Chapter Forty-Seven
Ruby
“Your turn.” The words come out so husky it doesn’t sound like my own voice.
I’m floating, my body warm and loose. I reach for him before I can think better of it. My hand finds his chest, then lower, pressing against the hard line straining against his jeans.
He inhales sharply, stills. I like that I can do that to him. I like that he’s not as controlled as he pretends to be.
I push up on one elbow and kiss him, tasting the salt of my own skin on his mouth, the faint bitterness that should embarrass me but doesn’t. Not with him. Not when he groans into it, when his hand finds my waist and grips tight like he’s anchoring himself.
“Ruby.” My name against my lips, rough, wrecked.
I don’t answer. I keep kissing him, deeper, my hand working his button open, and he lets me.
He helps me, lifting his hips so I can pull the denim off, and then his cock is in my hand, hot and heavy and perfect.
I stroke his cock once, twice, feel him twitch and thicken, and I want to taste him. I want to make him feel what I felt.
I start to shift down the bed, my mouth watering, but his hand catches my shoulder, firm, pulling me back up.
“No.” His voice is strained, desperate. “Can’t wait.”
He reaches past me, fumbling for his wallet in his pants, and tears the wrapper with his teeth, his hands shaking. I take it from him and roll the condom down his length with more force than necessary, tugging rough at the base. He hisses, hips bucking into my grip.
“Fuck.” His eyes squeeze shut. “Ruby–”
I grip his cock again, stroke him hard, and he groans, long and low.
Then his hands are on me, everywhere, like he can’t stop touching me now that he’s started.
My breasts, my waist, between my legs again, and I’m still sensitive, still tender, but I don’t pull away.
I spread my legs for him, and he finds me wet, swollen, and I gasp against his mouth.
“I can’t–” I start, because I’ve never, never twice, but he’s circling my clit with his thumb and I feel it building again, impossible, too much.
“Yes, you can.” His voice in my ear, low, commanding. “Let me.”
He’s touching me with purpose now, with knowledge of what I like, and I’m rocking into his hand, stroking him harder, losing track of everything.
We move together, clumsy, urgent, and I feel it building again, that tight spiral, his fingers curling inside me while I grip him tight and his hips are thrusting into my hand.
“That’s it.” He’s watching me, eyes dark, fixed on my face. “Let me feel you.”
I break apart, shuddering against him, and he groans, long and low, and I feel him pulse in my hand, thick and urgent, and then he’s moving, fast, desperate, rolling me onto my back and settling between my thighs in one motion.
His hands grip my hips, fingers pressing hard enough to bruise, and he drives into me in a single thrust that tears a cry from my throat.
“Fuck.” His voice is wrecked, barely human, and he stills for half a second, breathing hard, forehead pressed against my shoulder. “You’re so–”
He cuts himself off, shakes his head, and then he’s moving again, erratic, frantic, fevered, each thrust driving the air from my lungs in sharp gasps.
I wrap my legs around his waist, heels digging into his lower back, and he groans, deep and guttural, his rhythm stuttering then finding a new desperation.
He’s not controlled now. Not careful. Need, raw and relentless.
The tension building in him, the way his muscles lock and release, the way his breath comes in harsh grunts against my neck.
“Ruby.” My name, broken, desperate, and then he’s kissing me again, messy and uncoordinated, his tongue in my mouth in the same rhythm as his hips, and I’m climbing again, impossibly, the friction perfect, the angle just right, and I didn’t think I could but I can, I am–
“Come on.” His hand slides between us, finds my clit, works me in tight circles even as he loses his rhythm, becomes unmoored, unmade. “Come with me. Please–”
I shatter, crying out against his mouth, and he follows, burying himself deep and stilling, his whole body rigid, pulsing, his forehead dropping to my shoulder as he groans long and low and endless.
Silence.
Our breathing fills the room, ragged and slowing. I become aware of his weight on me, heavy and real, the way his hand is still between us, the way my nails have scored his back. I should move. I don’t.
He doesn’t either, not at first. Then he shifts, enough to roll to his side, pulling out slow, dealing with the condom without looking at me.
I stare at the ceiling, watching the shadows from the hallway light shift across the plaster.
My mind is blank, then not blank, then flooding with everything I don’t want to feel.
That was…. I can’t finish the thought. I don’t let myself.
“Wow.” His voice is rough, barely audible. “That was….”
“Yeah.” I swallow. My throat is dry. “Yeah.”
More silence. The fan clicks overhead. Somewhere outside, a dog barks.
We lie there, side by side, not touching except where our arms press together. I count cracks in the ceiling, count breaths, count the seconds until one of us moves, leaves, remembers this was supposed to be casual.
Then his hand finds the blanket bunched at the foot of the bed. He pulls it up, slow, and covers us both. The gesture is so unexpectedly tender that my chest tightens, and I have to close my eyes against the sudden sting.
“Thanks,” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer. Just stays, arm pressing against mine, and we lie there in the dark, close enough to share heat, far enough to pretend we don’t need it.
Neither of us sleeps. Neither of us leaves.