Chapter 2 #3
“I know, sweetheart. Just let me.” His mouth returns, his tongue repeating a pattern he’s now perfected, and as my pulse increases, as I stand right at the edge, his fingers push inside me, and I fall apart.
Everything crashes, collides. I feel wild, electric, but he doesn’t let up.
His mouth and fingers continue to move, guiding me through it, the tempo slowing as I come back to myself.
And when I curl up slightly, lifting a hand to his head, pushing his hair away from the damp skin on his forehead, he leans into my palm, turning and pressing his lips to the center of it.
Who is he? Who is this man? The rules I insisted on, the secrecy I made him swear to, keep me from knowing his name.
Or what he does. Or what he’s really like.
I know that the rules are smart and that I set them for a reason, but the circumstances of tonight mean that I’ll never really get to know him, and I wasn’t expecting to mourn that.
But there are things I can still find out about him. Things I’m allowed to learn tonight.
“Come up here,” I say, and he does. We both settle in closer to the pillows, grabbing water from the nightstand and catching our breath, then lying on our sides. Our bodies find the dips and valleys of each other, slotting together, my leg sliding between his.
“That was—” Real is the word that comes to mind.
Because I’ve had one-night stands. I’ve had fun, satisfactory one-night stands, but those nights were like pictures of a painting.
All the components in the correct place, but ultimately an imitation of the real thing.
Only I didn’t know that then. Didn’t know the colors, the textures, the brushstrokes I was missing.
“Amazing,” I say, wincing at the inadequacy of the word.
His lips curve into a smile. “It was,” he says, and I bring my mouth to his, hoping that if my words can’t convey what I mean, I can at least show him.
I roll him onto his back, and he watches through half-lidded eyes as I settle over his torso, my hands playing at the band of my bra.
“What do you like?” I ask him, teasing, but serious at the same time, because this is information about him that I get to have. And I’m greedy for it. I need to know.
His hands come to my waist. “I don’t think there’s anything you could do that I wouldn’t like,” he says as he slides his hands up, meeting mine, slowly peeling up the edge of my bra.
I lift an eyebrow. “Really?” I raise myself out of reach, then settle back over him. I spread my legs farther, brushing deliberately against the hard length between his thighs.
He groans, loud and guttural, and I revel in the sound. In the feel of him. Pulsing and vibrant and alive.
“So, if I took things slow,” I say, rocking against him again, “if I did nothing but this, for minutes—”
He curses.
“For hours,” I say, circling my hips, then lifting off him, “you’d be okay with that?”
“I—” He lets out a rush of breath as I lower myself to him again. “I guess I should have been more specific.”
I laugh, and he arches up into me, turning my laugh into a moan.
His eyes shine, want and humor burning in equal measure. “Can I get a redo?” he asks. “Can I tell you what I really want? What I like?”
I nod, desperate to know this piece of him. Desperate to have it.
“First,” he says, “take off your bra.”
A zing lights through my body, and my hands automatically lift to comply.
I didn’t realize this was a thing for me, but there’s something about having my brain go quiet, about not having to think.
About just following, knowing that it’s safe to do so.
That I can just trust in it. That nothing bad will happen if I fall.
He exhales as I shimmy out of my constrictive sports bra. I pull one arm through and then the other before gently lifting it over my head, trying not to yank any of the unruly, damp hair floating around my face.
I toss the fabric on the floor and stretch instinctively, enjoying the freedom of movement, the relief I always feel when I remove my bra, but I stop, my arms raised above my head, as my gaze catches his.
His eyes are dark, something flickering beneath the surface. Something raw that he hasn’t let me see before now.
And I’m fully taking him in now, at this angle, his body splayed out beneath me. He has a lanky build, all sharp angles, but there are places where he’s soft.
My hands go to his chest, whorls of coarse hair abrading my palms as I slide them down his abdomen. His eyes spark as I feel him. A build of firm but undefined muscle that continues as my eyes track all the way down to his thighs.
“Can I?” I ask, my hand tracing over the last piece of fabric between us, and he nods, strain written across his face.
“You’ve been so patient,” I say as I remove it. “So good.”
A beat passes, and he doesn’t respond, so I glance up at him. His mouth is parted. His expression thunderstruck. Wondering. And it makes me melt, warmth spreading through me.
I lower my head, moving to place my lips around him, but his fingers thread through my hair, stopping me.
“Don’t,” he says on a gasp. “I won’t be able to…I can’t. I need to be inside you.”
The warmth inside me grows into a fire. Everything is hot. Every spot where our skin touches sets me aflame.
He pulls me back up to him, and his lips find mine, his tongue sweeping into my mouth.
I don’t just taste the beer we drank; I taste him. Me. Us. And when he retreats, I chase after him, with my mouth and my body. I lie flush against him, erasing any distance, my hips meeting his again, setting a new pace, but then he flips us, my back to the sheets, his face hovering over mine.
I’m panting, clutching at him, desperate, and I know it’s reciprocated from the way his hands grip and squeeze my body. From his harsh breaths, quick puffs of air against my temple.
He reaches for something on the nightstand, and I thank our past selves for thinking about this before. For stopping by the front desk to ask for one before we came up.
He quickly tears at the foil packet, and it takes a combined effort, our hands working together, shaking slightly as we roll it onto him.
He waits above me for a moment, holding still, his eyes on mine as he enters me, slowly. I gasp at the feel of him, closing my eyes as he pushes forward.
“Look at me,” he says. “Please.” And my eyes fly open.
The muscles around his neck and shoulders are bunched tight, his expression controlled, restrained, as he continues pushing. Slow. Deep.
“I don’t…I don’t want this to be over too quickly. I want this to last,” he says through gritted teeth.
And I hear his unsaid words, my heart cracking under the weight of them.
Because after tonight, we’ll never see each other again. We’ll never get to do this again.
I wrap my legs around him, and he lets out a breath, the restraint on his face breaking as he fills me completely. Retreating, then entering again.
“I want this,” I tell him, matching his movements, increasing the pace. “Like this. Just like this. Any way we can have it.”
And it’s like a switch has flipped. He thrusts, tilting his hips at a new angle, sending up sparks of color behind my eyes.
“I—it’s—” He kisses me, his tongue matching the rhythm he’s set. Earnest and quick. “So good.” His voice rumbles. “So, so good.”
My hands anchor themselves on his shoulders, and his mouth returns to mine. When we break away, all I can see is his face. The way he watches me, every flicker of emotion transparent, willingly shared with me.
“Yes,” I say. “It is.”
He shudders, and the trembles echo through my body, growing and spreading as he continues, filling me, taking up space, taking up all of my senses.
When I come apart this time, it’s sudden, surprise and pleasure shooting through me, rattling me. My mouth opens on a soft, unformed sound. An incoherent word. The place where his name would go if I knew it.
And through the haze, I hear him follow. A low, ragged groan as he finds his release, his hips slowing until he gently collapses, the weight of his body comforting and right as it settles on top of mine.