my hair in the way that made me want to purr. “Do I have to learn how to get to sleep without you before I inevitably fuck this up and you run from me screaming?”
“That’s going to be tough,” I said, sliding my hand from his chest to his neck so I could pull myself up to kiss him. “Because I’m going to need to sleep right next to you until I fuck this up and you run screaming.”
I could hear Archer and Mal in the kitchenette. I couldn’t hear what they were saying over the highway hum of bus eight, but I knew they were still up. When they went to their bunks, Ian and I would be on full display. If someone got up in the middle of the night to pee, Ian and I would be right there, sleeping on the sofa.
So, Ian’s kiss was warm but not hot. We were both behaving ourselves.
Then his hand slid down from my head. Over my shoulder. Down my ribs. Along the dip at my waist. Over the flare of my hip.
Until his fingers found the hem of the hoodie and slipped inside.
“Ian,” I sighed, both happy and concerned about the heat he was smoothing over my skin.
“I know. I’m not an exhibitionist. I’ll be good. I just want to—to feel you. Feel you here.”
His hand, large and strong and capable, reversed its journey, the cloth bunching up against his wrist as he slid up my front. I sighed with pleasure and stretched my toes when he closed over my breast, the nipple already puckered.
“This is what you mean about being good?” I arched against his hand, wishing we could go further. Wishing I didn’t want to go further.
“I’m being good. Anyone walks by, they see my back. And you and me under a blanket. What’s not good about that?” He was lining the tip with one finger. I closed my eyes to concentrate on the sensation. “Is this not good?”
The bastard was teasing me, tenting his fingers to trail fire up the sides to the top.
“That’s not fair,” I whispered.
“Seems fair to me.” Ian was entirely too satisfied with himself. I shifted until I could get both my hands down to stroke his cock against the soft cotton of his shorts. “Hey now—watch that.”
I chuckled. “What, are you telling me this isn’t good?”
He was growing in my fingers, the length and strength of him making me proud. Making me greedy.
“Stop that,” he murmured in a voice that did not mean “stop that.”
“Be careful,” I said, smiling in the darkness. “I believe in ‘no means no.’ Say it again, and I really will stop.”
“Okay. Don’t stop. This is crazy. I really want you.”
In the front of the bus, Archer laughed at something Mal said.
“This is like making out when my parents are home,” I whispered. “Frustrating and exciting and delicious.”
“Well, we did want to watch each other. Mutual masturbation. Remember?”
“So . . . no fucking? But touching? Until what? You kill me by teasing my breasts?”
“Until I make you come.” He leaned down to kiss me through his whispers. “Very, very quietly.”
“And what about you?” I reached under his waistband to get to his skin. “Can you come very, very quietly?”
“Oh man. I can try.”
“This is so naughty.”
“Yeah.” The smile in his voice notched up my excitement. “Could you come from me playing with your breasts?”
“I don’t know. That feels pretty good . . .”
“We’ll see how far I can get, and then I’ll slide this hand further south.” He pinched my nipple lightly, and I jumped.
“It’s going to smell like sex in here,” I breathed.
“There’s a vent. I’ll open it when we’re done. Now hush. Do you like it when I do this?” He used his whole hand to cup my breast. “Or is this better?” His thumb swiped along the crease.
“I don’t know. Do you like this better?” I traced the ridge at the head of his cock with my finger. “Or does this make it better?” My other hand slipped down to stroke his balls.
“Jesus,” he moaned.
“Hush.” I grinned. “This was your idea, you devil.”
“Fuck. I’d like to use my mouth on you right now.”
“And would you like my mouth on you? Would you like it if I slid my hot, wet mouth over the head of your cock? Took you as deep into my mouth as I could?”
I felt the shiver that rippled down his body. “Why did I ever think this was such a good idea?” He laughed quietly. “If you’re going to use such suggestive language, I think I need to bring out my big guns.”
“I don’t know. I think I’ve got ahold of your pretty big gun,” I whispered.
His hand left my breast and fought its way out of the restrictions of my hoodie and my arm overlapping his. He brought his fingers up to his face but paused. I could almost hear him thinking.
“Open your mouth,” he said, his voice hushed but hard.
I shivered at the quiet command and parted my lips. He slid his middle finger into my mouth, his hand cupping my face, and I moaned as I sucked at him. His finger, long and strong as it was, was a poor substitute for his cock, but the knowledge that he was going to slide that finger deep into my core and stroke me with it sent a bolt of electricity through me.
I lapped at him, wrapping my tongue around his finger and sucking. That made him groan. He slid his finger out of my mouth and held it high as the other fingers skated down my body. “Oh, god, Ian?—”
“Shh. Be very quiet.” His finger, wet from my mouth, slid along my seam and slipped into my heat and wetness.
I leaned my head back, awash with pleasure. “You be quiet.”
“Please god,” Ian gasped, “don’t let the guys decide to go to bed now.”
I rode his finger, my breaths becoming pants, while I frigged his cock.
“Harder,” he murmured. “Grip me tight. Tight as this sweet pussy. God, your heat.”
“I don’t want to hurt you,” I breathed. “The friction—wouldn’t it—” An idea occurred to me. “Move your hand for a minute.”
I nudged his hand away from my crotch and slid my fingers deep inside myself, arching my back at the feeling. I got my fingers wet, sure that they were glistening when I pulled them out, and slid them along his cock.
“Did you just—oh my god,” he hissed. “God, Nicky, you’re so—that feels so good?—”
With the added slickness, I felt confident about tightening my grip on his shaft.
He groaned as I increased my strength and speed. His fingers found my center again and continued their stroking, gentle, firm assault. “I want to fuck you so bad, Nicky. I’m about to lose it—oh my god.”
“Shh,” I hissed. “Quiet. Quiet. We have to be—oh—quiet?—”
When he came, gritting his teeth to remain silent, it excited me so much that it tipped me over, too, and I came against his hand, whimpering into his neck. “Oh, god.” I gulped in lungfuls of air, trying to slow the pounding in my body.
“Oh, god,” he echoed, relaxing against me. We breathed in the scent of each other and slowly came back down. Then he kissed my forehead. “Sorry. I made a mess.”
I giggled. My hand, wrist, and forearm were sticky. “Yeah, you did.”
“Be right back.” With a heave, he was gone, and I was alone and cold in our makeshift bed. I watched through lazy eyes as he fumbled in his bunk. Ah. Clean shorts. He ducked into the tiny bathroom for a moment and returned with a warm, wet washcloth. He wiped my hands and arms clean, and I took a quick swipe at my still-wet crotch. He took back the washcloth with a smile.
“Come back,” I whispered.
“Let me put this stuff in the laundry.” Tidy, organized man. “Turn over,” he said when he came back. “I’ll spoon you. Next time we can try it like this.”
I swatted behind me, hitting his hip. “We’re not supposed to be having sex on the bus, remember?”
“Oh yeah.” He bumped his groin into my ass, but it was nothing more than a polite leer. I was still sated by my orgasm, and I assumed he was too.
He pulled me closer. “I liked your friends,” he murmured.
My smile was sleepy. “They liked you too. Two more days until it’s your turn and I meet your family at the Seattle concert. Are they going to like me?”
His arms tightened around me. “I dunno. Is there an MBA union?”
I wrinkled my nose in unease. “They’re not going to like me for being a college girl. Right?”
“A college girl who’s going to make her own excellent living? A college girl who brought their oldest son out of profound insomnia? A college girl who got us paid extra for the LA concert? Yeah. They’re going to hate you.”
“Don’t tease me. I want them to like me.”
He kissed my neck. “They’re going to like you. How could they not?”
He was sleepy. I was anxious. I needed him to join me in anxiety. “One of these days, you’re going to meet my mother and father.”
I felt his muscles coil up again. “Oh.”
“Yeah.” Now he was with me.
“Can we not talk about your father when I can still smell you on my fingers?”
“Ah, now you see how I’m feeling about meeting your family.”
“Then let me reassure you. My mother is most likely to smother you with loving attention. Don’t take it personally—she’s been whining about grandchildren since Archer’s sister had her baby, so please excuse her if she sees you as nothing more than a pretty casing around a very useful uterus.”
His tone of seriousness made me laugh, and I found that I’d relaxed again. “Okay. I can handle it.”
He bumped his hip into me again. “You can handle it anytime you like, Sweden.”
“I thought my nickname was Norway.”
“Sure. Whatever you want.” He was getting drowsy again. I pulled his arm around me more closely and he cupped my breast, not in lust but in sleepy affection.
“That was really fun today,” I said. “Dancing with you.”
“Huh. That wasn’t dancing. That was swaying. Too crowded for dancing.”
I looked back over my shoulder trying to catch his eye. “Can you dance, O’Rourke?”
He scoffed. “They call me Twinkle Toes, Swanson. I’ll show you sometime.”
Five weeks on a bus and you think you know someone, only to discover whole new aspects. I settled back, newly content. How fun. “What kind of dancing?”
“Oh, all kinds. I don’t mean ballet or tap, though. Just regular dancing. But I really like swing.”
I turned in his arms to look at him. “You mean the big band stuff? The kind where you throw your partner around and flip her and stuff?”
He traced a line from my forehead down my nose. “Yeah. I got pretty good. I haven’t done it in a while, but it’s really fun. You do it?”
“No,” I said, marveling at the many faces of Ian. “But I’d be down to learn.”
“Takes a lot of practice, those throws.” He settled me against his chest and closed his eyes. “And we’ll need more room. Have to work on it after the tour.”
I tangled my feet with his, and he let me. He was planning on a life—a life with dancing—after the tour was over. And his mother was predisposed to liking me.
Was this a fever? Or something more?