Chapter Twenty-One #3
“There’s a good girl,” he says, and then his mouth is moving against me again, his tongue a torturously slow circle that leads in only one direction.
I used to hate how Wesley would wind me up, how he would goad me in the way only he could until I lost my temper, or my patience, or my control.
I used to hate how no one could press my buttons like him, how no one else was capable of bringing my emotions so immediately to the surface.
Sometimes it felt like he was specially designed to pick me apart and unravel me.
Now—with his forearm a heavy bar across my waist, pressing me down even as my hips lift upward, keeping me secured and controlled while he sets the pace—I realize that I was right.
I wonder whether I knew it all along. As my heels dig into his shoulders and I feel the pressure build in my core, he makes a low sound in his throat, sensing how close I am.
Fuck me, but he was made for this.
I suck in a gasp, and then I’m lost.
Sometimes, it feels like being caught in a tidal wave or seizing a moment—but this time, it feels like letting go.
I let him guide me through every whimpering pulse as bliss and heat suffuse my limbs, until I’m lying limp on my own desk.
I shudder instinctively as Wesley passes his tongue in one more slow, simmering circle before he rests his head against my thigh.
His eyes burn as he looks up at me, and for once, I admit he’s allowed the self-satisfied smirk that curls at his lips.
But I don’t want to just sit in this moment, don’t want to wait for that wonderful ache to fade away. Instead, I push myself up onto my hands.
“Go get it,” I say.
It takes a few heartbeats—I can still feel my pulse thudding in my ears, my chest, my core—for his heavy gaze to clear, for the haze to fade away.
Wesley stands, and then, very casually, he dips his hand into the back pocket of his jeans and pulls out his wallet.
He thumbs through its sleeves and draws out that familiar square of foil.
I am trying my very hardest not to grin; I don’t want to give him the satisfaction. “The whole time?”
“The whole time.”
I splay my hand against his chest and push him solidly back before shouldering past him on unsteady legs into the living room. “You are not fucking me on the desk.”
Behind me, I hear his quick steps and his laugh. “Haven’t I already?”
Damn him.
I’m swiftly learning that the most effective way to shut Wesley up is to occupy his mouth with other activities.
As soon as we get close to the couch, I lace my fingers behind his neck and pull his lips back down to mine.
He hums a note of amusement into my mouth as I skate my palms down the front of his shirt until my fingers find the button of his jeans again.
I make quick work of the zipper, then I’m palming him over the fabric of his black briefs.
I slip my hand beneath his waistband and fold my fingers around him, thrilled to hear his laugh cut off as his breath hitches.
“Fuck, Reagan.”
I can’t help but shiver to hear him utter my name like that, half groaned like I dragged it out of his throat myself.
With my lips pressed to his collarbone, I murmur, “Sit down.”
One of his eyelids flutters open. “Excuse me?”
“Sit down, Wesley.”
As I pull my head back to get a better look at his face, I see the spark of rebellion in his eyes. Not ten minutes ago, he had me splayed out before him, hanging on his every whispered word and firm direction. He’s debating now whether he’s going to pass over that control.
His forehead creases as he deliberately detaches himself from me. But then, slowly, he lowers himself onto the couch.
I nod to his pants, his shirt. “Take it off. All of it.”
His eyes don’t leave my face as he reaches to pull his crewneck over his head. After he eases out of his jeans and briefs, he goes rigid, as if ready to spring.
I give myself a moment to admire him—his messy hair falling over his eyes, his broad shoulders, the curls of light hair trailing down his chest, the corded muscle that I know from experience takes years of training and discipline to earn, the stiff curve of his erection.
Despite the way he lounges against the couch—one arm draped across its back, a leg stretched out lazily before him—lines of tension stand out along his skin.
He dips his eyes down and paints my own body with his gaze. Slowly, I slink out of my skirt and draw my tight tank over my shoulders, letting it all fall to the floor. He strokes himself as he watches me, and I have to swallow back the way this makes my mouth flood.
Striding forward to stand between his legs, I drag my nails through his hair before curling my hand around the base of his neck.
I use this grip to anchor myself as I straddle him, my knees pressing into the cushions on either side of his thighs.
After I smooth the condom over him, I run my hand up his length again and hold him positioned right at my entrance.
My face hovers just above his; I can feel each of his panting breaths against my neck.
“Is this what you want?” I whisper.
His mouth is hot where he presses it between my breasts. His fingers dig into my thighs. “God, yes.”
I lower myself onto him.
We both gasp at the same moment, feel the air catch in our throats.
I have to widen my legs to make room for him and control my descent as it reawakens the ache deep in my core.
The lines of tension in Wesley’s body have grown only more taut, like he’s trying to restrain himself from bucking his hips upward or just pulling me down himself.
I run my thumb along where his jaw has gone sharp and tight.
An unspoken understanding passes between us.
We’re going at my pace now.
But I’m impatient, too.
I roll my hips forward until we’re fully flush, until I have to swallow a whimper at just how ridiculously good it feels when he fills me entirely. Experimentally, I circle my hips—underneath me, Wesley’s legs twitch forward, and he bites out a curse.
“Fucking hell, Reagan.” His voice is ragged.
I could get used to this.
In time, he can’t help himself—his blunt nails dig half-moons into my skin, holding me in place as his hips jerk upward to rise and fall in time with mine.
I arch myself forward again, and with each stroke, I increase my pace.
I don’t have any of Wesley’s slow patience or careful control—I never have.
Not when I have him right where I want him, not when each thrust has my mind going blissfully blank of everything other than him, and this.
His lip looks so good where he holds it captured between his teeth that I arch my neck down to kiss and bite it myself.
Wesley groans into my mouth, and I tangle my fingers in his hair as his movements grow more frantic.
I lose all sense of who’s in control of this encounter, of who’s setting the pace.
But, like always, I find his rhythm and match it.
We are neck and neck in the same race, and when I feel him nearing his own edge, I push him over it.
Wesley’s long fingers dig into my lower back, and he shudders against me, holding me painfully close as his hips twitch upward with each aftershock of pleasure. When he’s finished, he lets his head fall and presses his sweat-slicked temple against my chest, his breath escaping him in pants.
“Do you have any idea,” he murmurs against my skin, “how incredible you are?”
I smile against his hair, then I gently fall to the side and pull him down with me until we’re both horizontal on the couch, his face burrowed into my neck. He presses messy kisses into my collarbone, and I feel deliciously wrung out and languid.
I’m half awake when he starts to rise, pushing himself onto his elbows. “Give me a sec to go clean up, okay?”
My stomach twists.
If I close my eyes again, I don’t know if you’ll still be here when I open them, I think.
“Don’t go.” By the way my tone lilts up at the end, it almost sounds like a question.
Wesley’s eyes soften. “I won’t.”
The last thing I see before my eyes shutter closed is a rectangle of light coming from the bathroom, then Wesley shuts himself inside.