15. Chapter Fifteen #2
Then as he moves around the kitchen, moves around me, his hands keep grazing parts of me—a hip, the small of my back, the curve of my ass while his lips make contact with my bare shoulder or my neck or my temple.
Light touches that should mean nothing—he’s always been more affectionate than most—are loaded with anticipation.
My body is a lit fuse, and each point of contact carries the flame of desire closer to detonating.
And although I’ve also thought about having sex with Trent, a lot in the lead up to today, I haven’t let my mind run wild with fantasies.
I tried to keep my thoughts mostly clinical, logistical.
Now that he’s opened the door by admitting he’s had more salacious thoughts, I can’t stop thinking about all the ways and places we could have sex in the kitchen alone.
Between the touches and my out-of-control brain, I’m so turned on by the time we finish dinner that I don’t want to do anything but drag him upstairs.
After we slot the last dish into the dishwasher, Trent tugs me into his body, his hand going into my hair, and he angles his head, drawing me into a deep kiss.
And I can’t help the moan that escapes, the way I meet his kiss with the same pent-up desire.
It’s been weeks since we last kissed, and I can’t believe how much I want this, how much nerves aren’t even a factor.
If he stopped right now, changed his mind, I’d cry about more than the loss of a potential baby.
He lifts me onto the counter to stand between my legs, and he runs a rough palm from my ankle and up to my thigh. His fingers curve around to my inner thigh, but he doesn’t move them where I’m dying for them to explore—instead he kneads my flesh.
“Fuck, I love that I get to touch you like this,” he says. “You have no idea how much I’ve thought about it.”
Then he’s kissing me again before I can respond or even really process what he’s said. His hands are up the back of my dress, unsnapping my bra on their way to the nape of my neck, drawing me closer and tighter as he kisses me more. His thumb grazes my raised nipple, and I gasp at the contact.
He breaks the kiss to peer around the kitchen. “Are all the blinds closed?”
“I closed them all when I got home.”
“In case I came home and fucked you on the table?”
“I wasn’t sure how it would go,” I say, but I almost can’t concentrate because his hands have continued to explore my body while he’s been talking.
He keeps coming close to where I really, really want them without actually getting there—skimming the edge of my panties with his fingertips but not fully engaging.
“I know exactly how it’s going to go,” he says, giving me a wicked grin before lifting me off the counter.
I wrap my legs around his waist and my arms around his neck as he carries us out of the kitchen. He stops in the hallway and grabs a bag and a couple towels before turning into the living room.
“Here?” I say, surprised.
“Definitely here,” he says, laying me on the wide couch. “One hundred percent here.”
Then he’s cradled between my legs, my dress around my waist, and he’s back kissing me, his rough hands kneading and gently squeezing while he rocks between my thighs. He’s hard against my sensitive core, and I moan at each contact.
I can’t even remember the last time I was so turned on. Even getting myself off hasn’t been that great the last few years, as though my brain can’t find anything worth imagining.
The reality of this, though—I’ll have memories, remembered sensations, for years. There’s definitely something chemical between me and Trent—pheromones on overdrive.
He pulls me up, my dress goes over my head with my bra, and then I’m left in just my panties.
He tugs at the back of his shirt, drawing it over his head, and I can’t help scanning his muscles, the tattoos that litter his chest. I want to trace each one with my tongue, ask why he got them and what they mean.
His jeans drop to the floor, and then he’s just in his boxer briefs, clearly as turned on as I am.
“I’ve got one rule, Em,” he says, his voice husky.
I drag my gaze from his body to make eye contact. “What’s that?”
“I don’t get off unless you get off.”
“That doesn’t make practical sense,” I say, quickly calculating the number of times I’ve orgasmed during sex. It’s not nothing, but it’s definitely not every time.
“I don’t care about practical,” he says, dropping to his knees, his fingers running along my soaked panties. “And I can definitely work with this.” He tugs my panties down my legs and then spreads me wide. “You’re so fucking wet for me. I can’t wait to taste you.”
Then his mouth is one me, and I arch my back at the contact. The last time a guy had his mouth on me was in college, and it wasn’t anything like this.
Trent’s tongue is magic, and suddenly his rule doesn’t seem so impossible to not just reach but sustain. I have never been so sure I could come before.
When he slips two fingers inside, I cry out from the need building inside me.
“Trent,” I gasp.
“That might be my new favorite way you say my name,” he mutters against my thigh while his fingers work me over, and then he’s back with his mouth and tongue. “I love the taste of you, and you’re going to come for me, like a good fucking girl, aren’t you, Em?”
Holy fuck . I don’t know what he does, but my orgasm hits me like a freight train. And I absolutely cannot control not only how loud I am, but how intense it all feels. It’s like he found some secret well of pent-up orgasms and set them all off at once.
He kisses his way up my body, and he buries his face in my neck while I feel like liquid, full of life and lifeless all at once.
“Trent,” I say, and I can’t help the amazement in my voice.
“I’m going to hate the sound of my name coming out of anyone else’s mouth after this,” he says, “cause that one is also a winner.”
“You’ve had those skills this whole time?” I murmur.
He chuckles against my neck and then he smooths back my hair when he makes eye contact. “You might have been wound a bit tight.”
Understatement of the year. And then it occurs to me that we haven’t even done the thing we were supposed to do.
“I got off,” I say, another understatement, “so now you get off.”
“I didn’t want to rush you,” he says. “And I bought lube, but I don’t think we need that.”
I cover my eyes, and I laugh a little. “No, I don’t think we do.”
“It’s flattering.” He tugs my arm off my face. “I just didn’t want to assume.” His eye contact is intense. “Don’t hide from me. You’re not allowed to hide from me.”
Then he sheds his boxer briefs, and my eyes widen at his length and girth. It’s been a while, but he seems slightly above average. Not like “Oh my god, it’ll never fit,” but definitely substantial.
He sits on a towel on the couch and places another one next to him. Then he encourages me to straddle his lap, which I do. His hands go into my hair, and he says, “You can still change your mind. No hard feelings.”
I wiggle against him. “Something is definitely feeling hard.”
“Em.” He searches my expression, not at all into my jokes.
“I want this.” I lean my forehead against his. “I want you.”
“I’ve been turned on since the minute I walked in the house tonight, so I don’t know how long I’ll last,” he says as I guide myself down onto him. “And fuck if you don’t feel amazing.”
“This feels okay?” I watch his strained expression, fascinated that I’m capable of doing this to him.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he says. “How long I’ve thought about this.” His hands span my back, drawing me tight to him so that each rise and fall brushes our bodies together, chest to chest.
The whole thing is more intimate than I ever expected given our deal, but he kisses me as though I’m all he’s ever wanted, as though doing this with me is the best thing that’s ever happened to him.
And it makes me wish that any of those things were really true, that the feelings I’m caught up in could actually exist between us.
Then his arm is along my spine, his hand on the back of my neck, keeping us tight, and his other hand is on my hip, urging me to go faster as he kisses me deeper. He breaks the kiss to breathe against my ear, his teeth grazing my earlobe.
“Fuck, Em. You feel so good. I can’t hold on much longer.”
Our cheeks are pressed together, and I murmur, “I want your baby, Trent.”
And he groans as I feel him pulse inside me, his hand holding me in place as he spills himself. His hands sink back into my hair, and he’s kissing me, slow and deep, so gentle that it breaks my heart a little.
“You okay?” he asks, his tone hushed.
“I’m good,” I say. “You?”
“As long as we survive this,” he says, “I’m great.”
We make eye contact, staring at each other for a long beat, and I want to reassure him, promise that this won’t get out of hand, but if this is where we’re starting, I really don’t know. I just don’t know if my feelings will get away from me.
Instead, I decide to take his statement in a different direction.
“You’re not sure you can survive another twelve hours of having sex with me?
” The internet was full of strategies on when and how often we should have sex, but we agreed to keep a narrow window to start.
It’s easier with Amir, and it’s easier with our work schedules.
Plus, I like the idea of keeping things tightly focused. If I don’t get pregnant, we can try something else.
“I told Bruce I’d be late coming in tomorrow,” he says. “More like sixteen hours. This cock is all yours to use as you wish.”
“All mine, huh?” I say, tracing a line down his body with my finger.
“It’s all yours.” He runs his thumb along my cheek. “Every inch.”
“There are a lot of them.”
“You liked that, did you?”
“Did the job.”
“We hope.”
And the banter helps set my mind at ease a little. We’re still just Trent and Emily. Nothing has to change.
“We’re going to survive this,” I say. “I’m sure of it.”