Chapter 44 Chase #2
I propel forward, the tip of my dick sliding up her inner thigh and teasing her wetness.
She chews her lip, head tipped back and hair spilling all around her.
My hand raises, curling behind her head, tangling in the damp strands, and dragging her face to mine.
Our noses touch. Foreheads meet. I grind against her, growling against her lips, “You want this?”
She wraps her arms around me. “Yes. Please.”
I grip her by the waist and yank her forward. Slip inside an inch. Then another. Our eyes are locked. I watch her face, the way her lips quiver, pupils dilate, brows bend inward as she waits for me to fill her.
I don’t make her wait long.
With a hard jerk of my hips, I thrust inside all the way.
Her moan rockets through me, blending with mine.
My forehead rolls against hers as I glance down between us, watching as her tightness swallows my cock, my face pinched with euphoric agony.
She clings to me, my shirt, my neck, my hair, my face.
Her hands are everywhere, her body adjusting to my size, her breaths falling out in gasping, shallow bursts.
I pull out, then drive back in. Harder.
Again. Faster.
Fuck.
Fuck.
My fingers twist in her hair, fist locking, as I rail into her, over and over.
The amp thunks against the wall. I drag my hand down her body and up her camisole, palming her breast, my other hand squeezing her thigh, holding her to me.
She grabs me by the face, crashes our mouths together.
Our kisses are clumsy, wet, dancing to a rhythm we can’t keep up with.
I fill her mouth with my tongue, angling as deeply as I can go, while my hips jerk back and forth, in and out, gaining momentum with every hard thrust.
She bites down on my tongue, reaches behind me to grab my ass, nails carving into bare skin as my muscles clench in response.
“Chase…”
“Fuck, Annie.” I gather her closer, breaking the kiss to bury my face in the curve of her neck. My hands grip her by the ass, lifting her off the amp as I pick up the pace, graceless, inelegant, fueled by lust and affection and pain and…
“Fuck, I love you.”
The confession pours out of me.
She stiffens. Clings tighter, arms flying around my neck as she lets out a cracked moan.
My face is pressed against her neck, mouth trailing kisses across her skin. “I love you so fucking much.”
She grinds against me, legs curling around my waist like a vise.
I lower her back to the amp. Bend forward, my hands planted on the surface, arms caging her in. I find her eyes. Her wet, wide eyes.
My hips pump faster. More, more, more. She’s soaking me. The amp keeps thumping against the wall, the slippery sound of her desire bringing me to the edge.
Her head falls back. Mouth opens wide.
As her face contorts with pleasure and her splintered moan rattles my bones, I let myself go. I come hard, sinking my face to the arc of her neck, biting her shoulder as my release takes flight.
For a blissful moment, the pain is gone, overpowered by the orgasm ripping through me in volatile, lightning-kissed waves.
Hot streams pulse through my dick, filling the condom as I jerk and shudder, wrapping her in my arms and squeezing her tight.
We come down slow.
Heady, ragged breaths. Slick skin. Damp hair. The string from the lightbulb flicks against my cheek, pulling me back to reality. Lifting up, I stroke a hand through Annie’s hair, then trail it down her face until I’m holding her jaw in a tender grip. “Hey.”
She swallows hard, blinks toward me. Her hand lifts, fingers trembling as she touches my chest, right over my heart. “Did you mean it?” she whispers.
The air between us hums. The sting of bleach and dust. The ache of everything we just did, hanging like a noose around my neck.
I go still.
Because I did mean it.
Every wrecked, blurted word.
But not like this.
I just confessed my love while fucking her on an amp in a dirty storage closet.
Christ.
Exhaling sharply, I back away and remove the condom, tossing it into a tiny plastic garbage bin.
I glance back at her, guilt journeying through me.
She deserves a real love story. Fireworks, roses, popping champagne.
Not that.
“Annie…” My voice scrapes raw.
Her gaze searches mine as she presses her legs together, vulnerable and waiting, and something in me fractures all over again.
“I…” I trail off, shaking my head.
Stepping forward, I reach out, my hand curling behind her neck, tightening at the nape.
I open my mouth—
But nothing good comes out.
I drop my gaze, let out a rough breath, and say, “We should get back.”
Her body stiffens immediately.
I feel it. The way she peels herself away from me, slowly, like touching me burns.
“Right,” she breathes out, voice pinched and pained.
By the time I gather my jeans and hook them around my hips, she’s already pulling on her pants in frantic, jerky movements. Straightening her blouse. Taming her hair.
Stalking toward the door.
I move to follow. “Annie, wait.”
“It’s fine,” she says, hardly holding it together. “I’m fine.”
“I didn’t mean—”
She yanks the door open without looking at me.
And then she’s gone, disappearing into bright hallway lights.
I sag in place. My face falls into my hands as I collapse against the amp, and the headache rushes back, louder than ever.
Shit.
I fucked up.
Again.
But that’s not how I wanted it. Not how it should have happened.
I lost control.
The notion eats through me like rust.
Cupping my jaw, I stare at the string dangling from the lone bulb above, the room vibrating with her absence, her scent still clinging to every inch of me.
With a snarl, I yank the cord.
Darkness swallows me whole.
I guess that’s the thing about love stories.
The best ones hurt.