7. Kendall #4
He moves carefully, holding me like I might break or simply slip from his grip.
I get lost in him, his constant touch dousing any regret I might feel when this is over.
I don’t care anymore. I don’t care about saving face or holding onto the smallest shred of dignity so he doesn’t assume I’m that reckless and easy.
I don’t care about responsibilities or focusing on my senseless “no relationships” policy in an attempt to keep my life as uncomplicated as possible.
All of those reservations have been chucked out the door, the dead bolt clicked in place with a chain lock for added measure.
This alone, me wrapped up in his arms and legs surrounded by my plush comforter, is all my mind can grasp.
Everything else is irrelevant. Superfluous.
“You happen to have…protection?” he says against my neck. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint Kyle.” His lips leave a trail of wet kisses down to my collarbone when I realize what he’s asking.
“Yeah,” I whisper through my wanton haze. I blindly claw at my nightstand and rifle through the top drawer.
“That’s convenient,” he comments. His eyes are barely decipherable in the night, but I catch onto the suggestive, almost sarcastic tone in his voice. “Is this a regular occurrence that you need to keep them in your nightstand?”
I laugh, and he grins. “No. I literally have one, and I couldn’t think of anywhere else to keep it.”
He takes the condom from my hand and kisses me.
It’s a different pace, sweet and sensual rather than raucous and hot.
And I realize how much I need to lighten up.
To understand that this man likes me. And I like him too, caution thrown straight into the wind.
This is about that. And how freaking hot he is when he’s about to fuck me.
He sits upright. Cool air hits the spots he was kissing, making me want to drag him closer, but responsibility first. He leans back on his heels and rips open the condom packet with his teeth—an obscene gesture—and I follow.
“Can I?” I ask, my palm held open.
His brows shoot up. “Sure.”
The playful, almost mischievous air is nearly sucked out of the room when I reach for him. He works his throat through a grunt, his muscles tensing and his eyes turning dark and grave. One last stroke, assuring placement and security, and I lay back down, my hair splayed on my pillow.
Neither one of us is laughing anymore. Gritted teeth and pursed lips have taken over the giggles. A harsh groan rattles James’s chest as he rocks forward, brushing the heavy underside of his cock over my clit. Back and forth, over and over again. I grow frantic.
“I promise I won’t think less of you if you skip foreplay,” I croak. This whole evening has felt like foreplay, and I don’t think I can wait any longer. I want more. I want him to be able to feel me from the inside, know all the curves and ridges while he learns what makes me feel good.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I really want you to fuck me already.”
I’m about to add to my argument, even throw in a threat, when I feel him push into me. I gasp, and he stills. He curses something under his breath I can’t quite make out.
“Are you okay?” I ask when all I feel is his hand fisting my hair. Everything’s so full. I know he’s not all the way seated inside me by the way our hips aren’t touching and how he’s bracing his elbows against the mattress, but I don’t know if I can take more.
He nods against my collarbone. “Yeah,” he mumbles against my skin. “I just need a minute.”
I think I need a minute too. Just as I’m adjusting to him, he rocks an inch further. Our moans harmonize.
“Hold on,” I say. He’s stretching me to impossible lengths, but I want more. Deeper. Fuller. I brace my hands on the headboard, pushing against him, and rotate my hips out, making my knees open wider. It hits an entirely new spot, and I suck in a breath.
“Jesus fucking—” He trembles. “You need to warn me the next time you do something like that.”
“What makes you think there’s going to be a next time?”
“I sure fucking hope so.”
We both smile, something whimsical and dream-like.
Almost as if we both can’t believe this is happening.
That it can feel this good with someone we both hardly know.
That we don’t have to build a foundation where sex has to be the last brick in the wall of acquainting ourselves with each other. It can actually be this easy.
His pace picks up, and my body tenses. His hand that was bracing my waist moves between us, his thumb working my clit. I tense even more.
“You’re going to come, aren’t you?”
I manage a nod.
“Already?”
I nod again.
“I can feel you,” he rasps. “Fuck. You feel so fucking good.”
When I do, it’s like an explosion. One that was simmering, kept at a low boil, only for it to splinter my body right down the middle. I feel it all the way down to my toes.
He follows. Being the gentleman that he is, he waits for me to finish.
We’re a panting mess when he climbs off me, and I lazily run my hand over his chest, enjoying the deep valley between his pecs that trails down to a set of muscles lining his stomach. And a thought occurs to me.
I smack him.
“What?” he asks. He looks genuinely concerned while I bite my lower lip.
I eye him, my breaths slowly evening out. I fight a smile when I say, “I was going to make you wait.”
He looks confused.
“At least until the fourth date—”
He laughs, yanking me closer to him, and I squeal, following willingly.