by Max Monroe
And then, he was kissing me again. Or maybe I was kissing him again. All I knew was that we were kissing; fuck, were we kissing. We were a thunderstorm of pent-up emotion, and our lips and tongues and teeth were lightning bolts shocking each other into the passionate depths neither of us could refute.
“Room key,” his persistent lips whispered against my equally determined mouth.
Room key? Holy hell. What is happening?
How did we even get here? And more importantly, who started this?
Does it really matter?
No. It didn’t fucking matter. Because there was no way in hell I was stopping this. It felt too good. He felt too good. I wanted this. Him.
Which was why, with one last conscious choice, I willingly slipped the room key into his hand and whispered, “Hurry.”
“Hurry,” she’d said.
And fuck if I’d have guessed, but it turned out I was really good at following orders when it truly mattered. I hurried and then some, the round swells of her ass in my hands acting like the boost start in Mario Kart.
Imaginary sparks shooting out behind me in a swath of brilliance, I was in motion in a flash, pulling her back off the glass of the vending machine easily and carrying her down the hall while she sucked at my neck. Little biting kisses and deep, healthy pulls, she mixed it up constantly, keeping me under the spell of her drug and nearly rolling my eyes into the back of my head.
Eager to have my mouth on her too, I moved at a brisk pace, glancing around only briefly to see if we were the only ones in the hall. There’d have to be some kind of apocalyptic fallout to keep me from sinking myself between Winnie Winslow’s legs tonight, and even then, I’d probably still do it—I’d just make sure I was also armed with a gun.
Realization and a small drop of embarrassment burned down my spine as I arrived at her room, the fact that I hadn’t needed to be directed blindingly apparent, but as quickly as it rolled in, it left. We’d both been dancing around this for months, and as much as I told myself it wasn’t going to happen, my body spent most of its time preparing for the exact opposite. I may not have been expecting this when I’d dragged myself out to the vending machine to buy a bevy of snacks I wasn’t actually hungry for, but it was really no wonder I’d managed to take detailed note of her room number and location.
Pressing the key to the lock with a complete lack of grace, I cleared the way to get us out of the very public hall and into her very private room where I could do all the things I’d spent several hours too long dreaming about.
I pushed the heavy door open with the soft weight of her body and then swung her out of the way to let it close. The sound of it slamming shut might as well have been the ring of a gunshot from a starter’s pistol. We both bolted enthusiastically off the line.
She grabbed at my shoulders and let her head fall back, and I didn’t waste the opportunity. Her skin smelled like the perfect mix of peaches and sunshine, and goddamn, I ate at her like a man starved. Every inch of skin, each sweet sigh and moan, I swallowed it all and kept it for myself, selfish and demanding and always greedy for more.
My tongue swirled a line up the column of her throat, and then my teeth closed around it in a nibble as she flexed her hips forward in a gentle urge to move toward the bed. She didn’t need to prompt me twice.
Two quick steps took me the distance before I laid her down, the soft heat of her body under mine making me feel lightheaded.
Too busy to worry about Winnie Winslow. That was what I’d thought.
Yeah, I am definitely too busy with Winnie Winslow to worry now, my mind manipulated easily, turning down the volume on any and every voice with complaint or objection and cranking up the Marvin Gaye.
Imaginary candles sparked and flamed, and rose petals fluttered through the black of my closed eyes. An innocent trip to the vending machine for M&Ms had turned into NC-17 entertainment at its finest, and I was making my way from half-cocked to fully loaded in a hurry.
And now I’m thinking about video evidence of tonight playing in my apartment late at night two weeks from now. Holy fuck. Focus. Winnie Winslow would literally carve a biohazard symbol or profanity directly into the skin of your balls as a warning to all future women, I coached myself.
I might have held the power to control the direction of everything that happened here—I was bigger, stronger, faster. I could physically best her attempts to lead me through the evening. But I wasn’t smarter, and she held the power to say no—to tell me it wasn’t going to happen, not now, not ever—and really, when all I could think was “yes,” that trumped every other goddamn thing.
I moved my hands down her body slowly, completely in opposition of my chaotic mind, and snagged at the soft cotton of her thin tank top. It was so trivial a barrier that it shouldn’t have mattered, but all I could think was that it wasn’t skin.
Hers under mine, the soft hum and heat of it mixing with the buzz of aroused electricity shooting off of me. I wanted it. I wanted to touch and taste and feel the exact essence of her until I was lost in it, mired so deep I couldn’t remember what it was like to feel anything else.
She pushed her breasts toward me in invitation, so I took my RSVP a step further and ripped her top open, starting at the bottom hem.
She gasped, and I swallowed it aggressively, pushing my mouth to hers with months’ worth of pent-up longing.
There was expectation in her stormy eyes—a comfort level in what she thought I would say—but I had no intention of ever apologizing for taking any piece of clothing off of her, whether I destroyed it or not.
Her breathing stuttered, and she lifted her hips as I closed my lips around one nipple and pulled roughly on the other. She was perfect in every sense of what I’d pictured and fantasized, and it wasn’t because of a shape or size or the color of her skin. It was because she came alive at my touch, at my aggression—my undisputable want for her and this moment and everything that was to come.
“Wes,” she moaned, and my veins pulsed as if I’d taken a hit of a drug. The high was incomparable, like nothing I’d ever felt before, and with everything I was, I prayed the effect would last for hours.
“You’re even better than I imagined,” I told her, knowing that women not only needed a verbal affirmation of desire but deserved it. Verbal, visual, sensation, and everything in between—when I was done with Winnie Winslow, she’d have no doubt that she had all the tools to lure and keep any man or object she ever desired.
“Wes,” she said again, but I didn’t let it go further.
“I can smell how much you want us.” And she did. The connection we would make, the magic of me between her legs, her body sought it, was preparing for it physically, and goddamn, this hound had been born to track her pussy.
I tugged at the elastic of her sleep shorts and pulled it away from her smooth skin before looking down the line of her belly.
Bare of underwear, bare of fucking anything, I lost my mind and shoved my hand right in before forcing the flimsy fabric off her hips and down. Pushing my weight off of her, I pulled them free of her feet and squatted at the edge of the bed, my face barely a couple of inches from the heaven between her legs and my hand bridging the insignificant distance of that.
“Jesus Christ, Win,” I breathed as my fingers slid easily along silken wet skin, pulling more moisture from her opening and spreading it up to coat her clit completely.
“What?”
“I didn’t expect you to be completely bare.”
“Why?” she asked obstinately, propping herself up and onto her elbows. “Mothers can’t get Brazilian waxes?”
Mothers? She thought I was thinking about her being a mother right now? My brain could barely function enough to think Holy shit.
I almost laughed, the ridiculousness of her focused thinking and the picture she made lying there glaring at me but naked from the waist down seriously comical, but some self-preserving part of me knew that wouldn’t be a good idea. And that was an ideal that bridg
ed any kind of gender gap or stereotype. One-sided laughter and nudity did not go together.
“No,” I assured her. “I wasn’t thinking anything other than ‘you’re hot as fuck.’”
“Wes,” she challenged, unconvinced, her voice decidedly less consumed by sex than I wanted it to be.
One sharp slap to the center of her pussy rang throughout the quiet room—and got her attention. Her squeal of surprise was the only sound I let her make.
“Quiet,” I ordered. “If you want to talk, it better be to beg me to put my cock in your cunt.”
My palm caught her rush of excitement, and I used it to ease the pressure of the heel of my hand on her clit.
“What do you want, Winnie?” I asked, purposely using her name to remind her I knew exactly who she was, where we were—what we were doing.
“I thought you didn’t want me to talk,” she said sharply, and for the second time, I had to quell my laughter. She was right, and I was, obviously, a little off my game thanks to months of anticipation.
“Answer me,” I commanded instead of giving her the admission. I had to get things back on track here.
“I want you to lick me,” she answered immediately, no shame, no hesitation, nearly annihilating my control.
Goddamn, her aggression was a welcome change from most of the women I slept with. All the more fun to dominate.
“Say please,” I told her, wrapping the length of her hair around my fist and giving it a little tug.
She shook her head and bit her lip in refusal, and my dick jerked. I flipped her easily to her stomach and smacked my palm across her perfectly round ass.
Both cheeks were just a little bigger than I could fit in my hands, and as the burn of my slap rolled through the flesh, I paused it with a clench of my fingertips and leaned deeper into her body.
“Mm,” I groaned against the warm, sweet skin at the back of her neck. “I was hoping you’d be a bad girl.”
She gasped as my fingertips dug into her hips, and I lifted the weight of my body off hers. I shoved a knee between hers and spread her legs wide, until her chest was in the bed and her knees were at the edge, her ass high and spread.
The air conditioning in the room kicked on, and her skin pebbled almost immediately.
“Hmm,” I hummed roughly. “So many choices.”
Her hips flexed slightly, opening her legs farther and spreading the lips of her pussy—silently casting her vote.
“Oh, Win,” I taunted. “I’m going to make you feel so good.”
“Then do it,” she demanded, turning her head to the side so I could understand her words without them being muffled.
Many a man would have made her wait, withheld her pleasure and built the anticipation. But I wasn’t one for following, and I had a different way of doing things.
Down to my knees, I dropped between her spread legs and pinched the apex of her clit right between my teeth. She screamed, but it quickly bled into a moan as her excitement ran out of her in a rush.
I lapped at it and swirled, drinking and sucking and burying my face as positively deep into her pussy as I could manage until she cried out in climax and yanked at the comforter at the sides of her head.
Her hips undulated, pushing at my face, begging me to stop, but I wouldn’t, shoving my tongue deep and putting the pussy-soaked tip of my finger right into her ass.
Her legs quivered and buckled, but I held her up with my hands at the very top of her inner thigh, the skin of it absolutely soaked with everything her perfect cunt had to offer.
“Enough?” I asked there, sucking and biting and eating at her for several seconds before she found the breath to answer.
“No,” she whispered with a shake of her head, the strength in her voice easing out of her body right along with the will to do anything with herself other than what I wanted.
“Fuck yeah,” I agreed, knowing it wasn’t enough and mentally fucking strutting at the fact that she agreed.
Fitting my back to hers, I pushed my shorts from my hips until they hit the floor and stepped out of them, rubbing my dick into her ass and fucking reveling in the feel of being coated in her juices.
“You feel good?” I asked softly, and she nodded. “It’s only going to get better.”
God, I could not wait to get my dick in her.
Pulling back and picturing my come mixed with everything already coating the inside of her legs, I positioned myself and pushed just the tip inside before realizing something important.
Pain bled behind my eyes as I shut them tight against the fact that it felt almost too late.
“Fuck,” I snapped. “I don’t have a condom,” I told her bluntly.
“What?” she cried, clearly distressed, and that made thrice tonight I’d almost laughed.
“I guess that means you don’t either?”
“How can you not have a condom?” she nearly yelled, and after all the holding back, I finally couldn’t help but laugh. It was either that or cry.
“I didn’t know this was going to happen,” I told her honestly, and she laughed too. Hers was far more sardonic.
“Please. We’ve both known this was going to happen for a long fucking time.”
And then I laughed again at the truth in her words and the fact that she was saying them with her ass in the air, face in the bed, and my dick partially inside of her.
Fuck.
“I have one in my room,” I said, knowing putting on clothes and trudging all the way to my room was the very last thing on the planet I wanted to do right then. Hell, my dick might have actually goddamn revolted. The fucker was inching slowly deeper into her heat by the second, and I was mindless to stop him.
“Just do it,” she demanded, and I tucked my chin into my chest and pushed at her hips nearly violently to stop myself from thrusting on body command.
“This is not the kind of thing you just do, Win. It’s just not.”
She lifted her head then, turning to look at me over her shoulder and pushing up to her hands in the bed. Her tits swung out in front of her, and I nearly fucking died.
“I’m on birth control. I’m not a total idiot.”
“Okay,” I rationalized, categorizing the lovers I’d had recently and their respective timing to my last STI test. “I haven’t had sex without a condom since I was seventeen.” She narrowed her eyes, and I laughed. “I know. I was a fucking idiot. I think I’ve slept with one woman since my last test, and…Jesus, Win. This is the last goddamn conversation I want to have to have with you right now.”
At once, she reared back, my naked hips meeting hers as my cock touched the very end of her. Her eyes never left mine, and it was over.
The thinking. The analyzing. The thought of anything other than us and how we felt connected in the most intimate way possible.
Goddamn, it was like nothing I’d ever felt in my entire life.
Endless women, revolving nights, everything I’d ever wanted at my fingertips—none of it had felt as good as this.
And because of that…I felt ruined.
One thrust, two, on through dozens and dozens until sweat ran off of my chest and pooled on the soft curve of her naked back, I moved inside her, our sounds mingling with each other’s in what sounded like a rehearsal of music—a little off, but mostly in sync, the rhythm and magic of the combination completely undeniable.
We played for hours, trying different songs and getting sweatier and closer with every note.
I went until I couldn’t anymore, unwilling to stop until the very last moment.
I didn’t even think I pulled out of her before falling asleep, but I couldn’t be sure, because when I woke up in the morning, she, and every single piece of her luggage, was gone.
Sayonara, Miami.
The water of the ocean glittered and glistened, and palms swayed in the wind as I looked out the window to the shrinking world below.
I’d gone to Miami expecting heat—Florida sun, choking humidity, hell, even boob sweat—
but I’d had no idea it would turn into one of the hottest, most erotic, roughest—in the best kind of way—sexual experiences I had ever had in my life.
Sex with Wes had been…well, there were no words to really describe it. A shiver racked my body at just the thought of it.
I’d woken up this morning deliciously sore, every inch of my body remembering where he had touched me, kissed me, turned me inside out.
Everything about it had been good—otherworldly good.
And then I’d panicked.
Because it was bad.
Cataclysmically.
We’d crossed a line that I wasn’t sure we could navigate back from. We were better at being angry than awkward, and I was afraid, now that the initial tension was gone, we’d be stuck floundering in the latter. We couldn’t go back, I didn’t like it here, and going forward seemed horrendously ominous.
Rationally, I knew it was for the best if we never treaded toward those dangerous territories that led to us naked and doing things to one another that no one within the Mavericks organization should ever find out about. He was a player, a many-woman man, and about the least likely candidate for a ready-made family I could think of. So I got myself out of bed, packed my suitcases, and headed for the lobby to find another room or a taxi or anything that took me away from facing the consequences of my actions.
Unfortunately, irrationally, my body craved him. I wanted a repeat. And a three-peat. And a four-peat. My mind had already forayed into the future, organizing each and every encounter with a whole laundry list of please-do-to-me scenarios. And the stubborn part of me contemplated how fucking stupid it was to go crawling into the night.
So, instead of leaving, I’d sat down on a couch in the lobby and waited. Waited for the first staffer or team member to make their way down with the intent to head for the airport. And when Frankie Hart had done just that, I’d grabbed a ride with him, climbed the stairs to the team plane, and waited to face my fate.
