Chapter Nineteen
Uncharted
Crew
“Just physical,” I say. “Nothing more.”
“Nothing more,” she agrees.
And then I’m kissing her again because I can, because she said I could, because if I don’t kiss her right now, I might actually lose my mind.
She tastes like mezcal and lime and something sweet underneath. Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer, and I go willingly. Eagerly. My brain—usually so loud, so insistent on cataloging every variable and potential outcome—has gone blissfully, terrifyingly quiet.
There’s only this. Only her.
I walk her backward until she hits the kitchen counter, and she makes a small sound against my mouth that does something dangerous to my self-control. My hands find her hips, gripping tight, and she arches into me.
“Couch,” I manage against her lips.
Her eyes darken. “Yes.”
I lift her easily, her legs wrapping around my waist, and carry her through the apartment without breaking the kiss. It’s clumsy and graceless, and I bump her shoulder against the doorframe, muttering an apology against her mouth, but she just laughs and holds on tighter.
I sit down on the couch with her in my lap, straddling me, and the new position puts her above me, looking down at me. In control.
I’ve never let anyone be in control before.
“Hi,” she whispers.
“Hi.”
She frames my face with her hands and kisses me again. Softer this time. Slower. Learning the shape of my mouth like she has all the time in the world. Her thumbs trace my cheekbones, my jaw, the scar through my eyebrow. Gentle. So unbearably gentle.
I don’t know what to do with gentle.
My hands settle on her hips—safe territory—but she shifts in my lap, pressing down, and I feel the heat of her through our jeans. My fingers dig into her involuntarily.
“This okay?” she murmurs against my lips.
“Uh-huh.”
“What about this?” She rolls her hips, a slow grind that drags her center right over the growing hardness in my jeans.
I make a sound I’ve never made before—something between a groan and a gasp—and feel her smile.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
She does it again. And again. Setting a rhythm that has me gripping her hips hard enough to bruise, my head falling back against the couch cushions.
“Emmie—”
“I know.” She kisses my jaw, my neck. “I just want you to feel good. Don’t think.”
Don’t think? Easier said than done when my whole life has been about thinking, analyzing, preparing. But with her moving on top of me, with her mouth hot against my throat, thinking becomes impossible.
Her hands slide up my chest, over my shoulders, into my hair, and I shudder at the contact.
“You like that?” Her fingers scratch lightly against my scalp.
“Yeah.” It’s the most articulate I can manage.
She grinds down harder, and I thrust up to meet her, and the friction is maddening—not enough, too much, I need more, I need—
“Fuck,” I breathe. “Emmie, I—”
“I’ve got you.” She kisses me deep, her tongue sliding against mine, and keeps moving. Keeps grinding. The denim between us is torture and salvation all at once.
Her mouth moves to my jaw. My neck. She finds a spot just below my Adam’s apple and sucks gently, and my hips jerk up involuntarily, pressing hard against her.
“Sorry,” I manage. “I—”
“Don’t apologize.” She pulls back, meets my eyes. “I like knowing I affect you.”
Affect me. That’s one word for it. I’m coming apart at the seams, and we’re both still fully clothed.
“Can I…?” Her fingers move under the hem of my shirt, and her palms flatten against my abs.
I nod, and she tugs the fabric up. I help her pull it over my head, and then she’s looking at me like she’s mesmerized by what she sees.
“God, Crew.” Her hands flatten against my chest, exploring. Tracing the lines of muscle, the scattered scars I’ve never explained. “You’re…”
“I’m what?”
“Beautiful.” She says it simply, like it’s obvious. Like it’s fact.
No one’s ever called me that before.
She leans down and presses a kiss to my collarbone. Then lower, to the center of my chest. Then lower still, her lips tracing a path down my sternum.
I don’t know what to do with my hands. I settle them on her thighs, squeezing gently, and she hums in approval.
“Your turn,” I say. “Can I—”
“Yes.” She’s already reaching for her own shirt, pulling it over her head before I can finish the question.
She’s wearing a simple cotton bra. Light blue. Nothing fancy. It’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.
“You’re staring,” she whispers.
“I know.”
“Is that okay? That I’m—”
“Emmie.” I cup her face in my hands, forcing her to meet my eyes. “You’re gorgeous. You have to know that.”
She bites her lip. “I know I’m not—I mean, I’m soft in places, and my stomach is—”
“Perfect,” I finish for her. Then I kiss her. Hard. Trying to pour everything I can’t say into it. Because she really is.
When I pull back, she’s breathing fast.
“Your turn to stop apologizing,” I tell her.
She laughs, a little shaky. “Fair enough.”
I kiss her again, slower this time, and let my hands explore. The curve of her waist. The soft swell of her hips. The warm skin of her stomach that she was just criticizing, and I want to worship.
She starts moving again, grinding against me with more purpose now, and I can feel the heat of her even through both layers of denim. My hands slide to her ass, pulling her tighter against me, guiding her rhythm.
“Crew.” Her voice is lower now. Breathless.
I’ve done this before. I know the mechanics. But it’s never felt like this—urgent and tender at the same time, her little sounds of pleasure rewiring something in my brain.
“Can I take these off?” I touch the waistband of her jeans.
“Please.”
My hands are shaking as I unbutton them. She notices—of course she notices—and covers my hands with hers.
She stands just long enough to shimmy out of her jeans, and then she’s climbing back into my lap in just her bra and underwear—light blue, matching—and looking at me with so much trust it makes my throat tight.
“You’re sure?” I ask.
“Crew.” She settles over me, knees bracketing my hips. “I’m sure. Please touch me.”
I slide my hand up her inner thigh, watching her face. Her eyes flutter closed. Her lips part.
When my fingers brush against her over the thin cotton, she whimpers.
“More,” she breathes. “Please.”
I push her underwear aside and touch her properly, and the sound she makes goes straight through me.
“Fuck, Emmie.”
“I know.” She’s gripping my shoulders now, holding on. “I told you—I’ve been thinking about this—”
“How long?”
“Weeks.” She gasps as I find the spot that makes her whimper, circling gently.
I’ve never been this hard in my life. But this isn’t about me—this is about her, about learning what she likes, about making her feel as good as she’s made me feel every moment since she crashed into my life.
“Need to touch you,” I murmur against her neck.
“Yes.” Her voice cracks.
I sink one finger into her, then two when she moans for more, and she clenches around me so tight I have to close my eyes and breathe through the surge of arousal.
“Good?” I manage.
“So good. You feel so good.” She’s rocking against my hand now, chasing the sensation. “Crew, I’m—I’m close—”
“Already?”
“Don’t sound so smug about it.” But she’s laughing, breathless. “You’re just—you’re hitting the right—oh—”
I curl my fingers, pressing against the spot that makes her whole body shudder, and keep my thumb moving in steady circles.
“That’s it,” I tell her, and my voice sounds foreign to my own ears. Low. Commanding.
“Crew—” She comes with a cry, her thighs clamping around my hand, her nails digging into my shoulders hard enough to leave marks. I work her through it, gentling my touch as the waves subside, watching her face the whole time.
She’s beautiful like this. Flushed and wrecked and mine.
Not mine. Not really. This is just physical. It’s all I’m good for anyway…
When she finally opens her eyes, she’s grinning.
“Good?”
“Crew.” She pulls me in for a kiss, soft and sweet. “That was… yeah. Good is an understatement.”
I’m still painfully hard beneath her, but I don’t move to do anything about it. This was for her. I don’t expect—
Her hands find my belt with more confidence than I’m prepared for and I go very still, jaw tight, watching her work it open.
“You don’t have to—”
“I know I don’t have to.” She pops the button, slides down the zipper. “I want to. Unless you don’t want me to?”
“I—” My brain short-circuits as her hand slides into my boxers and wraps around me. “Uh. I. Yeah. I want—”
“Words, Crew.” She’s smirking now, stroking me slowly. “Use your words.”
“Of course I want you to touch me.” It comes out strangled. “I want—fuck—”
She tightens her grip, and I lose the ability to form sentences.
“God, Crew.” She strokes me slowly, her eyes dropping to watch her hand move. “You’re… wow.”
“Wow?”
“This is—” She bites her lip, something almost giddy in her expression. “Very nice.”
I feel heat crawl up my neck. “Emmie.”
“What? I’m allowed to appreciate.” She twists her wrist, and my hips buck. “Just relax. Let me make you feel good.”
I let my head fall back against the couch, watching her through half-lidded eyes. She’s still straddling me, her hand between us, working me with a rhythm that’s going to end this embarrassingly fast.
“Emmie—” It’s a warning.
“I know.” She speeds up, twisting her wrist on the upstroke. “It’s okay. Let go.”
“I can’t—I’m going to—”
“That’s the idea.” She kisses my jaw, my neck, the spot below my ear that made me shudder earlier. “Come for me, Crew.”
I do.
Harder than I have in years, maybe ever, spilling over her hand with a groan I couldn’t hold back if I tried. She strokes me through it, murmuring soft encouragements against my skin, until I’m shaking and spent and boneless beneath her.
We stay like that for a moment. Her hand still wrapped around me. Her forehead pressed to mine. Both of us breathing hard.
“So,” she finally says. “That happened.”
I laugh—actually laugh—and it surprises both of us.
“Yeah.” I lift my head to look at her. “It did.”
She’s smiling. Soft and warm and a little bit smug. “I’d say the physical component of our arrangement is off to a good start.”
“I’d say so.”
I should move. Clean up. Put some distance between us before this starts to feel like something it’s not.
Instead, I kiss her forehead and stay exactly where I am.
Just for another minute.