9. Posey
Posey
First kisses have never been my favorite. Too much tongue. Not enough tongue. Hard lips. Limp lips. Kisses where there’s enough slobber to bathe a dog. And teeth. The clash of teeth is the worst. Most of my first kisses don’t lead to a second.
Brent is none of those. From the moment his lips touch mine, we’re in sync.
Tasting, teasing, an exquisite amount of pressure, as though we’ve spent weeks practicing with each other.
It’s the sort of immediate compatibility romance novels are written about.
The thought makes me giggle, and I draw back on a laugh.
“Gotta say,” Brent mutters. “That wasn’t the impression I was hoping for.”
“No, no.” I wave him off and weave his fingers with mine while I tug him toward the hotel entrance. “I’ll tell you when we get to the hotel room, but I swear on Bellerive, it was a good thought.”
“A thought that inspires laughter in the middle of—” he sets his free hand over his heart while he lets me drag him through the lobby to the elevators “—what I considered to be a very good kiss.”
“Only very good?” I cock an eyebrow while we wait for the elevator to appear.
The elevator stops in front of us, and it’s empty. I tug him into the metal box, and I shove him against the wall.
“Only very good?” I ask again before I dig my hands into his hair and meet his lips for another kiss.
That’s when I find out I was wrong on the terrace.
First kisses, no matter how good, are no match for the second.
Whether my laughter causes it, or our innate sexual chemistry, we devour each other.
As though someone in security isn’t watching us make out through the pinhole camera in the corner.
We’re hands and lips and murmured nonsensical words.
I shove his jacket off his shoulders, and it falls to the ground with a thud. His fingers find the zipper on the back of my dress, and he draws it down, leaving my back exposed to the air conditioning.
When the elevator signals our floor, Brent snatches up his jacket, and then he scoops me into his arms as though I weigh nothing.
“Tell me why you were laughing,” he says.
“You’re going to think it’s dumb.”
“Nothing you’ve ever said to me has been dumb,” he says while he tries to wave his key across the lock without dropping me.
I cling to his neck, and the door pops open.
He carries me to the bed, and he tosses me into the center of the mattress. I laugh, and he hovers over me, an arm braced on either side of my head.
“Tell me,” he says, and his gaze is narrowed.
Honest or honest adjacent? “That was the best first kiss I’ve ever had.”
“Ever?” He puffs out his chest. “And the second kiss?”
“Best second kiss too.”
“Jesus.” He lets out a low whistle. “I’m really setting myself up here.”
“Can you score the trifecta?” I tease.
“I’m on board with the scoring part,” he says. “In this instance, I’m playing the long game. By the end of the weekend, I’ll be the best you’ve ever had. See if I can mount a perfect score.”
“Ooo,” I moan. “I do enjoy being mounted, but the dismount is critical. Can you stick the landing?” I do my best to make it sound as dirty as possible.
“I’m excellent under pressure, but if you keep making those noises and using that tone, I’ll also be the fastest you’ve ever had.”
“I have heard you’re quick off the blocks.” I laugh.
“The quickest,” he says. His teasing air fades, and he searches my face. “You sure? There’s no expectation—”
I drag him down so his lips are a hair’s breadth from mine. “Just fuck me already.”
He chuckles against my lips, but his laughter fades when he deepens the kiss. He slides his hand from my ankle to my thigh. “God, your skin is so soft. I’ve wanted to touch you like this all day.”
“Yeah? All day?” This time the huskiness in my voice isn’t faked. Just the thought of being with him is enough to make my core throb with need. No need to worry about the dismount. I could probably dismount myself right now.
He kisses a trail from my collarbone to my earlobe, and his teeth graze the sensitive skin. With his fingers, he draws the sleeve of my dress down my arm.
Part of me expected him to rush through this first time.
We’ve been teasing each other all day, but there’s so much reverence in how he’s touching me, as though he can’t believe he gets to.
His attitude is causing an unexpected warmth to course through me that has nothing to do with sex. I shake my head to clear my thoughts.
Concern enters his expression, and he backs off. “You okay?”
“You’re wearing too many clothes,” I say.
“Easy to solve.” His shirt is already partially unbuttoned, and he yanks his shirt over his head, then he stands to let his suit pants pool to the floor at his ankles.
In just his boxer briefs, the guy is breathtaking. So many well-defined muscles everywhere. He’s a chiseled masterpiece. How did none of Val’s photos do him justice?
“Wow,” I murmur.
“You haven’t even seen the best part.” He tugs on my hand, so I come to stand beside him.
“During the main event, I’ll try to come up with something better than wow.”
“As a suggestion, ‘it’s so big’ is always a welcome comment.” He suppresses his smile.
I run my fingertips over the outline of his erection, and then I meet his gaze. “It’s so big and hard.” Not a lie. “I can’t wait to feel you inside me.” Also not a lie.
He groans. “I’m going to last about five seconds.”
“Please let it be ten,” I say, and I raise my other hand with fingers crossed.
He chuckles, and then he reaches around to undo the rest of my dress. He gives it a gentle push, and it falls off my shoulders to a heap on the floor.
For a beat, his humor fades as he brushes aside strands of my hair that have fallen across my cheeks.
Then he’s kissing me again, and I bend into him.
My bra hits the floor, and my panties follow in short order.
I stick my hands in the back of his boxer briefs to grip his ass, and then I tug down the fabric.
His hand slips between my legs, and when he skims my folds, he groans. “You’re so wet.”
“Just for you.” I’m breathless. Not a lie. I’m not sure I’ve ever been this turned on by so little contact.
He eases me back on the bed, and he trails kisses down my body until he reaches my core. There, he parts my legs, and he flicks his tongue across my clit. I grip the sheets and tilt my hips.
“More,” I gasp.
He grips my thighs while his tongue works magic on my most sensitive parts. So many guys fumble in uncertainty when faced with female pleasure, but Brent seems to be enjoying himself as much as I am. Such a turn on.
“You taste so good,” he mutters.
I dig my fingers into his hair. “Protection?” There’s some in my bag, but I didn’t think to get it out earlier. The urge to feel him inside me is more than I can take.
He backs off me and opens the nightstand drawer to remove a foil package. He’s more prepared than me. I take it from him, and then I grip his shaft. Before putting on the condom, I give him a few leisurely strokes, and then I lean forward to tease the tip with my tongue. A taste. A taunt.
He sucks in a sharp breath, and I can’t resist. I ease him completely into my mouth, and his hands slide into my hair.
“Fuck,” he hisses. “God, Posey.”
Hearing my name said with such guttural need ratchets up my own desire. It’s not going to take much for me to hit all the high notes today.
I draw away from him, and I tear open the condom. As I roll it down, greedy for him, he tips my chin, so we make eye contact.
“How do you want it?” His voice is hoarse.
“From behind. Hand on my clit.”
“I like a woman that knows what she likes.” He flips me over, and he traces the line of my spine with his palm. “You’re fucking gorgeous.”
When he enters me, we both let out low moans of pleasure. He reaches around, and his fingers find my clit. The pace he sets is slow and steady. I’m both dying for him to go a little faster and enjoying the climb. Each thrust of his pelvis and swirl of his fingers inches me closer.
With one hand, I grip the sheets, and with the other, I squeeze his hand on my hip. “I’m so close.”
“How close?” Brent asks, and the raw desire in his voice makes me think he might be barely holding on too.
“A little faster,” I gasp. My body is strung tight.
He picks up the pace, and I cry out with the force of my orgasm. While I soak in the waves of our spent sexual tension, Brent follows me over the cliff.
“Wow,” he mutters against my neck.
I let out an unsteady laugh. “It’s a good word.”
“I didn’t misread that did I? You’re good?” He kisses my neck.
“Didn’t misread a thing. I am sooo good.” I glance at him over my shoulder while he withdraws, and then I collapse into the bedding. “Full dismount achieved.”
Brent disappears into the bathroom. When he comes out, he hesitates for only a minute before climbing into my bed.
“You can kick me out whenever you want,” he says, and he slides his hand across my waist.
“Hot guys in my bed are always acceptable,” I say, and I kiss his shoulder.
“Just how many hot guys are usually in your bed?” His tone is teasing.
“Oh, you—you didn’t see the line outside the door?” I feign confusion and eye the closed door.
“Impressive,” he says.
“Is it? Guys can be weird about that stuff.”
“What stuff?”
“Sexual history. Other guys. Jealous. Possessive. Or whatever.” All my casual flings go sideways for those reasons.
He turns to lie on his stomach, and he rests his head on his arms. I mirror his pose, so we’re side by side.
“You’ve gone quiet on me,” I whisper.
“Thinking about what you said. Trying to figure out where I fall.” He bites his lip.
“As long as the sexual history was consensual and something you wanted, I don’t see why any other guy would need or care to know about it.
But if there was something in there that might help me understand how to treat you better, I’d want to know. ”
“That’s a very mature response.” His sincerity takes me by surprise.
“Did I nail it?” His lips twitch.
“Oh, it was nailed,” I purr. “Bang, bang, bang, baby.”
“Three bangs,” Brent says. “I nailed it good.”
I laugh and turn onto my side to face him.
“To be clear, I’m not asking you to be my girlfriend, and I’m not angling to have you become my girlfriend. I’m too busy for that shit, anyway. But what’s holding you back?”
“What makes you think anything is holding me back? You just said you don’t want another girlfriend. How is it inconceivable that I don’t want a boyfriend?”
“Just tell me.” Brent sighs. “I’m chasing an insane Olympic medal count. What are you chasing?”
I trace a line from his shoulder to his hip. Even his back has visible muscles. “When I’m done with my degree, I want to go back home.”
“And a boyfriend would stop you?”
“Might make me reconsider, and I think I’d be miserable eventually.”
“A boyfriend could just move to Bellerive,” he says.
“It’s not that simple. The immigration laws are ridiculous. Any visa is good for two years, and then someone either has to be on the track to becoming a permanent resident, or they have to be in the process of marrying a native Bellerivian.”
“Okay, so if that’s your excuse for why you’re single in college, what about high school?”
“Did you have high school girlfriends?” I ask.
“Sure, if you want to call them that.”
“Did they call themselves that?” I laugh.
“Honestly?” He purses his lips. “I’ve been focused on swimming since I realized I might be able to do the impossible, and the rest of my life has always felt like excessive noise.”
“Well, that’s...honest.”
“I sound like an asshole, right?” He grimaces.
“It’s not that I’m incapable of maintaining relationships.
Tomorrow, I’m in my high school friend’s wedding party.
It’s just...” He frowns. “I’ve never been willing to invest in a romantic relationship.
” He gives a dark chuckle. “A functional one, at least.” He nudges my arm. “You didn’t answer my question.”
How many years have I fluffed off people’s prying questions? Friends, casual hookups, guys who wanted more, none of them have gotten to the heart of the matter. But there’s something about Brent’s honesty that’s making me bold.
“One boyfriend. When I was fifteen.”
“And what was that like?” Brent asks.
“Claustrophobic.” I let out a little laugh, but the memory isn’t funny. “Smothering.”
“Ah.” He strokes my cheek. “So, not a good one.”
“Maybe.” I hesitate to say the word, but in my heart, I understand it’s true. “Abusive?” Julia labeled it that when we were younger, and I was aware enough of how I was eroding to break up with him. Not everyone is that lucky.
He skims his hand along my back, and it comes to rest on my hip. “Would make anyone wary.”
“Or scared,” I admit. “It might make someone scared too.”
He kisses my temple, and I close my eyes at the contact.
The tenderness between us is unnerving, and when he draws away, I snag his lips with mine. “How’s your recovery time?” I slip my hand between us to caress him, and he hardens on contact.
“Recovery time?” Brent asks, and the gentleness morphs into a cockiness I’m more comfortable with. “Recovery time is for wimps. I can race to the finish over and over again.”
“Oh yeah?” I press my body to his. “Prove it.”
In one swift motion, he rolls me onto my back, and our lips start the now familiar dance. Sex and mutual pleasure, I can do. No one needs to root around in my emotional baggage. The only things I’ll be unpacking from my luggage are more condoms.