Chapter 27
FRISKY BUSINESS
Ginny
Oh my stars, this man knows how to kiss me.
And it’s not just the way he’s threading his fingers through my hair, sending delicious sparkles all over my scalp as he grips my tangled curls, or the way his lips and tongue caress mine, or the way his stubble scratches my skin, or the way he’s resting one hand on my thigh, like he’s waiting for permission—or orders—to move it higher.
It’s like I’ve been a butterfly trapped in a net, but this kiss—it’s setting me free.
Free to flutter anywhere I want.
To explore.
To breathe.
To live.
I stroke his hair, kiss him harder, deeper, until I can’t sit still anymore and have to crawl into his lap, swinging one leg over his hips until I’m straddling him on the bench.
He makes a desperate noise in the back of his throat as I test rocking my clit against the hard ridge of his erection.
I love these shorts he’s wearing.
And I want him to take them off.
“Come—inside—with me,” I pant.
His hard-on surges against me as he drops his head to my shoulder. “You sure?”
“Carry me.”
He rises in one fluid motion, holding my ass as I wrap my legs around his waist and press my mouth to his neck.
I want him.
I want his kisses.
I want his body.
I want all of him, and I want him in my bed.
“Tell me to stop—” he starts.
“Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.”
I don’t know if it’s his heart or mine pounding against my ribs, but I know I can’t stop touching him.
Kissing his neck and shoulders.
Rubbing my clit shamelessly against his hard length with every step he takes toward the house.
I might spontaneously combust before we make it to my room.
“Up the stairs, left, second door,” I say when he hits the porch.
“Anyone—inside?”
“Don’t care.”
He shoves me against the door and kisses me until I don’t care if I never breathe again while he fumbles with the handle.
I want his mouth. His tongue. His body.
His heart.
The door swings open, and his hands are both on my ass again, cradling me with nothing but my thin cotton panties between us.
Again.
If this man doesn’t touch my bare ass with his hands tonight, I’m going to die of utter frustration.
No one says anything when the door slams louder than is polite.
Flow grumbles.
Good.
Good.
She’s inside. She’s with us.
Declan turns as I’m licking a trail up his neck, and his pace changes.
The stairs.
Thank the stars, we’re on the stairs.
If my housemates are up, none of them makes a peep.
It’s not against the rules to take men to our rooms, but none of us do it frequently.
Or at all.
But I want this man now.
I need him.
I need to know if this is all a fluke, if it’s something we’ll laugh off in the morning or if it—if it’s something more.
Declan reaches the top of the stairs, breathing heavy, and turns right.
No, my right.
His left.
He’s going the right way.
“Here,” I pant as we reach my door.
He bumps it with his hip, takes two steps in, and we both go down.
I wheeze out all of the air in my lungs as my back hits the floor—correction, the piles of my stuff all over the floor—and Declan grunts, barely catching himself before he squashes me.
Flow huffs out a doggy laugh.
Like we deserve this or something.
Declan lifts his head and looks around. “Holy shit, it really is a mess.”
He’s splayed on top of me.
I’m flopped on top of a pile of clothes and books beneath my back and something else round and hard under my leg.
Flow steps over both of us, then hops up onto the bed while I catch my breath.
Declan snickers.
“It’s worse than usual,” I pant out, holding his body tight to mine, my legs still wrapped around him.
“Are you hurt?”
“No, I think there’s a bag of Poly-Fil under the laundry.” I wiggle to get my shoulder blade off of the edge of what’s likely a hardback book, and a latch clicks outside my room.
“Shut the door,” I hiss.
Because that wasn’t my latch.
Someone else is up.
Declan pushes my door with his foot.
It gets stuck on something—probably a shoe or a mug or—
He pushes harder, and there’s a pop!, then a crunch, then the click of my door latching.
“What the hell was that?” Declan murmurs.
I don’t want to tell him.
I don’t.
But I owe him as much honesty as he’s giving me.
“Probably a bag of potato chips,” I whisper.
“Ginny?” Samantha calls softly. “Everything okay?”
I accidentally smack Declan in the face in my rush to cover his mouth so he doesn’t answer for me. “I’m fine. Flow…tripped. We’re…having a sleepover.”
Declan drops his face to my shoulder again, his shoulders shaking with the kind of silent laughter that has his breath huffing out on my neck.
There’s a moment of silence outside my door.
Then— “Okay. Night, Ginny. Night, Flow.”
Flow woofs once.
Good girl.
“Night,” I call.
I hold my breath and count to twenty, waiting to see if anyone else comes to check on me.
I know Heath and Declan were the last two cleaning up after the cookout and all of my friends are in the house.
The soft hum of a sewing machine coming from above tells me Mabel’s in the attic, which is her secondary workspace for the custom commissions she gets for her costume-making business.
Samantha and Olivia’s door clicks shut again, and when I don’t hear any footsteps, I assume they’re in for the night.
Dori sleeps like the dead when she’s tired—she slept through Pip setting off a smoke alarm not long after she got here—and she’s been working so hard that I expect we won’t see or hear from her until at least noon tomorrow.
And Pip’s room is too far away for me to hear her or vice versa.
“Embarrassed?” Declan murmurs. He’s managed to find solid ground to support himself so he’s not squishing me, but our bodies are still aligned, his hard-on as hard and on as ever.
“No, but this is for me, not them,” I whisper back.
I stroke his face, then lift my head to press a kiss to his lips.
He angles his head and kisses me back, soft and gentle, but I don’t want soft and gentle.
“Harder,” I say against his mouth.
He instantly deepens the kiss, swiping his tongue over my lips and demanding entrance, thrusting his fingers in my hair and gripping it with an unrelenting strength, his hips flexing into mine.
I fumble for his hand and pull it down to my leg, then slide it up under my shirt—his shirt—until I’m shoving his hand into the back of my panties, holding his palm against my ass.
He groans softly into my mouth and kisses me harder and faster and wetter, his fingers spread across my butt, thumb rubbing a slow circle near my crack.
“More,” I pant.
“Is that a jar of pickles?” he asks back, and I’m suddenly snort-laughing again.
“Where?”
“Under my hand. Can’t you feel that?”
I wiggle my ass.
His eyes cross.
And—
Dammit.
He’s right.
Kind of.
That’s definitely a jar under my upper thigh.
More likely to be olives though.
“Bed,” I say.
He squeezes my ass again. “Is it safe?”
“Shut up and get in my bed with me.”
He’s laughing silently as he straightens, but I pull my shirt off—his shirt, the shirt so big that it fits me like a dress—and his laughter dies away as he looks at me.
Visibly swallows.
Goes hooded-eyed.
Adjusts his cock.
“Do you have any idea how fucking gorgeous you are?” he whispers.
I flinch a little, then cringe at my flinch. “Sorry. Sorry—I—Caro’s the pretty one. I—”
“You’re fucking gorgeous,” he repeats. He traces a finger over the edge of my simple bra, making my breasts swell and my skin erupt in the best kind of goosebumps. “You always were.”
“Stop,” I whisper.
His hand stills, and he searches my eyes with his. “Stop touching, or stop telling you the truth?”
I bite my lip.
I’m ruining the moment.
It’s slipping away.
He shoves away the pile of clothes beside me, and then he’s pulling me into his lap, phone in hand.
I shiver. “No—” I start, but he presses a kiss to my shoulder as he flips open his photo roll, a silent trust me, I would never hurt you that settles into my bones and helps me draw a full breath.
“Look,” he murmurs three swipes later, and then I’m staring at an awkward, gangly, pimple-faced kid in a hockey uniform.
His hair’s a mess in that way only teenage boys can manage when they’re trying to be messy-cool, and he’s scowling at the camera, the slightest bit of braces showing, in a way that makes my heart ache.
Declan.
No older than fifteen, I’m sure.
He was an ugly duckling too.
“I want to hug him,” I whisper.
“He would’ve hugged you right back,” he murmurs into my hair. “He always thought you were you beautiful. He always wanted to be your friend.”
There are very, very few people in this world that I’d believe could’ve thought I was beautiful in my teenage years.
But Declan?
I believe him.
I trust him.
With all of me.
I kick off my shoes, pull myself out of his lap, then hold out a hand to him. “Come here.”
He rises, making an exaggerated show of trying to not trip himself again, which makes me laugh until I snort.
“It’s not that bad.”
“It’s iconic,” he replies. “You’ve done it all the way. Good for you.”
“Take your shoes off.”
“Will I be able to find them again, or are they a sacrifice to whatever gods have let me into your bedroom?”
“They’re gone. They’re mine now.”
He grins, then whips his shoes off and tosses them over his shoulder.
One hits the wall, and we both temporarily freeze.
The other lands in a pile of empty chip bags.
“Iconic,” he repeats reverently.
I’m laughing as I pull him to the bed, dislocating Flow, who grumps at us as she scoots over and makes room, but then Declan’s on top of me and I’m kissing him and stroking his hot skin and tugging at his cotton shorts until he kicks them off the bed, and the world outside of this man ceases to exist.
“Take my bra off,” I order between kisses.
He flicks the clasp open one-handed, then uses his teeth to pull the straps down, his stubbled face trailing down my arms lighting my nerves up like fireworks.
My breasts ache.
My clit does too.
I’m soaked between my thighs.
Panting for more.
And he’s delicately slipping my bra off without touching my breasts at all.
“Touch me,” I beg.
“Where?”
“My breasts. Touch my breasts.”
He pokes me in one. “Like this?”
“Do not be an asshole.”
He grins, and then he lowers his mouth to my chest and sucks on one nipple while he rubs the other with his wide, flat thumb.
“Oh, yes, yes, like that,” I pant, arching my back.
“Delicious,” he murmurs.
“Take my panties off.”
He switches his mouth to my other nipple as he hooks a thumb under my panties and tortures me with his slow obedience, turning me inside out with the way his tongue flicks over my nipples and the way his fingers touch my hip, my inner thigh, everywhere but my pussy.
When he’s finally tugged them off and tossed them off the bed too, he gives my nipple one last hard suck that has me panting and writhing in ecstasy, then peers at me. “Now what?”
He’s naked.
I’m naked.
Naked and wet and hot and desperate and needy and ready.
And smiling so hard my cheeks hurt. “You are so obnoxious.”
He smiles back, and warmth and affection and something that I’m afraid to name spreads deeper than the arousal.
“Do you want something, Ginny?” he murmurs as he strokes my hip.
I wiggle against him.
I want things I’m afraid to ask for.
But I need to stop being afraid.
“You,” I whisper. “I want you.”
“What do you want me to do?”
I reach between us and grip his cock.
His eyes cross and he buries his face against my breast. “Fuck, Ginny.”
“Yes,” I whisper. “I want you to fuck Ginny.”
He presses a kiss to my breast, then lifts his head again, his breath hitching as I stroke him. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Positive?”
“Declan.”
“I don’t know if I can—if I could stop.”
“I don’t want you to stop.”
He studies me, his eyes dark and desperate and searching.
I cup his cheek with my free hand and press a kiss to his lips. “Fuck me, Declan,” I whisper.
“Condoms?”
“Drawer.”
Irritation flashes over his face, and I smile.
“They’re new,” I tell him.
He leans over and slaps for my nightstand, causing an avalanche of everything from my night guard to my sunglasses to stars only know what, and then he whips the drawer open.
And freezes.
“Don’t even,” I say as I stroke his bare ass. “A girl has needs.”
“Can we—can we play with these later?” he asks hoarsely.
“There won’t be a later if you don’t hurry your ass up.”
I don’t talk to men this way.
But Declan—he’s grinning as he grabs the box of condoms. “I like bossy Ginny.”
“You better. It’s your fault she exists.”
He doesn’t make me ask for more kisses, for more touches, for more everything, instead taking liberties with his hands, with his mouth, with his body, stroking me and teasing me, my breasts, my ass, my vagina—until I’m so hot and ready that when he finally—finally—slides into me, everything inside me shatters.
I bite my lip to keep from screaming as the orgasm overtakes me.
“Holy fuck, Ginny,” he whispers, pushing deeper and deeper while I grip his ass and hold him tight, my entire body pulsing and alive and free.
“Feel—so good,” I pant.
“Yes, you do,” he gasps back.
His eyes pinch, and then he buries his head in my neck, and I realize he’s coming too.
And I love it.
I love him inside me.
I love that I drive him past the point of control.
I love that I trust him with my body.
With my fears.
With me.
Flow howls.
Declan gasps out a laugh, still straining inside me, and I laugh right along with him, my vagina still clenching around him, his cock still beating in time with me.
“I can do way better,” he murmurs as I start to sag into the mattress, my muscles relaxing in ways I haven’t felt in ages.
“Hmm. I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“That means I can stay?”
I don’t answer, but I do hug him tighter.
I don’t want to let go.
Not yet.