Lessons In Losing It (Study Abroad Book 4)

by Jessica Peterson

“I don’t want to crush you,” he says, resisting. “You’re so little, and I’m…uh, not.”

  “I’ll be okay,” I say. “I like feeling you.”

  I nuzzle his neck as he lowers himself on top of me. My body lights up at the deliciousness of his weight pinning me down. He’s heavy, but he’s also really, really careful not to put too much weight on me. He’s on his elbows now, his lips trailing along my neck as I try to get my bearings. This feels…this feels real. Right.

  This feels like heaven. Which means it’s going to hurt like hell tomorrow when we wake up and remember that this can’t last.

  I want it to last, more than I’ve wanted anything in a long time.

  I want my time with Fred to last.

  “This feel good?” His voice is husky; his German accent is really coming out now.

  “Fred,” I plead.

  He looks up from neck. His eyes, wild, wet, green now, meet mine.

  “It’s all right,” he says. “We’re going to be all right.”

  “Liar,” I say, the last half the word stalling in my throat when Fred’s hand moves up my torso and cups my breast. A bolt of heat spears me right through the center of my sex. I already know I’m wet. Dripping wet.

  I take his face in my hands and pull him toward me, lifting my head to press my mouth to his mouth. In the space of two heartbeats, the kiss gets wild, a little messy, and the heat between my legs tightens. I run my fingers through the hair at the nape of Fred’s neck, and he groans, nipping at my lips with his teeth.

  I break the kiss, move my mouth down his jaw. His whole body tenses when I start kissing his neck.

  “Oh, love—” he stutters.

  “This okay?” I say, licking the place just beneath his ear.

  He closes his eyes. “Fuck. Yes.”

  So I keep kissing him like this, and he wedges a knee between my legs, spreading them apart. My hips roll toward him, begging for friction, begging for more.

  He settles his hips between my legs. Presses his groin right where I want him to press it.

  My eyes roll to the back of my head. This feels amazing. Better than that.

  I was so not prepared for the onslaught of goodness tonight—today—would bring. I knew Fred was different. I knew we’d have fun together. But I didn’t know how terrifyingly good things between us would be. I didn’t know he’d love sports and Queen Lorena and beer as much as I did.

  I was attracted to him before, but I didn’t know our connection would lead to such smoldering chemistry.

  Fred grinds his pelvis against me. I cry out, my hips rising to meet his hips. I want him to touch me. To taste me. To fuck me.

  I want to experience everything with him.

  He ducks his head and starts kissing my neck. Pulses of electricity move through me from the places where his lips meet my skin. It’s my turn to start making noises. Emboldened, Fred scrapes his teeth against the side of my throat, and I arch against him, gasping.

  Using my hips, I roll us onto our sides, and then I kiss him, and he kisses me back, and somehow—

  Somehow I know that this is the beginning of the end. My control is slipping. He’s too good at this. He makes me feel too good. Too turned on.

  Too sexy.

  Fred’s kissing me slowly, deeply, driving me wild. Waking up corners of my body and of my being that I didn’t know existed.

  That I worried I didn’t have at all.

  His enormous hands are on my waist, they’re on my ass, they’re gently exploring my breasts. I grab onto him, holding on for dear life as he touches me with awed confidence. I’m writhing beneath him, bearing myself to him, and he is so gentle with me and so thorough I feel overwhelmed by it.

  Fred bites my bottom lip. He runs his palm up the length of my back and then curls his hand around the nape of my neck, his grip firm, possessive, confident as he pulls my mouth toward his. The way he touches me—I’ve never been touched like this. I’ve never been so worshipped.

  I’ve always loved making out. But this—this is on a whole other plane compared to the make out sessions I’ve had with guys back at Meryton. I’m not worried what Fred thinks of me or what he’ll say to his friends. I’m not sweating whether or not he’ll acknowledge me if I see him on campus tomorrow—whether or not I’m in a popular enough sorority to merit his attention outside of his dorm room.

  Fred is real, he’s honest.

  I can trust him in a way I’ve never really trusted a guy before. Which means I am more myself with him than I am with anyone else. The sense of liberation this gives me is exhilarating.

  I could get addicted to it.

  I slip a hand underneath his sweater, allow my fingers to explore the expanse of muscle and skin and wiry hair there. I pull back, take a breath, swallow.

  “You okay?” His pale eyes search mine for several long, excruciating heartbeats. In the half-light of the lamp on the bedside table, Fred is handsomer than ever. An eviscerating handsomeness.

  “Not okay,” I say. “We should stop now.”

  “We should.”

  I wait for him to take his hands off me, but he doesn’t.

  I wait for the fierceness of my feelings for him to fade. But they don’t. They burn hotter the longer we make out.

  We roll around in his bed for what seems like hours, kissing until our lips are swollen and the skin on my cheeks and chin is raw from rubbing against Fred’s stubble. I’m horny as hell, and judging from the distinct bump I feel every time he grinds against me, he is, too. But neither of us makes a move to go any further. I don’t want to push him, for one thing, and for another, I’m enjoying taking it slow. I get to savor Fred, savor the experience of our bodies touching and tasting and teasing.

  I get to savor him like we have more than just three weeks together. I decide to let myself live in that fiction, just for tonight. Just for right now.

  Eventually our kiss becomes less fevered. Our bodies begin to slow. Fred turns me around and hooks an arm across my middle, pulling my back to his front.

  “Fred?” I say, sleepily.

  “Yeah?”

  “Why Harry Potter?” I don’t know where the thought comes from, but I’m curious all of the sudden. “Why are you such a giant fan of a teenage wizard?”

  He pauses. His breath his warm on the nape of my neck.

  “I suppose I can relate to the lonely boy underneath the stairs,” he finally replies. “You know, the boy living with people who don’t understand him.”

  My heart clenches.

  “What about you?” Fred asks. “Why do you like the books so much?”

  I take a breath. Let it out.

  “Because the boy with the good heart becomes a badass wizard who saves the day, all because he’s true to who he really is, no matter how much it costs him. He had to give so much up to become who he was. But it was worth it.”

  Now Fred’s pressing kisses onto my neck. A delicious shiver moves through me.

  “I like that thought,” he murmurs.

  I fall asleep curled into the solid bulk of his body.

  ***

  Fred

  It’s dark in my room, but I can still see the outline of Rachel’s body as she rides me, legs spread around my hips. Her pelvis grinds against mine, her pussy clenched tight around my cock. I reach up and take one of her breasts in my hand, thumbing the nipple. Her head falls back, her long hair tickling the tops of my thighs.

  “Fred,” she breathes. “Oh my God, Fred—”

  I sit up, somehow managing to keep myself inside her as I curl her into my arms. Her nipples brush against my chest, and we both suck in a breath. My balls tighten. I don’t want to come, not yet. This has to be good for her. This has to be the best sex she’s ever had, because I want her to come back. I want her in my bed like this every night, moaning my name.

  I duck my head and take her nipple in my mouth.

  “I’m—Fred, I’m coming.”

  Her hips move frantically against me now, suckin
g me to completion, urging both of us to heights I didn’t know existed. She moves exactly how I need her to, and I do the same for her, like we’re reading each other’s minds. The intensity of our connection—it’s almost too fucking much to bear.

  This is what I want, I think to myself. This is what I’ve always wanted.

  I use my body to press her down onto the bed. We’re in missionary now, and I hike her leg up over my hip as she comes and comes and comes, crying out, clutching the sheets. I see stars as I feel the first stirrings of my own orgasm. It’s too much—can I come inside her?—I don’t know how we got here, this can’t happen, I don’t want her life and she doesn’t want mine—

  My eyes fly open. I’m breathing, hard; I’m burning up.

  My skin is covered in a sheen of sweat. I’ve got a hard-on the size of a bloody tree. When I kick off the blankets, I suck in a breath; the soft glide of the cotton against the head of my dick has me wincing in pain.

  I cover my eyes with my thumb and forefinger. Fuck. Another dream about Rachel. This was the most real one—the most explicit dream—yet.

  I glance at the shapely form in the bed beside me. Rachel’s breathing is even and deep; I didn’t wake her, thank heaven.

  My heart thumps at the knowledge she’s so close. An arm’s length away, maybe less. I could easily reach out, touch her, wake her, reenact everything I just dreamed about.

  Christ, I want to fuck her. Brand her. Give her the virginity I’ve been holding on to for far too long now.

  Maybe then she’d stay in Madrid with me. Maybe then I could convince her—the way I’m convinced—that we really are forever material, even though I’ve known her all of a week.

  I really need this girl with me. I know this sounds crazy, but I’m ready to take the next step. Maybe Rachel would consider applying to that internship at the training facility—the one Valentina mentioned. Then she could stay in Spain and chase her sports medicine dream. It’d be win-win.

  But I’d still be asking her to give up the internship back in the states—the one she really wants. I’d be asking her to take a massive leap of faith that, from the outside, looks quite foolish.

  I sit up and drag a hand through my hair, cursing. My eyes burn; I forgot to take out my contacts last night. I check my phone. It’s half past six.

  I send up a silent prayer of gratitude. It’s early enough that I can grab a shower and take care of this raging woody, hopefully before Rachel wakes up.

  Rachel. The girl who is breathing and sleeping and dreaming in my bloody bed right now. What is she dreaming about, I wonder? Probably about that wanker Prince Jacoby in Tournament of Kings—the guy with the puppy dog eyes who just happens to be shirtless in every scene. Tosser, that one.

  I blink at the jealousy that spikes through me. It’s not a familiar feeling; I’m not a jealous bloke. Never have been. I’ve no right to be jealous when it comes to Rachel, I know.

  But this girl’s got me feeling all sorts of fucked up this morning.

  I head for the bathroom, pausing at the door. I glance back at the bed. Rachel turns over, her hair forming a dark halo on the pillow around her face.

  Get in the shower, I tell myself. Get.in.the.bloody.shower.

  My dick throbs.

  I flick the lights on in my bathroom and turn on the shower, jamming the dial to the hottest possible setting. Almost immediately steam starts to curl inside the glass enclosure.

  I step inside. The water, so hot I can hardly stand it, stings my skin.

  Good.

  Gritting my teeth, I lather my hands up with soap. I reach for my dick and groan at first contact. I don’t know if I’ve ever been this hard. If I’ve ever been in this much pain.

  I close my eyes and there she is. Rachel. Naked and hot to the touch, her intelligent eyes glassy with desire. She gets on her knees. Takes me in her mouth, slowly at first, then faster, until the head of my cock presses against the back of her throat.

  It only takes three, four strokes, and I’m coming so hard my legs almost buckle. The orgasm pounds through me, obliterating every thought except the one that screams I want her. I want her, every part of her, her mind and her laugh and that mouth of hers. Her eyes. Her pussy.

  I want to claim her.

  She’s making an animal out of me.

  The shockwaves finally subside, leaving my body limp and boneless. I lean hands on the wall and hang my head, the steam that swirls around me making it difficult to breathe. My heart is beating hard and fast. I can’t get a grip on it.

  Bloody hell, I’m in trouble.

  ***

  We’re both quiet on the drive over to Rachel’s dorm building. There’s no traffic for once—seven-fifteen is early for Madrid—and I can’t tell if I’m relieved or annoyed the ride doesn’t last longer.

  I pull up to the building and park illegally up front. I’m blocking a lane, but it’s still early, and this street seems pretty quiet anyway.

  Rachel yawns.

  “Tired?” I ask.

  “I am,” she says, bending down to grab her purse. “I don’t know if it was those boobs in Tournament getting me all hot and bothered or what, but I haven’t made out like that…well. I guess I’ve never made out like that. Ever.”

  I glance at her as she sits up in her seat. She looks more beautiful than ever. Her hair is a mess of waves that fall over her shoulders; her lips are still the tiniest bit swollen.

  Her face is flushed.

  “So many boobs,” I say, flicking my gaze teasingly to her chest. “And yet I can’t seem to get enough of them.”

  “Is it my boobs you can’t get enough of,” she teases back, “or is it the vampire boobs?”

  I laugh. “Your boobs, clearly. I imagine vampire boobs are quite cold to the touch, no?”

  Rachel pulls a funny face. “Totally.”

  “I’d like to do it again,” I say. “The making out, and the vampire boobs marathon.”

  She looks at me, her eyes dark and vulnerable. Her lips quirk upward, just enough to let me know she’s flattered.

  Fuck me, I want this girl.

  “Me too,” she says. “As long as beer’s still involved. That stuff you have is awesome.”

  Of course she wants beer.

  Of course what she wants to do tonight is exactly what I want to do. The thought of curling up with Rachel, cozy on my sofa or in my bed, fills me with a lightness so exquisite I can barely breathe.

  I want to get cozy with her every night. I want to take her home and talk football over beers and watch Tournament together and read Potter in bed afterward, the two of us comparing notes as we work our way through the series again and again and again.

  “The internship Valentina was talking about,” I blurt. “The one at the training facility next semester—would you consider applying for it?”

  Rachel rolls her lips between her teeth. Shifts in her seat.

  “I would, yeah. It’s a great opportunity. It’s also extremely competitive. But sure—I’d check it out.” She focuses her gaze on her lap. “Why do you ask?”

  I take a deep breath. “Look, Rachel, I know we’ve only known each other for a week—”

  “Fred, we’ve spent all of—what, twelve hours together?”

  “—but I bloody like you. A lot. Don’t tell me you don’t feel it—the connection we have. The chemistry.”

  Her fingers worry the handle on her bag. “I do. I definitely feel it.”

  “This—what we have—it’s different. Special. I think we should give it a shot.”

  “A shot in the long term.”

  “Yes. I’m not asking you to make any decisions yet. I just want you to think about it.”

  “Fred.” She meets my eyes. “What the hell does this mean? One minute you’re telling me you just want to be friends, the next you’re asking me to stay in Spain for another semester. You have to admit this whole thing is crazy.”

  I reach across the seat and take her hand in mine, tangling our fing
ers. She lets out a short, hot breath.

  “It is crazy, absolutely,” I say. “But my gut’s telling me it’s right. I’ve never met anyone like you. I don’t usually like having people around this much, but I’m already counting down the hours until I can see you again.”

  “Oh?” she arches a brow. “And when is that going to be?”

  “Tonight. If, of course, you’re free.”

  She’s trying not to smile. “I am.”

  “Then it’s a date.” I give her hand a squeeze. “Just promise me you’ll think about the internship, yeah?”

  Rachel looks at me for a long moment before she starts to nod.

  “Yeah,” she says. “I will.”

  My heart contracts. I haven’t had my coffee yet, but already my blood buzzes with anticipation, excitement, too.

  She keeps looking at me. I look back. After a beat, we both start to laugh.

  “I can’t believe this is happening,” she says.

  “Me neither. I never thought—”

  “What? That you’d fall for some American chick who wishes Quidditch were a real sport?”

  I grin. “Yeah. Something like that. So, when can I pick you up tonight?”

  “Well,” she says, sighing. “I have my last round interview for that internship—the one back at Meryton—this morning”—my heart falls, just a bit, at the mention of Rachel’s plans to head home—“and after that I need to go do some research at the Reina Sofía Museum. Want to just meet me there and we can figure something out after?”

  “Yes,” I say, a little too quickly. “What time works for you?”

  I’ve never been to the Reina Sofía—it’s one of Madrid’s most famous art museums—but I don’t tell Rachel that. It’s pretty much a given at this point that I don’t know about or do much outside of football.

  I’m excited to go to the museum. But not nearly as excited as I am to see Rachel again.

  “Around seven sound okay?”

  “Seven is perfect.”

  “Great.”

  “Great.”

  Rachel’s smile breaks through.

  I can’t stop looking at her. Even as my heart pounds, everything inside me feels soft. Hungry.