by Mariah Dietz
That throb between my legs returns with a vengeance, and my breaths spike at the idea of Paxton spending the night with me—in one bed.
We ride up to the second floor and follow the labyrinth of hallways to a door where Pax stops and enters his key. He flips on the lights and wastes no time clearing the bedding, gathering it in his arms. He grabs his duffle and makes his way back to me as my thoughts churn with ideas of what will happen—might happen.
The ride back up to the fourth floor is too fast, my nerves making my palms sweat. I unlock the door when we get to my room, and Pax follows me inside. It feels ten degrees colder than when we’d left.
“It’s going to be cold tonight,” he says.
I nod, waiting for a sign or a look or for something that confirms he doesn’t regret the line that we crossed and that he’s here for the same reason I’m hoping he’s here—because he wants me just as badly as I want him.
Paxton drops his bag and spreads his bedding over top of mine. The mismatched size makes it so the comforter barely covers the top of the king mattress. “Do you like him?”
His question jolts and shocks me, turning me from thoughts of my bed to a foreign space and time. “Who?” I ask.
Pax glances at me, indecision and doubt creasing his brow. “Mike.”
Surprise is likely evident on my face because I hadn’t even thought that was the direction this conversation was heading. I haven’t thought about Mike, and to be fully honest, I rarely think about him except for when I’m around him, and the past sneaks up on me, or when he’s brought up in conversation, like today while Raegan and I had lunch.
“I mean, it’s not really any of my business, but I think what happened earlier was real, and I just want to make sure I wasn’t misreading the situation after your talk of rules and getting caught up in the moment and whatever in the hell that was. If I’m—”
“No.” I shake my head. “You weren’t misreading the situation,” I tell him. “I don’t know what is happening between us or if it makes sense, but you didn’t misread anything.”
Paxton stares at me, and I realize I never answered his question. “I don’t know how to answer your question without sounding like I care about him, so I need you to try and avoid forming an opinion until I get through this,” I tell Pax. “Mike was the first guy that I really liked—the first guy who really liked me. It was simple with him, and I don’t mean that to devalue our relationship, I mean it quite the opposite. We had similar morals and values and a similar sense of humor that made being together easy … or seemed so. The thing is, memories are kind of strange. They’re basically lies, which is really disconcerting and terrifying, but our memories aren’t cameras or videotapes like they often feel like. We remember salient aspects—things we deem are important—or things that feel important to us. And so with him being the first person who I deeply cared for, I think I’ll always carry fond memories of him because he was an important part of my life at that time. But I don’t think about Mike when I’m trying to go to bed, or when I’m planning my week, or when I’m checking my phone for missed calls or messages, and I definitely wasn’t thinking about him when I kissed you.”
He grins. “You mean when I kissed you.”
“What? Are you kidding? We’d still be in that stairwell if I’d waited until you kissed me.”
He scoffs, a smile branding each of his features. “I’m ready to call the front desk and see if they have cameras.”
“You should. It will prove my theories about memories and how they’re often wrong and disjointed.”
He runs his fingers over his hair. “What if we modify the rules?”
“I’m listening...”
His grin hits me in the chest and makes that throb between my legs more insistent because it’s filled with confidence and intention, and his gaze is focused on my mouth. “Tonight, we forget about the rules.” He takes a step closer to me, and my heart spins out of control. “I want you to be here because you want to be here, not because you feel obligated, or because I asked, or for any other reason.”
I nod. “I am.”
Pax takes another step, closing the gap to a few inches between us. “I need you to write a new set of rules for me because right now, I want to kiss you so fucking bad that I can’t even breathe. I want to kiss you and touch you and hear my name on your lips.”
My heart is trembling, shaking like I’ve just jumped from the hot tub into the swimming pool and can’t get warm. “I don’t want to be your rebound,” I tell him honestly. “I’m not … I thought I could do no strings attached, but I can’t. I’m a knitter, or a stitcher, or I don’t know what, but I come with strings. I like consistency and loyalty and dependability, and I can’t do a one-night stand, especially not with you. You mean too much, and Rae means too much.”
His blue eyes are a contradiction of lust and humor as he reaches forward and places his hand on my waist. “Stitch, baby, stitch.”
25
Paxton
My mouth comes down on hers, kissing her like my life is dependent on this moment. She tips her head back, allowing me full access to her lips as my hands travel beneath her coats and shirts and finally graze against her skin. The feel of her flesh against mine sends shockwaves of heat and awareness through me. I shove the layers higher, skating my hands across her bare skin with both of my palms. She rewards me with another soft moan that has me kissing her harder, my tongue challenging hers with questions about how this has taken so long. Why haven’t I been kissing her like this for years? That lost time creates a frenzy inside of me, wanting to touch and feel her everywhere. I familiarize myself with her skin, graze over the lace of one bra cup and acquaint myself with the way her back arches and her breaths become gasps. I trace over the same pattern, this time slowing over her pebbled nipple I feel through her bra, pinching and twisting the sensitive spot with just enough pressure to gauge her reaction. She leans more fully against me, her jaw dropping enough that she’s barely reciprocating my kisses as she gasps again. I move my other hand to cup her second breast, tracing over the nipple with my thumb.
Poppy drops her head back. “Don’t stop,” she whispers, her voice barely audible.
I nip her bottom lip with my teeth, and she gasps, either in surprise or pleasure and arches her back further. I kiss the corner of her mouth, then along her jaw until I reach that sensitive spot behind her ear, increasing the pressure on her nipples. A quiet moan slips from her lips, and she pulls her head back, her eyes burning with lust and passion and desire and so much more that I don’t have time to identify because she reaches between us and unzips her jacket, and then her second coat, allowing me to raise her shirts without any restrictions.
“That feels so good,” she whispers, shucking the outer layers off and letting them fall to the floor. I glide my hands back over her sides, smiling against her neck as she growls out an objection. I trace her collarbone with my tongue and run my hands over her thighs, her ass, her back—attempting to memorize every dip and valley as I explore her body while her hands travel over me, doing the same. Pleasure radiates through me, warning me to go slowly. I broach the next border and reach for the hem of her shirts and slowly pull them over her head, leaving her in a lavender bra. I trace the straps of it with my fingers, pulling them taut and then lax. The air is filled with static as we stare at each other, realizing we could probably stop here and leave a million questions for both of us to explore separately for the rest of time or to cross this barrier and test these theories that have kept me awake at night, wanting to redefine our rules and future.
Poppy reaches for my sweatshirt, and I grab it along with her, pulling it and my tee underneath off in one quick swipe.
Her gaze remains on mine for several seconds, an energy passing between us as well as a mutual respect and understanding that feels significant—like we’re both aware that this moment is greater than a search for pleasure and a release. Her gaze lowers to my exposed skin for several long seconds b
efore returning my stare. “I need you to make a joke or something,” she says. “Because I’m about to say something sappy and potentially awkward.”
I grin and reach for her waist, feeling almost balanced because I understood her so clearly before she vocalized her thoughts. She wraps her arms around my shoulders, her skin cool against mine, and I pull her closer so that her torso is flush against me—she feels like perfection, like her body was made to fit mine. I skate my fingers across her back, memorizing each line of her body as I claim her mouth, imagining her naked in a dozen different positions.
As though she can read my thoughts, she reaches for my jeans, fumbling with the button, and I follow her lead, my fingers working at the button and zipper of her own jeans like it’s a race. I drop my upper body so my face is level with her breasts, still covered with her lacy bra. I bury my face in her cleavage and lift her in my arms, eliciting a giggle from Poppy that plays like a favorite song in my head. I hold her over my shoulder, and tug back the layers of blankets before dropping her on the sheet, her red hair splaying across the pillow and her laughter hitting the chorus. I grab the waist of her jeans and pull them down with one quick tug and toss them to the floor before discarding my own.
Her smile is uneven and wavering as I climb over her, the warmth of her body radiating through my already hot skin. I brush my lips over hers, gentle and coaxing, waiting to feel a final confirmation before we cross this bridge that has been built over so many years and shared experiences. Poppy places a hand against my face and wraps her other arm around my shoulders as I lower myself to lie next to her. She pulls her body closer to mine. “I need you to touch me,” she says and then kisses me again.
I run my hand along her bare side, intoxicated by the softness of her skin.
“That’s not what I meant,” she garbles as I kiss her.
I smile, moving to kiss along her jaw. “I plan to take my time.” I trace along her stomach, skimming over the waist of her underwear. They’re lavender as well, ribbed with a thin layer of lace that feels rough compared to her skin. Her breath hitches and my ego soars. Hearing and watching her react to me has me feeling like a god among mortals.
“Pax.” She says my name like a warning. And then like a swear. And a final time like a prayer.
I kiss her mouth, soft and gentle while running my hand up her chest, between her breasts, painting her with my desire. I trace over her collarbones and her breasts, marveling at every part of her.
She kisses me harder, her teeth catching my bottom lip this time. In return, my touches become lighter. She wants to race, and I want to take the scenic route. I kiss her again softly.
She growls quietly. “You’re killing me. I feel like my skin is on fire.”
“Write a new rule,” I tell her. “I’m going to need you more than once.” I graze my fingers over her breast, and she releases a shallow breath, her chin and chest both rising as her body arcs to meet my touch. I dip my fingers into the lace of her bra and drag the fabric down, releasing her nipple as I get to my knees. Poppy watches me through hooded eyes, her breaths shallow. I feel emboldened by her stare, and the thrill of her watching me has me meeting her gaze as I seal my mouth over her nipple, flicking my tongue over her hardened peak as I gently press my teeth into her breast. She buries her fingers into my hair, her breaths coming out in gulps. I release her nipple and blow at the pink flesh before tonguing it. She drops her chin back, her breaths heavier as she tugs at my hair.
I swirl my tongue around her nipple as I draw a line across her skin with my fingers, stopping at her underwear. I trace the fabric between her thighs along both of the seams. She lifts her hips and makes a frustrated growl as I retrace the same pattern.
“Pax.” My name is a plea on her lips, making my cock so damn hard I release my own growl as I claim her breast and tug her underwear to one side with my index finger. I trace over her seam with my middle finger. She’s soaked, her desire as great as my own. She gasps as my thumb brushes against her clit, finding that small bundle of nerves that stretches each of her breaths.
I release her breast and sit back on my heels, so I can watch her as I hold her underwear to one side with my free hand, allowing me better access to her most sensitive parts. Using my hand that’s holding her panties, I spread her. She sucks a breath through clenched teeth and closes her eyes.
I trace my fingers down her seam, one finger on each side of her clit, bringing her wetness back over her as I trace back over her, changing the pressure and speed until her breaths grow ragged and I can tell she’s about to hit her climax.
“Not yet,” I whisper, running over her again with barely any pressure.
Poppy groans in protest, lust filling her stare as her teeth catch her bottom lip, a look so fucking sexy that I pray her comment about memories being worthless is wrong. I want to remember this—every last detail—for the rest of my life. I dip my middle finger inside of her wet and warm entrance, and she groans with pleasure. My cock is so strained I have to close my eyes for a moment to regain my composure. Before I can find my focus, Poppy sits up on her elbows and places her hand over me.
“Fuck,” I growl out the word, pumping myself into her hand. She runs her palm over my length and traces over the inches of my exposed cock that have peeked through the waistband of my boxer briefs, swirling her finger over my tip.
“Poppy, I’m going to fuck you if you keep doing that,” I warn her.
She grins and tightens her grip on my cock, a challenge. I drop my head back, finger fucking her while she lowers my boxer briefs to release my full length. It feels so fucking good, and she’s so wet that I can hear it as my fingers find the rhythm and pace that makes her thighs start to quiver and her focus on my cock to become less consistent, her grasp faltering as her breaths become pants. I dip my mouth and pull her clit between my lips, my fingers pumping a slow and steady rhythm.
I gently lick over her seam and opening as her breaths slow, her hips jumping when I hit a sensitive spot. “Do you have a condom?” she asks.
I lick her one final time, my tongue hard and flat and teasing against her, making her mouth gape again. I roll to the side of the bed, my underwear bunched under my length. I readjust myself, feeling her eyes on me, dancing over my chest and cock, her eyes wide with what looked too similar to fear. She swallows, her eyes finally lifting to mine. “You’re bigger than…” She swallows again. “…wow.”
I smirk, fisting myself like a cocky son of a bitch. I run my hand over my length pumping over my hardened shaft that I want to drive into her, and bury memories and thoughts of every other guy and replace them with me—only me.
Poppy’s hips flex, responding to my movements, and then she licks her lips, reaches behind her, and unlatches her bra, tossing it to the floor. I release another train of curses because she doesn’t even know that she’s torturing me with her shocked expression and unfettered gaze.
I grab a condom from my bag and tear it open, rolling it over my length before moving back to the bed, dropping a knee so I can crawl over the top of her.
Her green eyes are wider, moving across my face in a quick pattern.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
She nods, licking her lips again as she raises her hands and places them on either side of my waist.
“Are you nervous?” I ask.
“I’m memorizing you,” she tells me. “The way you smell like pine and cedar and something that is solely you. And how your gaze turns between possessive and thoughtful and lustful with each move. I want to remember this.” She smiles weakly. “And I’m a little nervous.” Her gaze drops between us. “You’re huge.” Her gaze returns to mine, amusement and honesty making her eyes round and bright. “I want to remember wanting you like this—so consuming I feel like I’m going to combust if you don’t touch me.”
I drag my lips over her cheek, breathing her in, and then I kiss her slowly, languidly, allowing her nerves to settle as I remind her of the pleasure I can bring her.
I trace my fingers over her nipple, and she sucks in a breath and wraps her arms around me. I lower myself, my tip pressing against her entrance. I lean on my elbow to watch her expression as I slowly press inside her. Her jaw falls open, and she releases a nearly silent gasp that has me pausing, allowing her body to adjust to mine. “You’re so tight,” I tell her, realizing this is often said as a sexual approval, but it’s a realization, knowing this is likely uncomfortable for her as she tenses below me. “We can stop,” I tell her.
She shakes her head. “Don’t you dare.”
“Try and relax,” I tell her. I kiss her, full and gentle, slowly, working to ease her nerves. I move one hand to her nipple, where I trace over the hardened peak, gently rubbing the bud between my thumb and forefinger as I dip my tongue into her mouth. She releases a quiet moan in response, and I feel her entire body relaxing.
“That’s it, baby,” I tell her, kissing her again. My fingers press harder, kneading, tugging, and pulling while my tongue languidly laps at hers, and I slide in deeper, trying to find the right balance of pleasure.
I still again when she sucks in a breath, but she shakes her head. “Don’t stop,” she says, holding me in place. “I want to feel you.” Her eyes hold mine, watching me as I lower myself fully inside her. It feels like a fucking dream—so good—so right. I breathe through my nose, recalling those moments over the years of football practices and games where I was dead tired and defeated and I didn’t think I could go any farther and somehow managed to—that’s how it feels now, buried inside of Poppy. I want to come like I’m twelve and just saw my first set of bare breasts and can’t hold on for another second. Football trained me for endurance, but it didn’t prepare me for this—for Poppy. I close my eyes, breaking the intense connection that seems somehow more personal than being inside her.
“You feel so good,” I tell her.
