8. Mackie #2
“I don’t know. You’ll have to be more specific.” It comes out braver than I feel.
“Mackie—”
“Communication is important in relationships.” I’m tracing my finger along the neck of his shirt, trying to maintain the confident act. “What exactly were you thinking about? On the plane? In the hotel?”
“You’re doing this on purpose.”
“Doing what?” I ask, and the confidence wavers when his eyes drop to my mouth.
He exhales. “I was thinking about the sounds you made in my car.” His hand moves up my thigh, thumb brushing the hem of my shorts. “And what it would be like to hear them again.”
My breath catches. “Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.” He leans in close, his mouth by my ear. “Except this time without all the...” He tugs at the fabric of my shorts lightly. “Layers.”
“Yes.” I say it before he finishes. “Yes, that’s okay.”
His whole face changes when I say yes and I realize he was afraid I’d say no.
“Come here,” I say, and pull him to me. His bottom lip slants between both of mine and the kiss goes deep immediately, his tongue sliding against mine, and heat floods through me so fast my toes curl.
I bite his bottom lip and he groans, I feel the vibration of it in my chest and between my legs and I want to crawl inside this kiss and live there.
He moves his hand under my shirt, along my ribs, and I feel his fingers hesitate at the band of my bra, that brief pause where he’s asking without asking, and I arch into him so he knows it’s fine.
He pulls my shirt over my head and tosses it and I’m about to do the same with his but he’s already reaching back and pulling it off one-handed and I have to take a second because goalie muscles are a real thing.
His shoulders are broader than they look under clothes and there’s a V of muscle at his hips that disappears into his jeans and I really want to see where it goes.
I run my hands up his chest and he shivers under my palms.
His fingers comb into my hair and tilt my head back, his teeth catch my bottom lip and I make a sound so he does it again, testing, adjusting.
I can feel him learning what works, paying attention to every response the way he reads shots from the crease.
His fist tightens in my hair and I gasp a little.
He starts to let go but I press back into his hand and whisper. “Don’t stop.”
He pulls again and my eyes close and my mouth falls open and I don’t recognize the sound that comes out of me. He reaches behind me, then my bra is gone—one-handed, which okay, skills—and the cool air hits my skin. I’m about to cross my arms over my chest on reflex when I see his face.
He’s sitting completely still with his lips parted, chest rising and falling like he just finished a shift and looks like someone just hit him over the head.
“Zach?”
Nothing. Just staring.
“Hey.” I laugh a little, breathless. “What, have you never seen boobs before?”
“I have,” he says, and his voice is rough and quiet. “I’ve just never wanted anyone this much before.”
He shifts on the couch, settling back against the armrest and pulls me between his legs so I’m reclining on him.
The position change catches me off guard and I start to turn my head but his mouth is already on the side of my neck, warm and open, and I feel his arm wrap around me, his hand cupping my breast, his thumb brushing across my nipple.
I arch into his palm and his other hand moves down my stomach slowly.
His fingers tracing my waistband before he slips his hand into my shorts and the first touch of his fingers against me makes my whole body jolt. He pulls back immediately.
“No no no, don’t stop—” I grab his wrist and press his hand back. “That was a good thing. Keep going.”
He breathes out a laugh against my neck and tries again, slower this time, and I can feel him figuring it out, his fingers exploring, adjusting pressure, changing angles, paying attention to what makes me gasp and what makes me grip his arm harder.
His other hand is still on my chest, thumb moving in slow circles, and the combination of both at once is making it very hard to think.
“There,” I say, and my voice comes out broken. “Right there.”
He focuses on the spot and I can feel his breathing change, getting faster and heavier. He’s hard against my lower back, his hips moving behind me, and I reach back and grab his hair and pull his mouth down to the curve of my shoulder, he groans against my skin.
“Open your legs wider,” he says against my neck, and his palm taps my inner thigh.
I squeak in surprise and he goes still behind me. “Did you like that?”
I nod because I can’t trust my voice.
He does it again, harder, and a moan slips out before I can stop it.
“Yeah, you liked that,” he breathes against my neck. His fingers push deeper and I stop thinking entirely. He does it once more and the sting combined with the slide of his fingers against me is so much better than anything I’ve ever managed on my own that it’s almost embarrassing.
“Zach, I’m—” I can’t finish the sentence. My back arches and my eyes squeeze shut. The orgasm rolling through me in waves, my whole body shaking, his hand still moving gently, drawing it out until I’m gasping and pushing at his wrist because I’m too sensitive and every touch is too much.
He pulls his hand out slowly and I melt back against him, trying to remember what gravity is.
“Holy shit,” I manage.
“Are you—”
“If you ask me if I’m okay I will throw Shredder’s tank at you.”
He grins against the side of my neck. “So that was good?”
“That was—yeah. Zach, that was really good.” I twist around to face him. “Get over here.”
I turn in his arms, reaching for his belt and get the buckle undone and he makes a sound against my mouth that goes straight through me.
But before I can get his zipper down, he catches my wrist.