chapter 83
I expected him to move fast.
I expected our touches to be frantic.
I thought it would be a fuck, hard and dirty, like an affair was supposed to be.
It was none of those things, yet it was everything.
“Ty.” He breathed my name like it was life, shutting the hotel room door and flipping the switch; everything suddenly bathed in warm light.
A small room. Wooden desk. Vintage chair.
White bedspread. Big pillows. Glass wall.
City lights. Chase had bribed the desk clerk to allow Titan’s presence and I put him in the bathroom, firmly shutting the door.
Chase stepped forward, and I stepped back, my shoulders hitting the door, my eyes closing when his head lowered to mine, the first kiss soft and hesitant, the second deeper, stronger.
His fingertips brushed along my side, underneath my layers, and I lifted my hands, our kiss breaking as he rolled my shirt and pullover off.
They hit the floor, our mouths met again, and there was the first brush of his bare hands on my skin.
Sweeping over my stomach, upward.
Soft in his cup of my breasts, his gentle lift, squeeze.
He pulled back from my mouth, his eyes falling to his hands, the skim of fingers across delicate skin, around and across my nipples. They stood at attention, and I gasped at the feather-soft contact.
His eyes darted to me at the sound, his fingers repeating the motion, whisper-light over them. “Harder?” he asked.
“No. Just like that.”
“Close your eyes. Relax.”
I did, leaning against the door, his fingers continuing their tease across my skin.
“I’ve thought about these breasts for four years,” he said gruffly.
“What they looked like. Felt like.” There was the drag of his cheek across the top of them, his hands cupping them against his face, and I gasped, my hands finding the top of his head and gripping his hair.
The hot dart of a tongue, flicking across my nipple, a moment of suction, then a kiss, my body leaving the door as I twisted against him.
“They are perfect, Ty. Even more perfect than they were before.” His hands squeezed, almost too hard, and I inhaled sharply, my eyes opening, the room blurry, then focusing.
His head lifted, my hands fell from his hair, and he pulled me to the bed.
“On your back,” he choked out, yanking at his clothes, his long-sleeved shirt pulled over his head, his workout pants jerked down, underwear following suit, and I slid to the edge of the bed, my hands reaching for his waist, my eyes on his cock.
I reached out, but he stepped away, frowning, his hand going to it, wrapping around it. “No, Ty.”
“I want it,” I begged. “I want to touch it.”
“Not to be un-gentlemanlike, but I haven’t gone to bed in four years without jacking off to the thought of you. And it wasn’t you on your knees. I have to touch you, baby. I have to fucking drink you in. And there isn’t a thing that you can say to change that fact.”
I pulled my eyes from his hand, from his cock, and looked into his face. Saw pain there, his voice almost shaking on his last words, the need in his eyes so strong it screamed.
“On your back,” he repeated. “Pants off.”
I held his gaze, my sneakers kicked aside, my leggings peeled off.
I left on the underwear, a white thong, and he let out a soft sigh, standing alongside the bed, my body stretched out beside him, his hand sliding down, from sternum to tummy, sliding over the white cotton, his eyes closing briefly. “If you only knew, Ty.”
I didn’t ask. I didn’t speak. I didn’t think, had he said something else at that moment in time, that I could have handled it.
He pulled the panties slowly, carefully, over my hips and off, his fingers lingering on their path, his eyes on his work, face unreadable.
When he pulled the thong off my legs, he tossed it aside, looking up to my face.
“Sit up.”
I did, propping up my body with my hands, my feet digging into the coverlet, knees raised.
He knelt on the bed before me, the mattress sinking under his weight, his hands reaching for me, pulling me, until the backs of my thighs were against his, and we were face to face, my legs wrapping around his waist, my pussy against his cock.
His eyes closed briefly, and he winced. “God, you have no idea how much you tempt me.”
“It’s not temptation if you can have it.” I wrapped my arm around his neck, one of his hands tightening on my ass, bringing me closer, the other knotted in my hair, his mouth coming down for a kiss.
“But I don’t have you, Ty. And once we do this…” His words fell into a groan, my free hand wrapping around his cock.
“Once we do this … what?”
“I can’t walk away.”
I didn’t want to have this talk. I wanted to forget life, forget obligations, forget everything but the two of us.
I squeezed his hard length, looking down, at the look of us, everything on him hard against my soft, my hair wet with arousal against the ridges and lines of his shaft.
I pulled back, away from him, and pushed his cock down, my name hissing from his lips in warning, everything going away the moment it was there, thick and perfect, my legs greedy in their pull closer, his hands tightening on my skin, hips thrusting.
And then he pushed in. Deeper, deeper. My hands scrambled against his skin, clawing at it, my world bursting into light as he groaned my name and pushed the final inches home.
I gasped, he stilled, and there was a moment of pure fullness, his lips against mine, one sweet kiss that promised me everything, including heartbreak.
Then his hand tightened on my hair, he pulled from our kiss, lowering his head beside mine, his breath hot on my shoulder, fingertips biting into my ass, and he started to move.
I didn’t know what I was thinking, my vision of Chase as a lover. I had thought it would be crude. Quick and dirty, like our meeting in the bathroom. I had thought he would be selfish. Demanding. I had been, in a thousand orgasmic ways, wrong.
I was wrong when he started, like that, our souls face-to-face, impossible to escape.
I was wrong when we moved, on our sides, my back to his front, his whisper on my neck, kisses brushing my shoulder, his hands everywhere, thrusts never stopping, not until the moment that my orgasm came, long and brutal, my body seizing around his cock.
I was wrong when he came, inside of me, my hands gripping the edge of the desk, him standing before me, gasping into our kiss, his hands in my hair, his final push so deep and solid that I bucked against it.
I was wrong when he carried me to the bed, and cleaned me up, his mouth following the washcloth, his tongue gentle, then stronger, knowing everything, leaving nothing, my final orgasm one that broke the record books, his name screamed loud enough that Brooklyn must have heard.
I was wrong when he crawled under the sheets behind me and wrapped his arms around me.
I was wrong when he told me he loved me, and I repeated it back.