by Sara Ney
He moves to the door, turning the lock. Removes his ball cap before sitting on the right side of the bed, shaking out his hair and presenting me with his back. Grabs the remote.
Scoots back until his rear hits me, lying on his side facing the TV.
His broad back blocks my view, but I don’t even care. I didn’t come here to watch a movie; I came here to spend time with him, get to know him better.
Weasel my way into his heart.
“What do you want to watch?” he rumbles, already flipping through Netflix.
“How about New Girl. Have you ever seen that?”
He clicks it. Hits enter so we’re starting season one, episode one. Tosses the remote to the foot of the bed. “I don’t watch a lot of TV to tell you the truth. Mostly just have it on as background noise.”
When he flops onto his back, I seize the opportunity and roll toward him, snuggling up into his side. Lay my hand on his stomach, cheek on his chest. His abs constrict from the contact. Dick twitches beneath his mesh gym shorts.
I bite back a smile.
His arm comes down around me, pulling me close. On the television in front of us, Jess and the gang meet for the first time, and I giggle against Rhett’s chest at the on-screen antics.
Run my hand under the fabric of his shirt, sliding it north, over his rippled abdomen. Up his sternum, palm skimming his nipple.
For the next ten minutes, we lie together silently, motionlessly except for our breathing.
Then, “Do you ever lie in bed the night before a meet and think about it?”
“Sometimes.”
“Do you know who your match is against tomorrow?”
“Sure do—name is Eli Nelson. Five ten. One hundred ninety-eight pounds. Seventeen percent body fat. Record is thirty and four, from Spokane, Washington.”
“Anything else?”
“His girlfriend’s name is Candace, and she’s a Scorpio.”
“You’re making that up.”
“Yeah, I made that up.” He laughs.
“Nervous?”
“No. I’ve wrestled him before.”
“Did you win or lose?”
His brow quirks. “Do you even have to ask?”
I blush. “Want me to rub your back?”
Rhett hesitates, glancing down at me. “Sure.”
“Want to take off your shirt?”
“Is removing my shirt part of the standard massage package?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Guess I’m taking off my shirt, then.”
I fight the urge to rub my hands together, the anticipation of his incredible physique palpitating my heart. He uses his rock-hard core to rise, raises his arms above his head, drags off his shirt. Lies down on the bed, on his side, presenting me with his powerful back.
The muscles are taut, firm. Skin is surprisingly smooth. I explore first, palm grazing his warm flesh, running it along his deltoid. Down his dorsi. Up his spine and across his shoulders.
Marvel at the strength in these shoulders, the power in his obliques. Explore the tops of his glutes, wanting to pull back the waistband of his shorts and dip my hand inside.
He shivers. Skin prickles with goose bumps.
“Is this massage supposed to tickle?” he mutters.
“Shh, relax,” I croon into his neck. “It’s the new butterfly technique. They only teach this in French massage parlors.”
“Ah, well, that makes sense I guess.”
I lean in. “I promise it comes with a happy ending.”
I simply cannot stop my hands from wandering; he feels too, too good under my insatiable hands.
My fingers play with the ends of his hair, trail down his thick bicep, down his forearm. Over his hip, over his ass. Both palms run parallel up his spine, thumbs kneading on their climb up.
I knead his neck, squeeze his shoulders, thumbs doing all the work. The sound of his contented sigh is agony.
So much so, I can’t stand having clothes on anymore. Pull away to remove my own shirt. Unclasp my bra. Brush my long hair out of the way so there’s no barrier between us when my hard nipples brush the flesh of his back.
God, the skin-on-skin contact is intoxicating.
He groans when I kiss between his shoulder blades, breasts brushing his back. Delicate kisses on the back of his neck. Warm, wet kisses. Soft. Gentle.
Sexy.
I scoot closer so I can kiss the spot behind his ear. Lick his lobe. Slide my hand around his middle, covering his pec with my palm. Caress it.
His huge bear paw finds my hip, pulling at me from behind, hauling me closer, stroking my thigh as I pepper his body with my mouth in a most unmassagelike way.
“Shit, Laurel. Move back, let me roll over.”
I roll back. He shifts toward me.
Our mouths fuse together, tongues mate. Those large, capable hands rake up my ribcage. Cup my breasts and stay there, kneading.
“Your hands feel so good.” I encourage him with a breathy moan into his mouth, my fingers finding the curls at the base of his neck. Playing with them. Kissing him senseless.
He breaks away. “My hands aren’t too rough?”
“No. No, they’re amazing. Put them back.”
The truth is, I can feel every coarse callus on the pads of each finger, each and every one a souvenir of the sacrifices he makes to win. For his team. To be the best. Reminding me how damn resilient he is. How fit and virile and masculine.
Those magic hands splay over my collarbone, sliding down my shoulders and arms like liquid. Lose themselves in the waterfall of my wavy hair. Play with the ends, brushing it to the side.
My chest is heaving from my beating heart when Rhett pulls back, studying my pale torso wordlessly, several torturous seconds, reluctance written clearly in his questioning gaze.
Hesitantly, his hand reaches out, fingertip finding my dusky areola. Silently, his brown eyes linger on my breasts, fixated. Remain there, tracking the movements of his own thumb when it brushes over my puckered nipple.
Then the other.
Raging hormones cause my breasts to swell. Heavy. Begging for relief.
Still, he slowly learns my curves, the cool air of his bedroom hardening the already stiff peaks. God, it’s so terrible.
“What are you thinking?” I whisper, arching my back into his cupped hand.
“I’m thinkin’ ’bout everything.” Finger goes lazily round and round my nipple. Plucks at it lightly.
It’s begging for attention.
Mmm. My teeth rake across my lip. “Wrestling?”
He licks his lips. “Definitely not wrestlin’.”
“What then?” I exhale the words, almost out of breath.
“I’m thinkin’ that these are the prettiest breasts I’ve ever seen.” Fingertip skims the tender flesh of my side boob. “I can’t believe I’m touching these.”
He can do more than touch them—and I want him to put his mouth on me so desperately I’m practically panting.
Just then, a loud bang hits the bedroom door—two hard thuds with the flat of someone’s fist, a high-pitched male voice calling out, “Special delivery, motherfuckers!”
More thumping has Rhett’s hand going still, shifting, flattening on my ribcage. Pressing another finger to his lips. “Shh.”
Then he yells, “WHAT? Jesus.” Cranes his neck toward the banging. “What do you want!”
Brief pause. “Ginger, you in there? Make sure our man packages his meat!”
I raise my head to the sound of scraping across the hardwood floor: a long, gold strip of condoms being shoved under the door. Laughter in the hall, followed by the distant sound of the front door slamming.
Two sets of intense gazes fixate on those gold foil packages.
His.
Mine.
Sex, sex, sex, the condom packets broadcast to the room. Orgasm, orgasm, orgasm.
I know Rhett is thinking it too, and I can’t even be sorry for the interruption because I didn’t think to buy any
, and if I know Rhett, he doesn’t have any either. If we were going to have sex, he wouldn’t have premeditated it, would have had to get up, walk down the hall, and ask his roommate for one.
The sight of them seems to fuel us both into a passion-induced haze, and he positions himself on top of me, bracing up on his elbows, hovering. Rotating his hips. I can feel his long, rigid erection through his gym shorts, through my jeans.
He strokes the loose hair fanned around my head. Runs a finger along my jawline. Down my neck, to the spot behind my ear that has the ability to drive me crazy with lust.
Takes his time before placing a chaste kiss on my temple. The corner of my eye. Mouth. Chin.
He lets out his breath. “Laurel?”
Mine catches. “Yes?”
“Do you…” When he pauses, I arch my entire body, closing the gap between us, tips of my breasts brushing his pecs.
Wiggle.
“Do I what?” Nuzzle his neck. Lick. “You can ask me anything.”
Our mouths fuse again before he responds, swallowing his question, four hands suddenly everywhere. Frantic. He rolls again, taking me along with him; I’m on top, straddling his hips.
Gazing down while he gazes up, I position myself over his erection. Undo the metal button on my jeans while he watches, transfixed. Pull down the zipper as his hands roam parallel up my obliques. Skim the underside of my breasts.
Toy with the waistband of my pants.
I lean in so my breasts brush against his bare skin. “Do you like that?” I ask, nose trailing along the shell of his ear. “I love your skin. You’re so warm.”
His hands run the length of my spine, bury themselves in the back of my pants. I lift myself when he gently pushes the denim down over my hips. Thumbs hook inside my underwear.
“I’m desperate for you,” I moan in between kisses. “Desperate.”
God, I like him so much. Drown in his goodness. His kind spirit and pure heart. The romance of his second language. Sweet brown eyes and beautiful smile.
“You are?”
“Yes Rhett, I am.”
“Do you want me to…” His gulp is labored, Adam’s apple bobbing. Stares up at my breasts, then at the door. At the floor. “Do you want me to…pick those up off the floor?”
I kiss his jaw, sucking on his lower lip. “I think we’re ready to take the next step, don’t you?”
His giant paw cups my jaw, eyes searching mine. “I know I am, but I don’t want to pressure you.”
“That’s funny—I was thinking the same thing about you.”
We laugh, nerves sending my giggle into small fits. My lower half shakes, body void when he dumps me on the bed to leave my side, stealing across the room, snapping up the condoms off the floor. Tosses them on the bedspread so they’re nearby.
Shucks his shorts, pushing them down his powerful thighs. Stands in nothing but his boxer briefs, flushed, climbing back into the center of the bed.
Pulls me flush against his big, strong body and kisses the stuffing out of me, hands spread on my back, on my glutes, squeezing, a ripple of pleasure already building inside my core.
God I love it when he squeezes my ass.
“I’m glad we got the sex talk out of the way.” I laugh when his mouth moves to my collarbone, gasp when he licks the valley between my boobs. Bumps my nipple with the tip of his nose before drawing it into his mouth and sucking. Flicking it with his tongue. “S-So glad.”
“Looks like someone brought me more cookies,” he whispers against my bare flesh.
“Are you hungry?”
“Starving.”
We’re obviously not talking about cookies; we’re talking about sex, and I like it. I like this sexy but cautious side of him. He’s taking risks with me that he’s not entirely comfortable with, and I admire him for it.
I’m so outside his comfort zone, it’s laughable.
Yet, here we are.
“Is that going to be our code word for sex? Cookies?” I lift my hips when he dips his hands into the waistband of my pants, drags them down my hips.
He’s grinning from ear to ear. Kisses my belly button. “You think we’re going to have enough sex to need a code word?”
“God I hope so.” I groan when my pants get thrown to the floor. Then, “But I wasn’t thinking about sex when I baked those cookies for you, so get that out of your head.”
“I might be clueless about some things, Laurel, but I know what it means when a girl drops by my place with baked goods.”
I roll my eyes playfully. “Fine, I’m busted—I did want you eating my cookies.”
“They were good. Melted in my mouth.” His lips graze my throat. Clavicle.
“Sweet?”
Laps at my nipple. “So sweet.”
Ugh, this boy. Those words. That tongue.
“You’re sweet.” I brush the hair out of his eyes so I can get a good look at him. “I find you irresistible.”
He studies me, braced on his arms. “Yeah?”
His voice is a deep timbre that gives me the chills, brown eyes mesmerizing.
“I wouldn’t be here otherwise.” I run my hands down his muscles, his rock-solid biceps. Ugh, these arms. “Embrasse moi.” Kiss me. “Then let’s get under these sheets.”
He pulls down the corner of his quilt so we can scurry beneath it. When we do, I slide off my panties, dropping them beside the bed.
“There, naked.”
He swallows. “I don’t know if I’m going to last—it’s been a few years. I don’t want to embarrass myself…or disappoint you.”
“Disappoint me? Not possible.”
I wonder if I should suck him off, get him to come quick so when we finally get to the business of having sex, he lasts longer. I’m selfish like that.
Throwing back the covers we climbed beneath, I drag my breasts down his bulky frame, hands looping the elastic waistband of his navy underwear. Drag them down, mouth on his thick, erect—
“Oh shit,” he groans when I suck. “What are you doing?”
“Foreplay.” I hum, finger immediately seeking the hot button under his cock. Press down in tiny circles just like I read once in a magazine. His hips twitch, legs start to shake.
I smile around his dick.
“Shit Laurel, if you keep doing that I’m going to come.”
That’s the whole point of this pre-sex blow job.
I suck hard and long, palming his balls. Hum onto his cock, the tip hitting the back of my throat. Feel the telltale signs of pulsing—a good sign. Too easy.
“Stop, oh fuck…I’m gonna come.” He’s panting after only a few minutes.
Suck, suck, suck.
Rhett’s head tips back, glorious throat constricting. Hands grip my shoulders. “Fuck, oh fuck, fuck yeah.”
Small tremors. Thighs quiver.
Rhett comes in my mouth and I suck, swallowing. Remove my mouth, wiping it with the back of my hand. Admire his body as he lies there, spent, the aftershock of the quickie ’gasm wearing off.
I lean over toward the bedside table and grab the water bottle, twisting off the top. Chug. Gurgle. Replace the cap and slip under the covers, pulling them up around us.
Lie facing him, watching as he comes down off his climax, eyes hooded. Lips set in a content line, I spread out beside him, hip against his cock.
One kiss. Two.
One to my brow. Tip of my nose.
Bow of my lips.
I open for him, legs spreading when his hand drags along my inner thigh. Tongues touch lazily. Unhurried. Dreamy. My tender breasts full.
Aching.
Rhett’s rough, callused fingers splay, gripping the sensitive skin between my thighs. “You’re beautiful.”
I’ve heard it a thousand times before, but this feels like the first. Coming from him? It’s significant.
I’m not just a pretty face to Rhett. Not just arm candy or a trophy to be won and flaunted among his pompous friends. If anything, he wants to keep me for himself.
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“Tu es belle.” He kisses my temple.
Tu es belle—it sounds familiar. He’s said it to me before, I know he has, but I don’t have time to wonder what it means as I allow myself to get lost in his touch.
Rhett
“Tu es belle.” I kiss her temple as my fingers explore between her legs. She is beautiful, hair spread out on my pillow, blue eyes sparkling ardently. Lips swollen from my kisses, pale skin red, marred from my beard stubble.
When Laurel stretches like a cat, arms above her head, my body begins responding in kind to the sight of her naked flesh. Her round breasts and flat stomach. The shaved valley between her slender thighs.
She tips her head, arches her back as my fingers part her slit. I run one up and down, tiny circles against her pussy. Laurel bites her bottom lip, nostrils flaring.
Lips part the barest of a fraction. Eyes roll.
Reaching out, her fingers rake through my hair, watching me as I finger her. Shit, I don’t know if I’m even doing it right—but her face is flushed and she’s squirming a lot, which I take as a good sign.
“You’re getting hard again.” She wiggles her hips.
Impatiently? Excited.
I am getting hard again—thank Christ. Eyes scan the bed for the condoms I threw down earlier. They’re near the foot of the bed, close to the edge, but not so far I won’t be able to reach them when I need to slip one on.
Condoms.
I’ve only ever worn them twice—for the same fuck. The first time I tried putting one on, it snapped when I rolled it, breaking. The second attempt went marginally better, the actual sex act lasting only as long as it had taken to put the damn thing on in the first place. Beth, my first partner, wasn’t a virgin, didn’t come when we fucked, and whined about it the entire drive home.
We stayed friends—because we’re from such a small town—but it was always awkward after that. Just awesome.
Laurel is wet, my fingers slick. Thumb caressing the swollen nub hidden there. She moans. Thrashes her head.
Whines.
Gazes at me with eyes so glazed over with a looming orgasm it makes the throbbing between my own legs increase tenfold.
“I want you i-inside me when I…oh God…”
“Should I get the…” Condoms?
“Yes,” she hisses. Her legs squeeze closed when I fly to the foot of the bed, snatching up the strip of condoms and tearing one off. Rip the package open with my teeth like a savage, roll it on like I’ve done it a hundred times.
