42. Renee
It’s been a couple days since the game and the team is heavy into practicing. I’ve got posts scheduled for a good month, and of course, we’ll add more for game days and player spotlights, but right now, I’m tired. I want a glass of wine, a bath, and maybe a pizza delivery before I fall comatose into a warm bed.
Unfortunately, I stopped for groceries on the way home and I have to put the food away before I can sink into dreamless oblivion.
I shift the paper bag of lunchmeat, cereal, strawberries, cold brew coffee, bagged vegetables, and frozen chicken breasts to my opposite arm and watch the floor counter click up slowly. I’ve been avoiding the elevator as much as possible to keep from having another mishap. But today, I’m too tired for twenty flights of stairs.
When I step out of the elevator, Sutton is standing outside her door talking to Jackson. He turns and looks at me, beaming. “There she is!”
I didn’t know he was back from Hawaii, but here he is in the flesh, with a deep golden tan and natural sun streaks in his hair. He’s gone full surfer boy. It isn’t a bad look on him.
When I walk closer, he leans in and presses a light kiss to my cheek. It’s a little weird, especially with those half-formed rumors about him and Weston’s sister floating around in my head.
“Bad news, Nay,” Sutton informs me. “I have to head back to Paris. Last-minute reschedule.” I look down at the suitcase in her hand. “I didn’t order food, but you guys should totally go out! There’s that sushi place you love…”
She’s back at it, pushing me toward Jackson. Her heart is in the right place—she just wants me to be happy. I glance at Jackson, who’s still smiling at me. And while he’s damned attractive, and has ringing endorsements from Sutton based on the oohs and ahhs and holy fucks she’s heard coming out of his place, I don’t know if I’m interested in that way.
Apparently, I prefer surly assholes.
Sutton leans in and kisses my cheek. “I’ll call you. Have fun.” She winks and sashays to the elevator.
Jackson grins some more once Sutton is gone. “Alone at last. How was your day?”
“It was good. Loving the job.” I switch my grocery bag to the other hand. “How was Hawaii? When did you get back?”
“This morning. And it was magical. You know, it’s Hawaii.” His grin spreads. “I’m going back in a couple weeks. You should come visit while I’m there. My treat.”
A handsome man, an actual, for-real runway model, is inviting me on an all-expenses-paid trip to Hawaii. So where are the goddamn butterflies?!
A part of me should be interested. God knows it’s what Sutton wants for me, but I’m not. I couldn’t be more uninterested. He’s too… polished, maybe. Too perfect. Too flawless to be real.
I don’t trust someone if I can’t see their cracks. I want to know that there’s a real heart beating inside that perfectly formed chest.
Maybe that’s why I can’t stop thinking about Weston. He’s raw and real and true to himself. Jackson feels like the kind of guy who’d say whatever was necessary to get a girl out of her clothes.
Then, as if I summoned him, a shadow I’ve come to know far too well falls over us.
“The fuck she will.”
For as big as he is, Weston manages to move like a cat, materializing from nowhere without a sound. I glance over my shoulder. He’s standing behind me, his eyes narrow, his hands fisted on his hips.
I can smell his cologne. And while Jackson’s suntan lotion and sunshine is nice, Weston’s cologne lights a fire in my belly. I drop the bag on the floor and it lands upright, although I wouldn’t have cared if my Cap’n Crunch and chicken breasts went careening down the stairwell.
Right now, I’m too wrapped up in Weston. In his eyes. In the little tick of his jaw as he watches me watching him.
Is it wrong to sniff a man who’s standing close enough that I can feel his body heat but looks like he wants to inflict serious bodily injury on everyone in the area?
He takes me by the arm. I try to jerk away, but he doesn’t let go. “We need to talk.”
“The lady doesn’t need your help, man.” Jackson is either blind to the murderous scowl on Weston’s face, or he has a death wish. I should distract Weston before he bounces Jackson’s head off the wall, but all I can do is stare. “Back off. We’re just having a friendly chat in the hallway.”
Weston ignores him and reaches for my arm again. This time, I twist away. “Stop doing that.”
“She doesn’t want your hands on her.” Jackson tries to move between me and Weston.
“Did you want to do something about it?” Weston shifts me to the side. Now, he and Jackson are almost nose to nose.
Men are ridiculous. So much testosterone and bullshit.
I look at Weston, then at Jackson. “For fuck’s sake.” I shake my head and shove Weston back. “Fine. I’ll fucking talk to you, okay? The last thing any of us needs is a scene in the hallway.”
He doesn’t tear his eyes off Jackson’s as he motions toward Sutton’s door. “Then go.”
This man of few words thing he has going on would be annoying if not for the fact I find it so stupidly hot.
Jackson throws one last look in my direction. An eyebrow arches, as if to say, You for real with this guy?
I give him a subtle shake of the head back. It’s fine. I’ll be okay.
Even though my stomach is doing backflips like Simone Biles.
I consider making a joke to defuse the tension—If he kills me, make sure they give him the electric chair—but then I decide otherwise. I gulp, unlock the door, and step into Sutton’s unit, setting the grocery bag on the counter.
Weston comes in after me. The door slams shut hard enough to shake the foundations. He’s back in Avenging Angel Mode. His eyes are pure black and he looks twice as big in every direction.
I gulp again. Weirdly enough, my mouth is dry all of a sudden. Why would that be? I’m not one bit scared of Weston Scott. Not even this version of him. He’s all bark, no bite.
I hope so, anyway.
His tongue snakes out to wet his lips. “You aren’t ever fucking that guy.”
I scowl. In terms of ways to start conversations, he picked a bad one. “Who I sleep with is none of your business.”
“It is when I make it my business.” He jabs a finger toward the door. “What the actual fuck do you even see in that little prick? The attraction mystifies me. Explain it.”
“He’s not a grumpy asshat, for starters. He doesn’t swear at me and sneer in my direction every chance he gets. He tells me I’m pretty and asks to take me out and says he’ll treat me right.”
“Fucking bullshit.”
“Excuse me?”
His mouth is a flat slash. “I said he’s fucking bullshit. Everything he says and does is fucking bullshit. But he won’t get the chance to do any of that shit to you. Because you’re mine, Renee DuBois.”
“I’m pretty damn sure I don’t belong to?—”
I don’t get to finish because suddenly, he’s on me.
Weston’s mouth is slanted over mine, tongue thrust into my mouth. His fingers tangle in my hair, holding me to him while his other hand falls to the small of my back to mold me to his torso.
Not that I’m trying to move away. I couldn’t even if I wanted to.
The kiss sears me from the inside out. I push my hands up his chest, savoring the acres of real estate beneath my palms. I want to touch his skin, but I don’t want to get too into it, because I still don’t know if I’ll be able to survive him ending it again, either by sending me away or walking away himself. Certainly not while my skin is flushed and my heart is pounding against my sternum.
He tilts his head and deepens the kiss as he walks me backwards until my spine is pressed into the wall. When there’s nowhere left to go, he pins me there with his body while his mouth continues to ravage mine.
There’s nothing gentle in the kiss. It’s like he wants to tear me to pieces and put me back together again all by himself.
What scares me is how much I want him to do exactly that.
He slides his hand under the hem of my shirt and massages the skin at the base of my spine. Every sensation is more intense than the last.
When he draws back, he locks his gaze onto mine and growls, “You’re not his, and you never will be. You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.”
He pushes his body closer to mine so that a sliver of light wouldn’t fit between us and lowers his head again. I can’t think and fortunately, there’s no reason to.
It’s only a second before he lifts me, my body seeming weightless. “Wrap your legs around me.” Every command comes in that deep, raspy voice of his. I am powerless to defy him. “Defy” isn’t even a word that makes sense anymore.
Surrender. That’s the only vocabulary I need.
My body is tight with need as his hands come around to cup my ass. He carries me to the guest bedroom I’ve been calling home since I moved in here. His kissing has changed. It’s softer, not quite tender but not so desperate. A more head-in-the-clouds version of me might want to read into this, but I’m not fool enough to see it as anything more than a couple of bodies who don’t know any other way to relieve the pressure that’s threatening to erupt inside of us.
He strips my shirt away and stares for a second before pulling me back to him and pressing his mouth to my ear. “You’re fucking incredible.”
I can’t manage words, so I stand and try not to hide myself from his gaze. His stare is feral, raw—nostrils flared, eyes dark, lips pressed into a tight line.
I’ve never felt more desired in my life.
When he kisses me again, there’s a new urgency. He drags his mouth down my jaw, then my throat to my shoulder, and my entire body shivers. His kiss is hot on my skin.
Weston unfastens my belt and yanks it free, then drops it slithering to the floor. I suck in a broken, stuttering breath. The anticipation is almost more than I can stand.
He flicks open the button of my pants and shoves them down so that they pool around my ankles. When I step out of them, he smolders. The air grows tauter.
“Lie on the bed,” he barks.
I do as he says, lying down in the center of the mattress and waiting while he undresses. There’s something sultry in the way he pulls the back collar of his shirt over his head to shuck it off. I don’t know what it is that makes it so hot, but I could watch this guy get naked all night long. He pushes his jeans down, then his boxers.
My gaze treks south on its own. And as it does, my body tightens. His cock is hard and long and unbelievably huge.
He leans over me to kiss me and then pulls back and smiles as he pushes his hand down my belly and into the waistband of my panties. I suck in another breath and wait for the touch I know is coming.
He takes his time, though. He kisses the desperate, bucking gasps off my lips like they’re oxygen to him.
Then he pulls back so he can watch my face as he finally makes contact.
And when he does…
Oh, for the love of God.
Weston Scott palming my desire is the single hottest sensation I’ve ever felt.
He keeps watching me as his finger strokes my clit and my entire body arches. I’ve never needed a release more.
I wriggle around amongst the blankets, trying to draw his fingers closer to the spot I want him to touch, but he holds back on purpose. He withdraws his fingers and drags my panties down my legs, then knocks my thighs apart with his knees.
“Here’s what’s going to happen, Renee,” he rumbles. His voice is low and deep as he pulls my bra away, unclasps the front clasp and pulls it open. “I’m going to pinch and twist these nipples until they practically ache. Then I’m going to lick your pussy until you scream. Once you’re begging me, once I believe you want this even a fraction as much as I do—only then am I going to fuck you to within an inch of your life.” He lowers himself down my body until I can feel his hot breath misting at my throbbing pussy. Then he casts his eyes back up, just an inch away from devouring me, and asks, “Any questions?”
He knows damn well I don’t have any.
Chuckling, he descends on me. He gives me everything he promised. He suckles and twists my nipples into hard peaks, then consumes my pussy like it’s giving him life. His thumb is a constant blur over my clit.
I come two times in rapid succession, once when he’s licking my clit and again when he inserts two rough fingers inside of me and curls them up against my inner walls. He has to use his free hand to pin my hips to the bed so I don’t buck right off it.
I’m spluttering and drooling by the time he’s done. “I want to touch you,” I whine breathlessly. “Please. Please let me touch you.”
To my surprise, he obliges. He slides up so I can curl my fingers around the shaft of his cock, keeping those thick fingers of his inside me the whole time.
I stroke him slowly, and when that fails to quench my fire, I take him into my mouth. I have to stretch my jaw wide to take all of him, but the groan that radiates from him through me makes it all worthwhile.
We’re a perfect circuit of building pleasure for a while. He’s fingering me, his thumb swiping again and again over my aching clit while two fingers pump and curl inside my pussy. I’m sucking him, taking him as close to the base as I can and then back to the tip.
He’s shaking.
I’m shaking.
But even that isn’t enough.
I let his cock fall from my lips and gasp. “Fuck me, Weston. Please.”
My body is slick with sweat and I’m already unraveling. But I want more. I want his hard, hot cock inside me.
His eyes burn. “Please,” I add again. If he wants begging, I’m prepared to do it. I’ll fall to my knees and plead for him to fill me.
But for a change, the Avenging Angel takes mercy on me.
He adjusts himself on top of me, covering my body with his. He lines his tip up with my entrance. Then, with his eyes locked on mine, he slides inside me.
Slowly, slowly, slowly. From tip to one inch, two, three, six, nine, all of him. Unbearable pressure gives way to unbelievable pleasure.
And then, when’s sheathed all the way inside of me, he leans down until our foreheads graze against each other, and he gives me the softest kiss I’ve ever gotten.
“You’re fucking incredible, P,” he repeats. “You’re so fucking incredible.”
It’s the most erotic moment of my life.
Everything from then on is a blur. One moment bleeds into the next. He starts moving slowly, letting my body adjust to the size of him, then picks up speed, sliding his cock in and out, grinding his hips into mine with every thrust.
My legs curl around his waist and my hands grip his shoulders as I hang on for dear life. He grunts and fucks me harder.
My hips meet his on every thrust until I can’t breathe, until my body is twisting and shattering and I can only cling to him, crying out, “Weston!”
If I’m too loud, fuck it—I don’t care who hears. I don’t care who knows that this is everything I’ve ever wanted. That Weston Scott makes my body sing.
I come hard like that, with him on top of me, taking everything I’m giving and then returning it to me ten times over.
My sweat mixes with his.
My moans mix with his.
My pleasure mixes with his.
And finally, finally, my orgasm coaxes one out of him. He tenses, rigid with muscle from head to toe, and then unleashes inside of me. His face goes utterly blank. I press a frantic kiss to his lips and suck that breath right out of him. It’s fucking nectar from heaven.
Then he melts into a puddle at my side. His breath slows, ragged and spent. “Fuck, Renee.”
“What?”
He shakes his head and rolls off me to the side of the bed. “Just… fuck.”
I blow out a slow breath, turn to face him, and smile. I’m radiating with the afterglow. “Pretty sure we just did.”
A sly grin slides across his mouth. “Yeah. And in about five minutes, we’re going to do it again.”