by Regina Kyle
My orgasm slams into me like a tsunami, my body shaking and my hands smacking the glass. When it’s over, I’m left gasping for air, trapped between the heat of Connor’s ripped body and the cool, smooth window. The contrast is both electrifying and unnerving.
“You okay?” he asks.
I can feel his smile against the nape of my neck. Arrogant jerk. He knows damned well he wrecked me.
“You killed me,” I admit between hoarse, shallow gasps. “I’m dead.”
“The French don’t call it la petite mort for nothing.”
He takes me by the shoulders, turning me around to face him, and I study him through lust-glazed eyes.
“This is starting to become a pattern.”
He frowns down at me. “What is?”
“Me naked—or almost naked—and you still clothed.”
His already self-satisfied smile gets even more smug. “Feel free to do something about that.”
He releases my shoulders and takes a step back, spreading his arms wide as if to say “have at me.” I wobble a little, still feeling the aftereffects of the orgasm to end all orgasms, before recovering and going straight for his zipper.
I palm him through his pants, deciding to let him suffer a little before freeing him. He’s heavy and long and mouthwatering. Christ, I’m practically salivating. It’s not fair, dammit. I’m suffering as much as he is.
Not able to hold off any longer, I slip the button at his waistband through its hole and sink to my knees, taking his zipper down with me. His pants and boxer briefs go next. It’s a joint effort. I push them over his trim hips and down his muscular legs. He kicks them off along with his shoes and socks.
Holy. Hot. Damn. Yeah, I’ve seen his dick before. But that doesn’t stop it from having its usual effect on me. He’s already erect, undulating proudly in a way that’s almost hypnotizing. A bead of pre-cum hangs from the tip, seemingly defying gravity.
“Come to mama,” I murmur, taking his impressive length in my hand and trying—but failing—to wrap my fingers around it.
There’s no closing my eyes this time as I guide him to my mouth. I tease the head with my thumb before taking him inside. I’m afraid I’ll never get enough of this. The taste of his warm, clean flesh. The naughty things he whispers as I take him deep into the back of my throat.
“Fuck, yes.” His head falls back, eyes closed.
I run my tongue down his length before releasing him with a soft pop.
“Eyes open, remember?” I say, taunting him with his own words.
He grumbles but complies. I put my mouth on him again, and he looks down through sinfully long lashes that any woman would kill for, watching his cock as it slides in and out, again and again. One hand tangles itself in my hair, anchoring me. Or maybe it’s him he’s trying to keep steady.
I concentrate on taking him as deep as my throat will allow. My jaw aches and my eyes water, but none of that matters. My mind has one track, and right now it’s fixed on making this the best fucking blow job Connor’s ever had. Something he’ll remember long after this thing between us has run its course and we’ve gone our separate ways.
His body tenses and his breathing gets increasingly erratic, signaling that he’s about to come. When he does, it’s explosive, and I swallow every drop, continuing to suck on him even as his cock softens and his grip on my hair loosens. Eventually, he drags me off him, groaning when my tongue comes out to lick my lips.
“Holy fuck.” He rakes a shaky hand through his sweat-slicked hair. “That was—”
“Hot as hell,” I finish for him, sitting back on my heels.
His head turns slowly toward the glass wall, like he’s just remembering where we are. That anyone can see us. Then he reaches down and hauls me to my feet, pulling me away from the windows.
“I think lower Manhattan’s had enough of a show.” He tilts my face up so our eyes meet. I expect to see desire there, but instead there’s something deeper. More profound. And infinitely more frightening. “I want this next part to be just between us.”
I release my lip—which I wasn’t even aware I was biting—from between my teeth and exhale. “Next part?”
“You didn’t think we were done, did you?” He grabs me by the waist and lifts me up like I weigh next to nothing. “We’re just getting started.”
He deposits me on the bed, taking a foil packet from the nightstand drawer and tossing it onto the comforter before joining me. His dick is already starting to get hard again—he really does have the most amazing restorative powers—and it pulses against my hip.
I grin and spread my arms over my head, knowing from experience how incredible it’s going to feel when he’s inside me. Filling me. Stretching me.
He props himself up on his elbow, smiling back at me, flashing that damn dimple, the one that never fails to make my heart go pitter-patter. “Give me ten minutes, and I’ll be good to go.”
But it doesn’t take ten minutes. It doesn’t even take five once he starts moving against me, rubbing his cock on my thigh in slow, tantalizing strokes.
“I like this.” He fingers the delicate strap of my bra then slides it over my shoulder, following its path down my arm with his finger.
A familiar tingling sensation builds between my legs. Because he ran his finger down my forearm. But who am I kidding? He looks at me sideways and I’m turned on.
“If I say I like it too, are you going to rip it off? Because I’m warning you, my bras are even more pricey than my panties.”
“I’m pretty sure I can afford to replace it.” He reaches underneath me to unhook the clasp. “But don’t worry. I’ll take it off the conventional way. This time.”
He does, and we’re both finally, blissfully, totally naked. One hand cups my breast as the other reaches around for the condom he dropped on the bed earlier. He finds it and is tearing it open when I put a hand on his forearm, stopping him.
“It’s okay if you don’t want to. I’m on the pill. I’m clean. And I trust you.”
If I didn’t already realize the import of my words, the expression on his face would be a huge tip-off. His smile is slow and dreamy, and his eyes go all soft and gooey, like chocolate ice cream left out in the sun.
“Are you sure?”
I nod. We’ve never had sex without a condom. Truth be told, I’ve never let anyone fuck me bareback. But this isn’t anyone. This is Connor.
He chucks the condom onto the nightstand and glides into me, nice and easy, inch by inch. I plant my feet on the bed and arch into him, willing him to go deeper, faster, harder.
But he doesn’t take the bait. It’s clear he wants to take his time. Savor every touch, every kiss, every sweet slide of his thick cock into my wet heat.
“Is this what you wanted?” he asks, sinking deeper until his firm, flat stomach is resting on my softer, rounder one. His eyes are inches from mine, his nose practically touching my own and our breath commingling in the small space between us.
“Yes.” Without a condom, each sensation is a little warmer, a little more intense. And a lot more pleasurable. Which is really saying something, because it was pretty damn pleasurable before. “You feel fantastic.”
He nuzzles my ear. “So do you.”
His twines his fingers with mine, securing them over my head. Then he starts to move, rolling his hips, grinding us together then pulling us apart.
Our breathing and the rhythmic slapping of our bodies coming together, backed by the distant rumble of traffic twelve stories below, are the only sounds in the room until we both cry out, clinging to each other as hard shudders wrack through us. When the spasms pass, we stay locked together, his dick still buried inside me, our heartbeats slowing in tandem.
It’s intimate and tender and emotionally vulnerable, and I understand why Connor didn’t want anyone else to see it. Because what just happe
ned—that wasn’t fucking.
That was making love.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Brie
“WHY DID I let you convince me to take this class?” I grumble to Ainsley as we climb off our stationary bikes. Her more gracefully than me. She looks like she stepped straight out of the pages of Women’s Health. Her hair is still securely fastened in a tight ponytail, and if she’s sweating at all, it’s more of a healthy glow than a full-on drenching. What’s that old saying? A lady doesn’t sweat, she perspires.
I, in contrast, am clearly no lady. I feel like I’m about to drown. Rivers of sweat are running down my face, my T-shirt is plastered to my skin, and there’s not a muscle in my body that doesn’t ache. I don’t dare look in any of the full-length mirrors we pass on our way to the locker room, but I’m pretty sure if I did, I’d see something that looks more like the Creature from the Black Lagoon than a fitness model.
Ainsley takes the towel from around her neck and dabs at a non-existent pool of perspiration at her throat. “Because we haven’t seen each other in weeks, and you miss me.”
She’s right. We haven’t. And I do miss her. She may be my brother’s fiancée, but she was my friend first.
We reach the locker room, and I pull the door open. All the muscles from my wrist to my shoulder scream in protest. “I hate this instructor. I swear, he’s Satan. Who uses dumbbells in a spin class?”
“Are you kidding? Karl is one of the most popular instructors here. His classes are always full. We were lucky to get in.”
“You call it luck. I call it masochism.” I used to be a regular at RPM—Ainsley and I met in a spin class—but my schedule’s been so swamped I haven’t been to the studio in weeks. Jumping back in with one of Karl’s torture sessions was definitely not one of my smartest decisions. “Couldn’t we have met for coffee or something? Drinks at Tammany Hall?”
Since Ainsley and her friend Mia introduced me to it, the tacky, unassuming dive bar in the heart of Greenwich Village has become one of my favorite places to grab a drink or watch a ballgame. Not that I’ve had time to do much of either since I started filming.
“We could head over there now,” she suggests. We’re at our lockers. She spins the dial on her combination lock, opens the door, and takes a sip from her water bottle before putting it inside. “It’s still happy hour for another hour and a half. Unless you’ve got someone to run home to.”
I swat her with the towel I’ve just taken from my locker. “Shut up. You know I’m living with Connor.”
“My point exactly. Wasn’t that supposed to be temporary? It’s been—what? Three months?”
“Two,” I correct her.
“Still sounds more than temporary to me.”
“It’s hard to find affordable housing in this town.”
Even harder when you’ve all but stopped looking. It’s not something Connor and I actually discussed. It just sort of happened. He hasn’t said anything about me leaving. And it’s not like I’m in any hurry to go anywhere. Not with him in my bed every night. Or me in his.
The only problem is that the longer we do whatever it is we’re doing, the more I’m falling for him. He’s not just my brother’s super sexy best friend any more. He’s the guy who brings me coffee in the morning, or sets up the Keurig for me the night before when I have an early call time. Texts me funny memes and cat videos. Lets me control the remote when we’re Netflix and chilling.
Ainsley closes her locker door with a metallic clang that jolts my thoughts away from my roommate/bedmate/boyfriend and back to present company. “If money’s the issue, I’m sure Jake would help you out. All you have to do is ask.”
“I’m sure he would, too.” I sit down on the long wooden bench and strip off my sweaty T-shirt, leaving me in my equally sweaty sports bra. “But I’m not asking. This is something I need to handle myself.”
“Have it your way,” she says, sitting down beside me. “But I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to drag things out a little.”
“Why would I want to do that?” I ask, feigning innocence.
“Hello, McFly. Have you looked at your roommate? He’s an eleven on a scale of one to ten. Maybe a twelve.”
I make a face at her. “Have you forgotten that you’re engaged to my brother?”
“I may be engaged, but I’m not blind. And neither are you. You can’t seriously expect me to believe that you haven’t tried to sneak a peek when he’s in the shower.”
“Um, no. That’s super stalker-y. And totally inappropriate. Besides, we’re more like two ships passing,” I lie. “Connor’s place is so big, we could go weeks without seeing each other.”
We could. But we don’t. Not that I’m admitting that to Ainsley.
At some point, we’ll have to come clean with her and Jake. Maybe. But today is not that point. I’m not having that discussion with her until I’ve had one with Connor.
I toss my T-shirt over my shoulder and stand. “If we want to make happy hour, we’d better quit yakking and hit the showers.”
She stands with me, pulling out her ponytail and shaking out her shoulder-length blond hair. “Fine. But don’t think I’m done grilling you about Connor.”
I roll my eyes and slam my locker shut. “Heaven forbid.”
We shower, change, and make it to the bar in time to order a round before happy hour ends. Ainsley goes for something fruity and frothy with a cherry on top and one of those paper drink umbrellas. I stick to one of the craft beers on tap. No cherry. No umbrella.
We find a table in the corner, under the watchful gaze of a taxidermy deer head—Ainsley likes to describe this place as a cross between a bordello and a hunting cabin—and I slide into the red-velvet-covered booth. Ainsley slides in across from me.
“Jake and I have a bet.” She takes the umbrella from her drink and twirls it between her fingers.
“What kind of bet?” I ask, even though I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know.
“He thinks you and Connor are at each other’s throats. And I say you’re in each other’s pants.”
It takes every ounce of self-control I’ve got not to pluck the stupid umbrella right out of her hand and stab her with it. “We are done talking about me and Connor.”
“Ah ha.” Ainsley jabs the pointy end of the umbrella at me. I knew I should have taken it from her when I had the chance. The girl is lethal with sharp objects. “So you’re admitting there’s a you and Connor.”
“I admit nothing.”
I’m at least temporarily spared from Ainsley’s version of the Spanish Inquisition by my phone, which chimes from somewhere deep inside my purse. I’m expecting a text with my call time for tomorrow, so I fish it out and check the screen.
Unfortunately, it’s not from Drew, the second A.D who’s responsible for doing the call sheet. It’s an alert from my credit card company, reminding me that my payment is due.
I delete the message and leave the phone face up on the table, where I can see it when Drew finally texts. If my call time is before eight, I’m going to have to cut this short. I don’t want to show up on set late, or even worse, hung over.
“All right, if Connor’s off limits, how about we talk about my wedding?” Ainsley puts the umbrella down and takes a sip of her drink. “I’ve been trying to get you to go dress shopping with me for weeks.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I’ve just been so busy filming.” And totally tapping your fiancé’s—my brother’s—best friend. “But I promise, my next day off I’m all yours.”
My phone chimes again, but this time it’s a call, not a text. And it’s not from Drew, it’s from Connor. His name flashes across the screen, along with the photo I saved as his contact picture. A selfie I took of us snuggling on the couch, watching yet another one of the Marvel movies in my quest to get into butt-kicking character.
At the time, it
seemed harmless. Innocent. But looking at it now, it screams intimacy. The way my head is resting on his shoulder. His arm around me, hand casually brushing the curve of my breast.
Shit shit shit shit shit.
I scramble to silence my phone and flip it over so it’s face down on the table, but not before Ainsley sees the picture and snorts.
“Two ships passing, huh?” She sits back smugly and crosses her arms. “You two sure seem pretty cozy to me.”
“It’s not what it looks like,” I hedge.
But Ainsley’s not buying it for a second. She points a finger at me. Bet she wishes she was still holding that stupid umbrella. “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter. I know two people in love when I see it.”
I almost choke on my beer. “Who said anything about love?”
“Lust then.” She digs her phone out of her purse, swipes the screen, and starts tapping away.
“What are you doing?”
“Texting Jake. I won the bet. He owes me fifty bucks.”
“Wait,” I shout so loud the people at the next table turn and stare at us. I shoot them a mind-your-own-business glare, lower my voice, and lean in, resting my elbows on the table. “Please.”
Ainsley’s finger freezes, and she raises her gaze from her phone to study me. “Are you telling me I didn’t win the bet? Because if you are, I call BS.”
I slowly sip my beer, stalling for time while I debate what to say next. Do I keep lying to her? Or drop the performance, which apparently isn’t winning any Academy Awards—so much for my acting skills—and admit that Connor’s putting his wand in my chamber of secrets on a regular basis?
She tilts her head and smirks at me, her finger hovering over the screen of her phone. “You’ve got ten seconds before I hit send.”
I set my beer down on the table with more force than necessary. Amber liquid sloshes out of the glass and onto my hand, but that’s the least of my concerns. My best friend is about to tell my brother that I’m messing around with his best friend and business partner. It’s like an episode of Empire.
