Chapter 11 Carrie #2
“It’s because of your sister,” I finally murmur.
“Like I said—I spent the whole break thinking. There was no way I could have sex with anyone, not when I felt so guilty.” He shrugs. “I needed a change.”
“Wow. You’re kind of an extremist. It must be hard.”
“Hard as a rock, in fact.” He raises an eyebrow.
I elbow him in the ribs. “Fantastic visual, thanks. Remind me why I ever agreed to be your confidante?”
He looks at me intently. “So, how about you? Did—”
“Nope.” I hold up a hand. “I think we’re done here.”
I hit play again. Donovan shifts back against me without arguing, but I can feel that he doesn’t look away. His warm breath bounces off my cheek, sending all my senses into chaos. The sound from the screen suddenly feels deafening inside my skull.
“There’s one thing I don’t get,” I blurt.
“What’s that?”
“What stops you from just…” I fumble for the right words. “Do what you have to do with a girl who doesn’t have any expectations? Like a no-strings situation.”
“Because I expect more of myself now.”
I feel him shrug.
“Even if we kept it casual, I’d still feel like a total asshole.”
“Not if you’re honest with her from the get-go.”
“Well, you’re the only one who knows, and I plan on keeping it that way, so unless you’re offering… I think I should hold off for a while.”
I stare at the feet of my desk. This is the part where I serve up a snappy comeback, I know that. But I can’t bring myself to do it. Certain images keep flashing through my mind, and it takes every one of my remaining brain cells to push them away.
“This is where you usually tell me to get lost,” he teases, tugging on a strand of my hair.
“I’m pretty sure you can fill in the blanks yourself.”
“What are you thinking about, Carrie?” he whispers.
I’m thinking I really need to get laid.
“I’m thinking I love this movie,” I say flatly, forcing my eyes back to the screen for the hundredth time tonight.
Max and Sheryl are at it again. Urgh!
There’s a hot, tight swell building somewhere between my chest and thighs.
Donovan’s hand appears again, holding out more M my arms wrap around him, dragging him closer.
His hands slip under my shirt, cupping my breasts, thumbs teasing slow circles around my nipples until they’re tight and painfully sensitive.
A sharp gasp bursts out of me when he pinches them ever so softly, the unexpected sensation arching my back into his touch and driving my fingers into his shoulders.
Then his hands lock firmly around my hips, and he takes control—guiding my body to slide along his length in slow, steady strokes that tear the breath from my lungs.
Fuck, how is this so hot? I’ve barely adjusted to the fullness of him when he snaps his hips up, taking me from underneath with sharp thrusts, setting a rhythm that completely obliterates whatever control I thought I had.
“Stop…” he whispers. “Stop moaning, you’re going to make me…”
Moaning? I didn’t realize I was making any sound. The world around me is cotton wool. His lips find their way to my cheek, and I can tell he’s hungry for my mouth, but I pull back.
“You don’t want me to kiss you?” he murmurs.
“You need to read more romances, then you’ll get it.”
He doesn’t reply.
I stay exactly where I am, clinging to him.
My temple is pressed against his, and I’m trying to breathe through the dizzying build of pleasure curling through my core.
He thrusts up into me again, deeper this time, and my hips jolt, grinding down against him.
The rhythm turns frantic—his hands dragging me down, my body meeting him in sharp, shaking movements that send shock waves spiraling up my spine.
Heat gathers, coils, snaps—
And then I’m gone.
The orgasm rips through me so violently my hips stutter, my thighs tremble, my nails dig into his shoulders as I clamp down around him, shaking with each pulse.
Yes. Yes. Yes.
My brain sputters out completely, running on scraps of oxygen and raw sensation. I let myself drown in it, clinging to the aftershocks, refusing to come back to reality just yet.
Because when I do, I’ll have to admit the truth:
I just fucked Donovan Wolinski.