Lessons in Letting Go (Study Abroad Book 3)

by Jessica Peterson

  Her bra falls to the floor. Then she’s circling my neck in her hands, her fingers tangling in my hair, and pulling me against her. My dick surges at the press of her hard nipples against my chest. Skin on skin on skin.

  “Oh, love,” I say, trailing my hands up her sides. I take her tits in my palms, thumbing her nipples. “Oh, Laura.”

  She moans into my mouth, her fingers tugging at my hair, her silky skin warm against my own. She rolls her hips against mine, begging, teasing.

  I fucking lose it.

  Our legs hit the bottom of the bed. I take Laura’s face in my hands and give her lips one last, almost violent tug. Then I buck my hips, urging her onto the bed, and she falls onto the downy coverlet with a pleading sigh.

  I can just barely see the outline of her body, the curve of her breast gleaming in the light from the window. I take off her sandals. Then I grab her jeans, her underwear, and she lifts her hips to help me tug them off. The scrape of my palms against her legs sounds above our labored breathing.

  And then she’s naked. Gloriously, beautifully naked.

  My heart dips. She’s so beautiful. Sexy.

  But Laura turns her head away from me on the bed and tries to cover herself, roping her arms around her chest.

  “Don’t,” I say, taking both her wrists in my hand. She bends one knee and I straddle the other, tangling our legs as I lay on top of her. Holding myself up on one elbow, I guide her hands above her head with my free arm, baring her to me, exposing her body to my advances.

  “Rhys,” she pants.

  “You’re all right,” I say, kissing my way down her neck. “We’re all right.”

  Her hips roll beneath me as I kiss her breast. When I take her nipple in my mouth, biting the pebbled point, she cries out, her legs falling open. I feel the heat and the wet of her exposed pussy against my thigh. Christ.

  I settle myself between her legs, spreading her wider, opening her wider, and I roll my erection against her pussy, sucking on her nipple as I roll harder, pressing my dick to her center, wanting so badly to be buried there. Her breath is sweet and short, stalling every so often in her throat when I hit just the right spot. I dry humped practically everything when I was a randy teenager. Now I know why; as much of a tease as it is, it heightens the anticipation. And sometimes the anticipation of the act, rather than the act itself, can, frustratingly enough, be the best part.

  She keeps rolling against me, me against her, the friction making my cock pulse in agony. Her body is winding tighter, too, her pants becoming moans. She’s close. Painfully close.

  I give her nipple one last flick with my tongue. Then I move lower, pressing kisses into her ribs, her belly. I’m about to let go of her wrists so I can kiss her cunt when she grabs me by the hair.

  I lift my head, confused. My eyes lock onto hers, shining in the darkness. She looks aroused, a little afraid.

  “No,” she says, breathless.

  “Why not?” I cover the skin just beneath her navel with my mouth. I smell her, smell her arousal, and I want to get her there—I want to get her there before I’m inside her, because I don’t think I’ll be able to control my own orgasm, much less hers, once I’m sunk into her tight warmth.

  “Because. I want you. I’m ready.” Her fingers tighten in my hair, pulling me back up her body. “Do you have a condom?”

  “You’re sure?”

  She offers me a grin that fades when I bite her nipple and her face contracts with pleasure. “I’m—Jesus, Rhys, I’m sure.”

  I climb up the length of her body and place my hands on either side of her head, my hair dangling in her face as I bend my neck to press my mouth to hers, our tongues meeting in a frantic, fractured kiss. Then I lean back, I slip an arm around her waist and lift her a bit further onto the bed. Her leg grazes my dick; my blood riots; I let out a hiss.

  My hand falls heavily on the bedside table. I almost pull the drawer off its hinges as I open it and wrangle a condom from the mess of chargers and cords I’ve shoved inside it.

  I rip open the condom with my teeth. Laura is tugging down my briefs, and then she reaches up and takes the condom from my mouth.

  “Let me,” she says.

  I wiggle out of my underwear and hoist myself back onto my hands, lifting my hips for Laura. “I’m all yours, love.”

  “Love,” she says, looking up at me. My arms almost buckle when she takes my cock in her hand and gives it a solid tug. “Is that what you call all the girls you sleep with?”

  “No,” I grunt, managing a pained smile. “Only the pretty ones.”

  She swirls her thumb over the head of my dick, making it slick with precum. For a minute my vision goes dim.

  “I’m not—” I pant. “I’m not going to last much longer if you keep touching me like that.”

  “Like what?” Laura rolls on the condom slowly, very, very slowly, her thumb all the while still making circles on the head. Her touch isn’t as potent as it was before the condom was on, but my body has begun to shake with impatience.

  “Like that,” I say, and then I cover her hand with mine and settle my hips between her legs. I let my weight rest on her, just a little, and she lets out a satisfied sigh.

  Together we guide my dick toward her center. She arches against me when I press myself against her clit, circling, provoking, just like she did. I’m sweating now, and so is she.

  “You,” she pants, “are such a tease.”

  I kiss her neck, her ear, her chin. “Payback’s a bitch, isn’t it?”

  When I kiss her mouth, her lips curl into a smile.

  We find her center. Even through the condom she is hot and wet.

  “Christ, you’ll be the death of me,” I say. I push—a baby push, I don’t want to hurt her—and she cries out, rolling her hips against me, asking for more.

  “Is this okay?” I ask.

  Her eyes are closed. “Is it okay for you?”

  “Pffshhhh. It’s better than okay. Much, much better.”

  “Then give me more.”

  “How much more?”

  “Everything.”

  “Like this?”

  I take her leg in my hand and hitch it over my shoulder, spreading her wider. I sink a bit more inside her; I feel her stretching around me, pulsing with heat, with need.

  “More, Rhys.” Her free hand clutches at my chest, her nails biting into my skin. The sensation ricochets through my ribcage, my belly, landing in my cock.

  I can’t. I can’t take it. I can’t hold on anymore.

  I roll back my hips and I take her mouth in mine in a bruising kiss. And then I surge forward, sinking to the hilt inside her in one swift, smooth motion.

  Oh my God.

  I see stars. She feels so bloody good I could die. She is hot and tight and wet, so tight it almost hurts.

  I absorb Laura’s cry with my mouth. She bites my lip; I nip at her cheek. For a minute I just stay there, filling her, holding her, possessing her. My mind is blank, my senses focused on the thrum of her pulse as I flutter my lips down her neck. Her heart is pounding.

  So is mine.

  Laura tilts her hips, looking for more friction. I grin. Sweet, sweet girl—it’s like she knows what I want before I do.

  “More,” she whispers in my ear.

  “More.” I pull back, hammer forward. Our bodies make a lewd nose as mine meets with hers. “How much more can you handle?”

  She opens her eyes, just a sliver. “As much as you wanna give me, fancy pants.”

  So I give her everything. I don’t go fast; I just go hard, steady and intent and unrepentant—long, deep, gutting strokes. I circle my hips as I stroke, and she arches against me, her body rising to meet my rhythm. She loops her other leg over my other shoulder, seeking more, and I hold myself up on my hands and use the muscles in my lower back to go deeper. My mouth is on her mouth, my mouth is on her tits, teasing her nipples, her pussy grips me tight and wet. I don’t know how, but she’s getting wetter. I bloody adore it
.

  I close my eyes. My body goes and goes and goes. It’s a workout, but one I’m really, really enjoying. I lose myself in the feel of Laura, the feel of taking, of having, of giving. My body is loud but my mind is quiet. I am totally present in this moment, and because I’ve been so distracted lately—because I’ve been so stressed—it’s almost overwhelming, how much I feel. I feel her and I feel heat. I feel wound tight and I feel let go. I feel everything intensely, like I’m feeling it not only with my skin but with what’s underneath it, too. Marrow and bone. Blood, sinew.

  Laura’s hands glide up my back. I sputter at the first stirrings of my orgasm. I’m surprised I’ve lasted this long. My dick almost hurts from the barrage, from her tightness. I circle my hips again, hitting her just there. She gasps, throwing back her head. Ecstasy is written all over her features.

  Yes. So much yes.

  “I’m close,” I say. “I want to come together, love. Are you ready? Come for me.”

  She nods her head, never opening her eyes. Her forehead and cheeks are damp with sweat. “I’m close, too.”

  As if on cue, her cunt tightens around my dick.

  This time, my arms do buckle.

  I try to keep some of my weight on my elbows, but Laura drops her legs and pulls me down, pulls me against her.

  “I like the feel of you,” she says, then sucks in a breath, like she regrets saying it at all.

  I laugh, kissing her. “I like the feel of you, too. Come, love. I want you to come.”

  I hit her hard where she likes it. She’s breathing hard, her breasts rising and falling against my chest. I’m going fast now, unable to slow my strokes, but Laura keeps up, offering up her hips, taking what I offer.

  I’m wound so tight it hurts. I’m close, I don’t know how much longer—

  Laura’s pussy contracts, once, twice, four times. I lose count, because I lose myself in her orgasm. I surrender to my own, gasping, fireworks bursting behind my closed lids as I empty myself inside her. Every muscle in my body tightens, twists. Then they unfurl and sing, my legs shaking at the violence of my release. I’m dizzy. My chest feels hollowed out. The uneven beating of my heart drowns out everything else, Laura’s skin singeing my own. It’s a good singe—a welcome one.

  There is so much heat between us. Me and Laura.

  Laura.

  “Laura.”

  Laura. Sweet, lovely, gorgeous girl.

  I open my eyes. She’s opened hers, too. For several heartbeats we just look at each other. She looks…bewildered. A little scared.

  “Holy fuck, Rhys,” she says. She tucks an unruly curl behind my ear as I breathe above her, my nose two inches from hers.

  “I know.” I try to catch my breath. “That was good. It’s never—it’s not like that for me very often.”

  I watch the sinews of her throat as she swallows. “Me neither.”

  I nudge my nose against hers. “I’m glad you enjoyed it as much as I did.”

  “I did.” She swallows again, turning her head away from me. “Yeah, definitely.”

  I pull back a little. I get the feeling something is off with Laura. But then she’s grinning, rolling her hips against mine, teasing me about another a round.

  I feel myself miraculously getting hard again.

  Laura. Sweet, sweet girl.

  ***

  We fuck again before we go to sleep, and again when we wake up (Laura insists we do it under the covers, where it’s still dark). Each time is better and longer and more intense than the last.

  I’ll ask for Laura’s number—it’s just less awkward for everyone if I do, a way of ending the encounter on a pleasant note—but I won’t call her. Yeah, it’s a dick move, but really, I’m sparing us both a good bit of aggravation and heartache in the long run. Laura’s a lovely girl. She deserves someone…better, I guess. Someone who can commit to her. I can’t. The timing isn’t right. I’m focusing on footy, remember? And I’ve made it a rule never to go back for seconds.

  If I did though—if I could—I’d definitely go back for seconds with Laura.

  Chapter 6

  Laura

  The Next Morning

  Rhys emerges from the bathroom, tugging a grey t-shirt over his head. I sigh from my vantage point on the edge of the bed as his tattoos disappear for the last time. He spears me with a blinding, boyish smile, running a hand through his bed-mussed hair. He’s scruffier this morning. I like it.

  “What?”

  “Your tattoos.” I run my sweaty palms over my jeans. He’s so hot he makes me nervous. “I liked them.”

  Rhys’s smile becomes a smirk. His hands still on his shirt, he says, “Shall I take it back off, then?”

  “No,” I say, laughing. “Did you get them back in Wales? Your tattoos, I mean.”

  His smirk tightens, then falls. “Some of them.”

  “I bet you miss it.”

  “Miss what?”

  “Wales. Home. I’ve only been in Spain for twenty-four hours, and already I’m a little homesick.”

  He grabs his phone from the nightstand without looking at me. “No, not really.”

  I hesitate. Is he kidding around, being the smoking-hot charmer he was last night? Or is he just being rude? I can’t tell.

  “Oh,” I say.

  I wait for him to fill the awkward silence, but he just scrolls through his phone. The heat that crackled between us just minutes ago dissipates, leaving in its place a clammy kind of cold. Must be the air conditioning. I shiver.

  “Well then.” I stand up and tug at my jeans. I’m already sore between my legs. I guess that’s what three times in one night will do. My poor (lucky?) vagina. “I should get going. Classes start on Wednesday, and I have a to-do list that’s, like, a mile long to tackle before then...”

  Rhys looks up from his phone. It could be my overactive imagination still reeling from endless hours of the best sex I’ve ever had, but his blue eyes blaze with heat as they meet mine. Heat and a little regret, maybe? Even as I shiver again, my face burns. Does he regret having sex with me? Do I look ugly? Fat? Worse for the wear?

  His smirk returns. He looks so handsome when he does it it’s like a physical blow to the gut—I struggle to breathe.

  “I had a lot of fun last night, Laura.”

  “I did too.” I grin down at my feet. “It’s not every day I get to bang a professional athlete.”

  “Just promise me that when you sell your story to the tabloids, you’ll tell them how big my…ah, heart is.”

  I meet his gaze. Here he is again, the charmer. “I make no guarantees, fancy pants.”

  He steps closer. The scent of his cologne surrounds me. My groin pulses with a familiar heat.

  “So,” he says, thumb hovering over the screen of his phone. “May I get your number?”

  My face burns hotter. I must be the color of a tomato. I look back down at my feet. “I thought you were after those twenty million Instagram followers. Where in the world are you going to find the time to get naked with me?”

  When I look up, my heart stalls in my chest. Rhys is standing in front of me, his eyes locked onto mine, his perfect lips curled into the smirk I’ve come to know and crave. I feel lightheaded. God he’s hot. Overwhelmingly handsome. When he leans forward, tilting his head just a little, and plucks at my lips with his own, I just can’t deal.

  “You really think I’m not going to call you after sex like that?” he says.

  ***

  But he doesn’t. Monday, Tuesday, Saturday. I don’t get so much as a text from him.

  “Listen, friend, appreciate it for what it was,” Emily says when I call her, bummed out, on Saturday afternoon. “You got to bone Rhys Maddox. Rhys Maddox! He’s, like, one of the hottest soccer players in the world. And you said the sex was great, so. Yeah. I think you win, whether he calls you or not.”

  The sex was great. The best I ever had. The only thing I kinda regret is faking that orgasm. I was intent to come for real, but then Rhys was supe
r into the idea of us coming together, so the people-pleaser in me—the perfectionist—caved and did some kegels when he asked me to. He seemed to enjoy it. A lot. Like a lot lot.

  So I faked my orgasm again, when we had sex the second time, and again in the morning. It was just…easier, I guess. I didn’t want to hold Rhys up, and I definitely didn’t want him to go down on me. I have some, um, complex feelings about boys touching what’s between my legs with their mouths. What if I smell? What if he’s grossed out by me? What if he goes down on me and it takes forever for me to come so I just fake it anyways so I don’t offend him?

  “I know,” I say. “And it’s not like I like him or anything. We were together for, what, eight hours? Most of which was spent…you know. Not talking. But it still stings.”

  “Always does,” Emily sighs. “You’ve been spoiled, chica. You’re used to guys being all over you all the time.”

  I pout. “Not true.”

  “Oh really? When was the last time a guy turned you down?”

  “Well,” I say, after thinking for a minute. “There was this one guy, freshman year of high sch—”

  “Please, you and I both know whatever you’re about to say is a lie. You’ve never not been pursued by a guy you’re into, Laur. So a super famous, super busy dude didn’t call you back when he said he would. It was going to happen sooner or later. Might as well rip that band aid off.” She munches thoughtfully on her condiment of the day. Pickles, maybe? “I mean. Maybe this was meant to happen, so you could focus on your bucket list instead.”

  “The bucket list,” I say. “Right. I’ve actually been thinking about that a lot this week. I already signed up to tutor kids at this after school program here in Madrid.”

  “Awesome. Go do that, and forget about this footballer dude. Well, don’t forget his magical skills in the sack. But you know what I mean. Move on to something better. Move on to you.”