16. Max #2
I drag my tongue up her thigh, slow and deliberate, savoring the way her breath hitches. Her fingers knot in my hair, tugging hard enough to sting, but I don’t stop. Not when she arches off the bed, not when her thighs tremble around my ears.
"Max—"
Her voice cracks, and I grin against her skin before dipping lower, licking into her with a groan. She’s slick and warm, and the taste of her is intoxicating. I fuck her with my tongue, deep and slow, then fast and filthy, until her hips jerk and she’s gasping, her nails scraping down my shoulders.
"Oh God, oh God—"
She’s close. I can feel it in the way her body tightens, the way her thighs clamp around me. But just as she’s about to tip over, she drags me up by my hair, her eyes dark and wild.
"I want you inside me."
I lose all semblance of control. Her hands slide down my chest, her fingers wrapping around my cock, stroking me in long, slow pulls that make my vision blur. I groan, thrusting into her grip, my hips moving on their own.
"Fuck, Baleigh—"
She guides me to her with trembling fingers, her other hand gripping my hip hard enough to leave marks as she drags me closer.
My breath comes ragged when I finally press against her, the heat between us unbearable.
Then I'm sinking into her, inch by torturous inch, and the way she arches beneath me—lips parting in a silent gasp—nearly makes me lose control before I've even begun.
She's so wet it's sinful, so tight I have to grit my teeth and force myself to go slow even as my body begs me to take.
"Look at me, sweetheart," I growl the command against the damp skin of her neck, needing to see those eyes that shift like sunlight through whiskey.
Her lashes flutter—long, golden-brown—as she fights to focus on me through the haze of pleasure.
When our gazes finally lock, there's something wild and vulnerable in hers that sends a possessive thrill straight through me.
I start moving then, a slow, deliberate roll of my hips that makes her toes curl against the sheets.
Her breath catches, lips forming my name in a soundless whisper before I draw back and thrust deeper, harder.
Every movement pulls another gasp, another desperate clutch of her fingers against my shoulders as if she's afraid I'll disappear.
Her perfume mingles with sweat and sex in the warm air, that goddamn floral scent I'll never smell again without becoming painfully hard.
"You feel—" She breaks off with a choked moan as I angle my hips just right, her body clenching around me in ways that threaten my sanity. "So good—like you were made for me—"
I cut her off with a rough kiss, swallowing her whimpers as my thrusts grow more desperate, the bedframe protesting beneath us in time with our ragged breathing.
The room fills with the symphony of our coupling—skin slapping against skin, the rustle of sheets being twisted in her fists, the slick sounds of our bodies moving together.
There's an intimacy here beyond the physical, something that terrifies and thrills me in equal measure when her legs lock around my waist and she gasps against my mouth, "Harder, Max, please—"
I oblige immediately, driving into her with enough force to make the headboard slam against the wall, her sharp cry echoing through the dimly lit bedroom.
Her entire body arches beautifully beneath me, those freckled shoulders pressing into the mattress as her fingers twist violently in the sheets.
I can feel her trembling on the edge, her breath coming in ragged pants against my collarbone.
"Come for me," I growl against the delicate skin of her throat, letting my teeth graze the pulse point there until she whimpers.
The moment my words register, she falls apart spectacularly—her back bowing off the bed as a broken sob tears from her lips, those eyes squeezing shut while her body clenches around me in rhythmic pulses, milking my cock and making me shudder inside her.
It's too much, the way she tightens around me, the way her fingernails dig into my shoulders, and with a ragged groan I follow her over, spilling deep inside her as my forehead drops to hers, our shared panting breaths mingling between us.
We stay like that for what feels like an eternity—my body still draped over hers, her legs tangled with mine, both of us slick with sweat and trembling from the aftershocks.
The only sound is our gradually slowing breathing and the distant hum of the city nightlife beyond the shuttered windows.
Then I feel it—her fingertips tracing idle, featherlight circles across my damp shoulder blades, the touch sending new shivers down my spine despite my exhaustion.
"So," she murmurs, her voice still deliciously wrecked, throaty with spent pleasure. I can sense the curve of her smile against my chest. "That was definitely not covered in the study abroad program handbook."
The unexpected comment startles a laugh from me, deep and genuine, as I roll us onto our sides without breaking contact.
My arms tighten around her waist, pulling her flush against me until her bare back molds perfectly to my chest. "Consider it a private tutorial," I murmur into her hair, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head where her blonde strands smell faintly of citrus shampoo and sex.
She snorts—that adorable, inelegant sound I've come to adore—and burrows closer, tucking herself beneath my chin like she was designed to fit there.
Outside, a Vespa putters past on the cobblestone street below, its engine fading into the Roman night.
The sheets are tangled around our legs, the room still rich with the smell of us, and as I stroke my hand down the smooth plane of her stomach, I realize with startling clarity that I'm not mentally drafting tomorrow's lecture or reviewing student submissions.
There's only this—her warmth, this moment, the impossible rightness of her body curled into mine.
The future can wait.