by Carrie Quest
“Okay if we skip the movie?”
She nods and moves closer to me, pressing her breasts up against my chest. She’s soft and warm, her breath sweet and minty, her face inches from mine. Her eyes drop to watch my lips, and I bring both hands up to cradle her face, then lower my head and brush my lips lightly over hers. Once, twice. I drop little kisses on her top lip, then the bottom one, then on each corner of her smile.
She sighs, and I sweep my tongue along her bottom lip, resisting the urge to suck it into my mouth like I’ve been wanting to for days. She opens for me, her tongue gliding across mine, and moves the rest of her body closer, pressing her pelvis up against my aching dick.
And then all control is gone. I flip onto my back and sit up, taking her with me, and she moans as she straddles me and grinds herself right where I need her most. Our hands are frantic now, grabbing at shirts and sliding along skin. I give up trying to get her tank top off when I realize I’ll have to stop kissing her. Instead, I push it up and kiss my way down her neck, stopping to nip and lick the hot skin where her neck meets her shoulder.
I palm her breasts, rubbing her hard nipples, and she breathes out my name and goes still, her hands no longer tugging at my shirt. She likes that. She holds herself there, breathing hard, her mouth slightly open, and waits. I take a minute to look at her because, fuck, I am the luckiest bastard on Earth right now, and I shouldn’t rush this. Her breasts are perfect, high and full with dusky nipples begging me to take a taste. I’d tease her if I could, but I don’t have the strength. I lick my way around one nipple and blow on it softly, watching it get even harder before drawing it into my mouth and sucking gently.
“Harder,” she breathes, then groans my name when I take deep pulls, hollowing out my cheeks as I try to get as much of her into my mouth as I can.
Her hands start to move again, skating over my chest and stopping to pinch a nipple, which makes me buck under her. I want more, more, more. I pull off both our shirts and rub against her, groaning into her mouth at the sensation of her bare skin against mine. Then my tongue’s in her mouth and she’s sucking on it, her hands pulling at the waistband of my boxers, her hips still rocking as she finds the place that makes her feel best.
She’s wearing flimsy little sleep shorts and I slide my hands into them, gripping her ass and pulling her even closer. I was kind of hoping for a repeat view of the cherry panties, but commando works just fine and with nothing more than a few cotton layers separating us, I can feel how hot her pussy is as we grind against each other, finding a rhythm that’s making us both pretty damn happy.
The bed is creaking, and Thor is barking again, and he must have jumped on the remote because the Lord of the Rings theme songs starts blaring, but as long as Nat keeps kissing me I don’t care about any of it.
Then she stops and lifts her head. I move toward her, chasing those perfect lips, so focused on getting close to her again that I don’t immediately hear the banging on the door.
“Everything okay in there?”
“It’s Eli,” she whispers. She fumbles for the remote and shuts off the movie while I hiss at Thor to shut up.
“We’re fine,” I shout out. Fucking cockblocker.
“Okay, just making sure.” I hear him shuffle away, then yell out in pain before thumping back down the stairs.
“Someone got Chuckled,” Nat says.
“First time I’ve ever liked that cat,” I say. She giggles, and I pull her close, just wanting to feel her. I’m still hard as fuck but the thought of Eli listening in is enough to well and truly kill the mood. It’s okay, though. We’ll get there.
“This is not how I pictured our first time in bed together,” I mumble into the smooth skin of her neck.
She pulls back a little. “You pictured this?”
“Only about twice a minute since I walked in the door and saw you in those panties,” I say. “Maybe three times a minute.”
She smiles and runs her fingers through my hair. “Me too.”
I like hearing that. Probably more than I should.
“How do you picture our second time?” she asks.
“Less creaking, less barking, and a fuckova lot less of the douchebag downstairs.”
She drops a soft kiss on my lips and smiles. “I like the sound of that.”
Hell yeah, we’ll get there. Soon.
15
Natalie
I wake up with strong arms wrapped around me. Ben and I have both rolled into the dip at the center of the bed, and we’re on our sides facing each other, my forehead pressed against his chest. He’s holding me tight and our legs are tangled, and I’m torn between wanting to stay here forever and wanting to wake him up by tasting every inch of his skin.
Then my brain, muzzy with sleep and frustrated hormones, remembers the creaking/barking/hobbit-song-blaring episode last night and our unwanted houseguest. Maybe Piper was right: My parents did ship me this bed as a form of birth control.
Well, the joke’s on them, because I don’t care how fucking loud it gets. I’m not stopping for anything next time.
I have no idea what time it is, but it’s still dark outside. I nuzzle into Ben’s chest, and he murmurs something and pulls me closer as I drift back into sleep.
When I wake up again, it’s light outside and Ben’s gone. This is both good and bad. It’s bad because it means I’m going to have to wait at least two minutes before I kiss him again, and even two seconds seems like an eternity.
But it’s good because he won’t see me grinning so hard my face hurts as I think back to everything we did last night.
Plus, I’ll get to brush my teeth before I jump him. Priorities.
I tiptoe out to the bathroom, still grinning like a doofus and feeling a little shy. First mornings are always weird. Do you rock up to breakfast in your pajamas or get dressed? Tame the Medusa hair or show up all sleep rumpled? It’s awkward, which is the real reason Ben is the first guy I’ve ever let sleep in my bed. I like being the one with the option to bail.
For a split second the doubts come thundering back into my mind: He’s Piper’s brother. He’s my landlord. He’s my roommate. If this goes south, I’m not going to be able to pull my usual disappear-and-pretend-he-doesn’t-exist act. Ben’s going to stay in my life one way or another. I’m pretty much stuck with him.
But for some reason that doesn’t send me into a panic. When I close my eyes and picture being stuck with Ben, I don’t see awkward meals and uncomfortable encounters. I see jokes and laughter and little secret smiles. A semester won’t be enough with this guy.
I think I’m in trouble.
I brush my teeth but keep the sleep shorts, tank, and (slightly tamed) bed head, hoping to lure Ben back upstairs. It’s after ten o’clock and I should really get some writing in on the sequel before meeting Monique for lunch, but one morning off can’t hurt. I’m planning on tackling a kissing scene next anyway, so a morning in bed with Ben is actually research. Probably the best research ever.
I head down the stairs, noticing with relief that Eli appears to be gone. The blanket is neatly folded on the end of the couch and his shoes are nowhere to be seen. Good riddance.
Ben’s in the kitchen. I can hear him moving around, rattling pans and opening cupboards and the fridge. He hasn’t done more than reheat pizza since he got here, so I have no idea what he’s up to in there. Maybe he went out for bagels and he’s putting them on actual plates instead of just eating them straight from the paper. Fancy.
I round the corner, prepared to tease him about his culinary skills, but all I can do is stare. Because damn, is he hot.
And damn, has he made a mess in my kitchen.
He’s making pancakes, and he appears to have used every single bowl and pan that we own. They’re piled high in the sink, trails of egg yolk and melted butter dripping down their sides. He’s got three bowls of batter lined up next to the stove, and three different frying pans on the burners, all full of wonky, misshapen pancakes.
For ingredients to make pancakes.
For me.
My stomach flips and I want to go tackle him, but I don’t want to interrupt his phone call, (or mess up my breakfast) so I hang back a minute.
“Yeah, I’m still here,” he says. He wedges the phone between his ear and his shoulder and flips a pancake. “I’m the guy who called earlier and ordered the bed. You said to call back after ten to talk to the delivery guys.”
I’m so distracted by the way his muscles bunch up under his tight shirt that I don’t really pay attention to what he’s saying at first.
“Do you think you can deliver it today?” He flips a pancake onto a waiting plate and then moves along the counter to the butter. He drops three pats onto the pancake and waits for them to melt a little. His movements are quick and economical; for all his messiness he’s clearly got a system.
Ben Easton is sweaty in my kitchen and he has a pancake system. This just made the top of my best morning ever list. Forget that Christmas my parents surprised me with a pony. I loved Clover, but she never made my clit quiver.
“Yeah, I don’t mind paying extra,” he says. “It’s kind of an emergency.”
I snort at that and he turns around. He grins at me, then runs his eyes down my body, taking in my skimpy sleep outfit and the way I pulled my tank down so my nipples are barely covered. I pull down the waistband of my shorts a little, just enough to show him that I’m wearing the cherry panties. His eyes go dark and he reaches over to turn off the stove, fumbling with the dials.
“Sounds good,” he says into the phone. “See you at three.” He hangs up without saying goodbye and drops his spatula in the sink.
“You’ve been busy,” I say.
“I wanted to let you sleep,” he says, stalking toward me. “Thor woke me up early, so I decided to make you breakfast in bed.”
“Impressive,” I say. “Plus running? Is your knee feeling better?”
He shrugs and ignores the question. “I wasn’t sure which recipe was best, so I made three kinds.” He gestures toward the dining room table, where I see he’s got a tray set up with a glass of orange juice, coffee, a little jug of syrup, and two sprigs of lilac.
“Did you steal those flowers from Old Mrs. Delaney down the street?”
He reaches for me, grabbing my hands and pulling me toward him. “I borrowed them. It’s for a good cause.”
“What cause would that be?”
He cups my face and drops a kiss on my lips, light and sweet. “The cause of getting you to stay in bed with me for the rest of the morning.”
He walks me over to the table and lifts me up so I’m sitting on the edge, wedged between his legs. I stretch up and kiss his neck, tasting the salty sweat on his skin.
“You’re definitely on the right track,” I say. “Coffee and carbs are the way to my heart.”
He grins down at me, his dimple digging into his cheek. “Your heart?” he says. “Damn. I was hoping they were the way to your boobs.”
I laugh and thump him on the shoulder. “Call it an all-access pass to everything above the waist.”
“Interesting.” He starts drawing little circles on my shoulder with his fingers. “So this is okay?”
I sigh and lean into him. “Yes.”
He walks the fingers of his other hand up my arm and traces the neckline of my tank. “And this?”
I draw in a ragged breath, trying to concentrate. His fingers keep moving, lightly playing over my skin, teasing and caressing. Heat trails in their wake, sinking into my entire body and lighting me up. It’s perfect and it’s not enough. I want him to keep touching me like this forever, and I want to beg him to go further. I want to drag him upstairs and skip my appointment with Monique and everything else that requires pants for the rest of the summer.
His hands wander slowly down my sides, plucking at the bottom of my tank, sneaking in to stroke across my stomach. He drops a series of warm, wet, open-mouth kisses on my neck and whispers “Still okay?”
I tilt my head to the side, giving him better access. My breasts are aching, my nipples hard little darts against his chest. I wrap my legs around his waist and pull him tight against me, both of us groaning a little when his hardness hits me exactly where I need it.
He makes a little circle with his hips and the friction feels amazing. I’m going to come in about ten seconds if he keeps doing that.
“Definitely okay,” I whisper into his ear. I pull the lobe between my teeth and his hips buck into me again. “Don’t stop.”
“Not an option.” His voice, low and raspy in my ear, sends shivers over my skin. “I won’t stop until I’ve tasted every inch of you. At least twice.”
He steps back, and I almost cry out at the loss of all his hard heat, but before I can make a sound, his hand is there, cupping me through my shorts, his thumb rubbing little circles over my clit. I know he can feel how damp the fabric is, how soaked I am for him, but I don’t care. I felt how much he wanted me. We’re in this together.
“Here or upstairs?” he asks.
I glance around the table, seeing the tray he prepared so carefully. For me. It really shouldn’t be physically possible, but it makes me want him even more.
“Upstairs,” I say. “But bring the food. Especially the syrup.”
He laughs and kisses me, wet and hot and dirty. I push him away because if he keeps that up, I’m going to sweep that pretty tray off the table and have my way with him right here and now. Which would be a shame, because those pancakes look good, and we’re about to work up quite an appetite.
I grab his hand and start dragging him toward the stairs, my mind full of all the things I’m going to do to him when we finally hit my squeaky bed. I pull him around the banister and he’s laughing and trying to keep the tray steady with one hand, and I’m counting the steps until we’re horizontal.
And then the doorbell rings, and everything stops.
“Ben?” a girl’s voice calls out and she rattles the doorknob. She knocks a few times and calls him name again.
“Shit,” Ben mutters. His face has gone chalky and pale. “Listen, Natalie—”
“It’s Autumn,” the girl says. “I need to talk to you. Open up.”
I want to tell him to ignore her, but instead I drop his hand. He runs it through his hair and pulls in a deep breath. His eyes, which were blazing with heat a few seconds ago, are dull and shuttered. Closed.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and his voice is so sad that I know he’s apologizing for a hell of a lot more than an old friend interrupting our dirty breakfast in bed. “I have to let her in,” he continues.
He turns to open the door and I run up the stairs, hitting them two at a time, not willing to face Autumn—whoever she is—with bed head and rumpled pajamas.
When I’m safely at the top of the stairs, I pause, not able to stop myself from glancing down. Ben shoots me one more look. His jaw is clenched, his mouth tight and unhappy. He sighs when I step back into the shadows of my room, but he doesn’t come after me.
I hear him open the door, hear her say, “god, it’s good to see you. Missed this gorgeous ass.” His low reply is lost as they walk back toward the dining room, but it doesn’t even matter. Her words suck the air right out of my lungs, and nothing he could say will fill them up again. Not right now. Maybe not ever.
I sink onto my bed and curl up, not even caring that he’ll hear the frame creaking and know exactly how pathetic I am. What the hell is going on? How did he go from making me pancakes and r
ush ordering a bed to opening the door to another girl who loves his ass?
The murmurs of their voices float up to me, along with the sound of her laughter.
Shit. I guess I have two choices: sit and cry while texting Piper to beg for the lowdown on Autumn, or get dressed and get the hell out of here. Preferably before the tears prickling against the back of my eyes make an appearance.
I get up and start digging through drawers, telling myself it’s ridiculous to be this upset. Ben isn’t my boyfriend. We haven’t even had sex. I don’t even know who Autumn is or what she is to him. Maybe she’s a masseur who specializes in ass injuries, or an artist who has a thing for doing nude portraits of snowboarders’ butts.
I shove my laptop into my bag and grab the list of questions I wrote out to ask Monique. Hell, I should be grateful to Autumn, whoever she is. Ben hasn’t even given me an orgasm yet and there I was, ready to skip out on writing time and my first real meeting with my mentor. A few hot kisses and a plate of pancakes was all it took to make me lose myself.
Fuck. So much for my focus. Same old Natalie-who-never-follows-through. Anger rushes through me, but it isn’t aimed at Ben (well, maybe 30 percent of it is). The person I’m furious with is myself.
I yank my hair back into a messy bun, not even bothering to brush the tangles out. Clothes, sunscreen, a few swipes of lip gloss, and I’m ready to go. I tiptoe down the stairs and my hand’s reaching for the doorknob when Ben calls my name.
Shit. So close.
I should just walk out anyway, but I’m way too nosy and masochistic for that. After all, if I don’t see Autumn properly, how am I going to torture myself later when I’m in bed alone, weeping and picturing her and Ben burning up the sheets in his brand new bed?
Hmm. Yeah, maybe 30 percent was a lowball estimate. At the moment Ben is definitely the focus of at least 75 percent of my anger, and the number is rising with every step as I make my way toward them.
