Seth (Damage Control #3)

by Jo Raven

  Results. Holy shit, she’s something.

  Okay, it’s not exactly a question, but I reply anyway. “Not any girl. As a matter of fact, I don’t kiss girls I don’t find pretty. And I haven’t seen any as pretty as you.”

  A beat of silence greets my words.

  “You’re kidding me,” she whispers.

  “I’m not.”

  See, I can’t lie to her. And the whole problem with this potentially sticky situation—sticky in every way—is that she’s playing a game, and I’m dead serious.

  “I want to know more,” she whispers.

  “Then I’ll show you.”

  She wants to test the waters with me. Run some tests with me. Fool around. I’ll take it. If that’s all I can have with her, I’ll damn well take it and shut up.

  Because it’s something, and I have nothing. I want her, and I’ll take whatever she gives me. I’ll be fine. It’s just lust. It will blow over. In fact, this is perfect. I’ll get exactly what I want.

  Except I want more, and for the first time ever, I can’t just roll over and let life kick me in the nuts.

  And I know it’s not her who’s about to get hurt.

  It’s little old me.

  ***

  “Come, sit here.” I pat the mattress beside me. “Get comfortable.”

  She holds back. “We can’t have sex.”

  Because she wants this asshole, Fred, to be the one. Fuck him. “Got it. No sex. Just gonna show you a few things.”

  She sits down, then lifts her feet up and curls her legs under her. Like a cat. Like a dancer.

  So sexy. And the things I wanna do to her… Shit. Gotta restrain myself.

  Her gaze keeps returning to the bulge in my pants, and my cock twitches in response.

  “Wanna touch?” I ask, my voice hoarse. “Feel how hard it is?”

  Feel how much I want you?

  Her tits heave, her nipples taut, poking through the soft cloth of her blouse. Jesus, this girl. Does she even know how hot she is?

  “Over the clothes?” she asks.

  “As you like.” I guide her hand between my legs, spread them more to give her better access and place it over my hard-on.

  She shudders. I stifle a groan. She’s leaning forward, staring down at her hand, her dainty little hand splayed over my big cock. The way she’s pushing down, through the thin material of the sweats, the shape of my balls and dick is perfectly outlined.

  Letting out a slow breath, I lean back. Breathe in, breathe out. Don’t come. Don’t fucking come.

  Don’t scare her away.

  “Does it feel good?” Her voice is low and trembly. I can’t look away from her tits to see her expression. “Like this?”

  “It’d feel much better if we were naked,” I grumble.

  She pulls her hand back. “Seth…”

  I close my eyes tightly at the loss of her touch. “So now you know what it feels to touch a guy’s erection.”

  She shifts on the mattress. I peek under my lashes at her. She’s not running away yet. She seems, in fact, sort of pleased with what she’s done.

  Damn.

  “So, there’s a lot of things you and your boyfriend can do without actual fucking.” I clear my throat, my voice inexplicably thick. “Without intercourse.”

  “I understood what you meant.” A faint smile tugs at her mouth, and I drink in the sight, dazed.

  “Right. Touching is a big part of it.”

  “You sound like you have lots of experience.”

  I shrug. Not really. “It’s not the amount of experience that counts. It’s the quality.”

  She nods. “Okay. So now what?”

  “Do you ever touch yourself?”

  She flinches. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  “And if I do?”

  Fuck. Me. “Show me.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because it’s hot, and then I’ll show you what a guy wants to see.”

  I see understanding flash in her eyes. Also nervousness, fear, and shame.

  Uh-uh, none of that. “You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen,” I tell her, putting the truth in my voice, hoping she’ll hear it. “You got nothing to be ashamed of. Every part of you is beautiful. Touching yourself, giving yourself pleasure is goddamn beautiful. Remember that.”

  She slips her hand between her legs, and my mouth goes dry. Would she do this for any guy? Or is it only for me?

  Stop thinking, Seffers, and pay attention.

  To her bent legs, parting on my bed, her hand sliding down between them to rest over her silky black panties, on the mound of her pussy. Her fingers twitch, then they pull back and slip under the thin black cloth, disappearing.

  A moan leaves her lips, and I can’t take my eyes off her hand, the small, circling movement barely visible under her panties as she teases her clit.

  Fucking hell. She’s really doing it, pleasuring herself in front of me. My dick throbs madly, hardening more, trying to push out of my pants. I shift, trying to find a comfortable position. Heat radiates up my chest. My heart is racing, the beat pulsing in every goddamn part of my body.

  “That’s it,” I whisper when her movements change. “Lower. Use your fingers. Push them inside you.”

  She whimpers and I know she’s doing it. Her hips lift and fall, lift and fall, her hand sliding up and down, faster, harder.

  Hot damn. I thought I could handle this, but now I’m not sure. The need to come is fucking with my head, and I find my hand drifting down to my dick to relieve the pressure.

  “Spread your legs more,” I whisper and almost come when she obeys. “Yeah, that’s it. Lean back more. Show me what you’re doing. Let me hear how much you like it.”

  She moans, her hand pumping, and I cup my hard-on, almost weeping with need. She’s close, I can tell from her movements and the sounds escaping her, and it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.

  “Imagine it’s my hand,” I say, not even sure what I’m telling her anymore. “My hand stroking you, fucking your pussy. My fingers sliding deep inside of you, making you come. Damn, Manon…”

  I grimace, the pressure behind my balls and in my cock painful, but I manage not to move, not to grab my dick and jack off until I see stars. My focus is on her, the girl who erased all others from my mind—and I haven’t even seen her naked.

  Jesus Christ.

  “Let it go.” Please. “Come for me.”

  “Seth!” she breathes and lets out a small wail as she comes, hips jerking, then stills, her hand relaxing, withdrawing from her panties to rest on her lower belly. She drops back on the bed, panting, her dark curls framing her heart-shaped face.

  I’m in love with her. Fucking in love with her, body and soul.

  Fuck. Guess there’s no turning back for me now.

  ***

  Enough of this. Enough torture. I wait just enough for her to come around, and I push to my feet.

  “Gonna hit the shower.”

  “Seth…”

  I gulp, keep my back to her. “Yeah?”

  My dick is touch and go. I’ll rub a quick one off under the spray, and she won’t even know how much she affects me.

  That’s the plan.

  “Won’t you show me?”

  “Show you what?” I turn around slowly. What the fuck am I missing?

  “Yourself.”

  Myself. I glance down at the tent in my pants. “You really wanna see?”

  Her eyes sparkle. Embarrassed, shy, horny. She’s breathtaking.

  “I want you to show me,” she says softly. “How a man likes to be touched.”

  Oh hell. She’ll be the death of me, I just know it, but I’m the only one to blame for this particular mess.

  I return to the bed, sit back down, run a hand over my mouth. “You sure about this, girl?”

  “Can I see it?”

  “My dick?”

  She nods and I almost come on the spot.

&nbs
p; Fuck, I’m so hard I’m damn uncomfortable. I press down on my hard-on, trying to ease some of the pressure.

  Then her hands are there, tugging on the waistband of my sweats. Fucking Jesus. I let her have her way, lifting my hips so she can pull the pants down.

  Which leaves me in my boxer briefs with a monstrous tent in the front and her face dangerously close to it.

  She puts her hand over my hard-on like before and I hiss. The muscles in my stomach contract and my dick twitches.

  “It’s wet,” she whispers. “Why?”

  Fuck yeah, I’m leaking like a faucet, drenching my briefs. “Because it feels good.”

  Something passes over her face, a subtle shift, and she lifts both hands to the top of my briefs. She tugs them down.

  Oh man. Things are moving fast. The thin cotton catches on my cock, making me moan, and then it’s off.

  My dick springs free, slapping my stomach wetly, wringing another moan from my chest.

  Shit. Oh God.

  And then her hand closes around the base and my hips arch up.

  “Fuck!”

  “Feels good?” she asks.

  Is she serious? “Fuck, yeah.”

  “How do you do it? How do men do it?”

  I put my hand over hers. “Just… move. Squeeze.”

  The words catch in my throat when she does just that. Fuuuuck. I can’t help it, I rock my hips, pushing my dick into her grip.

  “Like this?”

  I don’t have breath to reply. Can’t remember why we’re doing this, but thank fuck we are.

  Almost there. Everything in my body clenches tight, the pressure bending me in two.

  “Should I stop?”

  Yes. No. Can’t stop.

  Gritting my teeth, I move her hand on my cock, up, down, guide it to the small slit on the crown. It’s completely wet, and her touch there makes me shiver. This is so good. I rub it up and down, making the hold more slippery, and…

  Fuck. I start to come. Not sure we were supposed to go this far, but I can’t stop it. Pleasure is ripping through me, crashing into me like a freight train gone off the tracks. I cry out her name as I fall back, coming and coming, spraying my chest with sticky ropes of cum.

  Shit. What have I done?

  Chapter Twelve

  Manon

  My name. He called my name as he came.

  I’m still shaken by the force of his orgasm, the feel of his thick cock jerking in my hand, shooting all that cum on him, painting his chest white. So powerful. So intense.

  Never seen or felt anything like it. I’m still holding his cock in my hand, and it’s softening. I move my hand up and down once more and he shivers and stifles a moan.

  Sensitive now it’s done. Hot and wet and still half-hard.

  “Damn,” he whispers, and I smile down at him where he’s stretched out on the bed. “That was…”

  “Good?” I guess. He’s a boneless sprawl on the covers, his expression dazed.

  “Damn good,” he clarifies, and grins at me.

  It’s beautiful. He’s beautiful, and that grin is like the sun coming up over the clouds.

  “Do you want to taste him?” I hear Cassie’s voice in my head. “Touch him everywhere?”

  God help me, I do.

  But I still want to be with Fred. What does that say about me? Am I turning into Cassie? Is it possible that my body wants one man and my mind another? What am I supposed to do?

  I release Seth’s cock from my hand, scooting back, a tremor going through me. Crap. I kissed Seth—again—and I masturbated in front of him. And then I asked to touch him and get him off, too.

  What the hell am I doing?

  My vision blurs. I climb off the bed, straightening my clothes, trying to keep from looking at Seth’s long, strong form on the bed, the evidence of his pleasure all over his chest, his eyes half-lidded.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper as he sits up, opening his mouth to say something.

  “Are you?”

  “This was a bad idea.” I retreat away from him, unable to tell what he’s thinking. His face is blank. “I shouldn’t have done this.”

  He reaches for his discarded T-shirt, wipes down his chest, and my eyes are helplessly drawn back to his firm pecs, his rippling abs, the dark ink covering them.

  I should turn around, walk out. Why aren’t I doing it already?

  He throws the T-shirt aside and gets to his feet. Slowly. I’d have thought it for my benefit hadn’t I known of his bad knee—but jeez, from the muscles rolling in his powerful thighs to his bulging biceps as he pushes himself off the bed, all the while completely naked and unselfconscious, giving me another good look of his crotch, his half-hard cock and heavy sack…

  Too hot. I’d fan myself, but by then he’s standing right in front of me, gloriously naked where I’m still fully dressed.

  Dressed but bared under his dark gaze.

  “You liked it,” he says, thick lashes lowered, almost brushing those broad cheekbones. “Admit it.”

  The words won’t come. I should deny it. Lie about it.

  I can’t.

  “Think that I haven’t even put my hands on you yet. Haven’t put my mouth on your skin, on your tits, between your legs. Haven’t fucked you yet. Imagine how fucking good that would feel, how hard you’d come. If you’d let me show you how a boyfriend should treat you.”

  I gasp, heat pooling between my legs. How is he doing this? I might come just from listening to him, picturing what he might do.

  If I let him. If I stay.

  “Manon…” He reaches for me, and I take another step back. Can’t think with him so close. Always a losing battle.

  “I really should be going,” I say.

  His beautiful mouth tightens. “You still want him, huh? This Fred.”

  I nod. My eyes sting.

  “Then go. Don’t let me keep you.”

  My feet won’t move.

  “You said it,” he says. “It was a bad idea.”

  And hearing him repeat my words shouldn’t hurt. What’s wrong with me? What do I really want?

  “I’m sorry,” I say again, turn and leave his bedroom, leave his apartment, not sure why I feel like crying.

  ***

  “Is he really your boyfriend?”

  Seth’s voice echoes in my head. Saturday afternoon and I’m still in bed, curled under the covers, my ereader on, although I can’t focus on the words. Can’t even remember anything I’ve read so far, so I turn it off and sigh.

  I should be thinking of my fascinating new classes, the start of my new life. Of the job I landed at a gym not far from Damage Control, teaching belly dancing and Pilates.

  Instead, I think about boys. Two specific boys, and what I’m going to do about them.

  I’ve been meaning to call Fred, call until he picks up and we can talk. I need to hear his voice, be reassured about what—who—I want, and why. I mean, we share so much. What other guy can I talk about ballet with? And classical music?

  We spent hours debating whether Marius Petipa’s classical ballet choreographies are better than his contemporary’s Sergei Diaghilev’s. Whether Tchaikovsky’s music was a better fit than Stravinsky’s. About Fred’s preference for contemporary dance, and what kind of music he’d use for the piece I was working on.

  Over our long talks, it was as if we were setting the foundations for something. An implicit promise. He’d compose the music. I’d make the choreography. He’d play. I’d dance.

  Unless it was all in my mind. And besides, I’ve broken my half of the promise, haven’t I? Didn’t fight to stay in the dance school – which makes me wonder if the dream of becoming a ballet dancer was really mine, or my mom’s. Wouldn’t I have fought more if I really wanted it?

  In any case, would good conversation be enough reason to be with someone? Really be with someone, sleep with him, date him?

  God, I need to see Fred.

  And yet I don’t call him. My phone is right here, on the
nightstand, within reach, and I make no move to reach for it.

  I close my eyes and remember Seth. The way his dark eyes crinkle at the corner when he grins, his naked, powerful body, his ink. How sexy he looks with his hair falling over his eyes, how vulnerable he looks when that shadow passes over his expression.

  How kind he is. How he gives me exactly what I need when I need it: acting gentle when I feel fragile. Overpowering me when I’m not sure how to ask for his touch. Stepping back when I’m confused.

  But he’s been clear about this strange thing going on between us: he’s helping me win over Fred.

  He’d obviously like to do more with me, and his suggestions make me curl up tighter, the blood burning in my veins. The thought of him going down on me makes me moan. The thought of his big cock filling me make me squirm.

  If I let him show me, like he says, what it’d feel like—what then? What will he do afterward? Will he walk away? Is that all he wants?

  And what do I want from him?

  I lift my fingers to my mouth, recalling how he kissed me both times—like a man starving for this kiss—and I know my heart is tangled up. Can’t mistake the way my chest tightens when I think he’s sad, the way it flutters when he looks happy.

  The way it threatens to burst when his eyes darken with desire.

  No, no way. I’m not falling for Seth. I can’t be. That would be stupid—letting my heart dictate what I’ll do, change my plans of being with Fred.

  As if love can be planned…

  Shit. I bury my face in the pillow and tell my brain to shut up. Plans change, anyway. Everything changes. Right when you start feeling happy, safe in your decisions, a wave comes in and turns everything upside down.

  Like with ballet.

  Like when Mom left us.

  Like when Dad decided to move to another city. Every time I found people I cared about, life delivered a perfect roundhouse kick and sent me spinning.

  I screw my eyes shut, punch my pillow. This isn’t helping. I don’t care about Seth. Truth is, I don’t know how I feel about him.

  Or Fred, for that matter. Not anymore.

  All I want is to lie low and let life roll over me for a while, close over my head like the sea, and pretend I know nothing about the mess in my head—and in my heart.

  Pretend everything’s crystal clear.