I find myself on my couch, thinking of Lock. Thinking of the way he slammed me against the storm door and kissed me breathless. The way he warned me of things we shouldn’t do.
I’m thinking of going to his hotel and doing all those things to him. Cutting loose, forgetting all my hang-ups and inhibitions, and taking everything I can from him. Getting him to show me the wild side of sex.
Shove him backward onto the couch. Rip off whatever stupid clothes he’s wearing, and suck him off until he can’t speak anymore. Suck the coherency right out of him.
My fingers have a mind of their own. Shit, my mind has a mind of its own—a will of its own, more accurately. I imagine Lock on the couch, in the darkness. Curtains drawn, a sliver of daylight is all that illuminates him. He is sitting on his butt on the couch, robe tossed open, baring himself for me. I’d be on my knees between his legs. He’d bury his hands in my hair, grip my curls in his fists and he’d struggle for control as I took his long, thick shaft between my lips.
As the fantasy develops my fingers are moving hard and fast, hitting my button just right. I’m gasping, mouth open, head back against my couch, eyes closed. Thinking of Lock. Of his gorgeous erection in my hands, in my mouth. Maybe I’d do my best porn star impression, giving him a blowjob he’d never, ever forget, for as long as he lives. I don’t watch porn, never have, but that has no bearing on this fantasy. I imagine him protesting as he gets ready to come, being gallant and thoughtful and telling me he wants more, he doesn’t want to come like this. The way those hot alphas in the romance books do. He’d try to pull me up, but I’d insist. I’d suck harder, tease and tantalize until he had no choice, he would have to let go. I’d make him lose control in a way he’d never felt before.
Oh god, I’m there, thinking of Lock groaning as he releases himself in my mouth, maybe some dripping on my chin as I pull out, dripping in a saliva-string line onto my tits. Oh—oh fuck. He’d be so hard, wet with my saliva, and I’d take him again, see if I can milk every last drop out of him, and then I’d let him go with a loud pop and sink back to sit on my heels. I’d have a sexy, self-satisfied look on my face. And then he’d grab me, not asking, not insisting, but grabbing me bodily off the floor, trading places. He’d be on his knees in front of me, and his tongue would go wild all over me, the way it did last night.
Oh god, oh fucking god, I come so hard I nearly slide off the couch, moaning and groaning all wanton and wild.
I come back to my senses on the floor in front of my couch, Lock’s T-shirt rucked up around my hips. I half-expect him to be there, watching me again. But he’s not. He’s at the La Quinta.
La Quinta? Really?
I sent him away.
I look at the whiskey bottle on the counter and it’s—what time is it? I don’t even know. Too early for whiskey, that’s for sure.
I know why I want a drink.
Why I’m masturbating, thinking of Lock.
Because it’s easier than thinking about why I made him leave.
I dissolve into sobs. It hits without warning, just a sudden blast of ugly crying, thinking of Ollie. Thinking of him dying. Remembering, feeling his loss all over again. Thinking of somebody cutting Ollie’s organs out of his battered body and putting them in those special coolers, sending them out to be put into someone else. I wonder who else out there has one of Ollie’s body parts?
Shit, shit, shit.
He has Ollie’s heart. I heard Oliver’s actual physical heart beating in Lock’s chest. I felt it thumping under my ear, under my hand. That heart keeps Lock alive. That heart—my Ollie’s heart—sends blood coursing through Lock’s body.
I can’t seem to stop crying, because it’s all so fucking confusing. I want Lock. I don’t want to be lonely anymore. I want to feel. I want to be wanted. But how can I let that happen? How can I betray Ollie’s memory that way, especially with Lock? The man who has my dead husband’s heart in his chest. How can I do that?
There are no answers. Shit, I don’t even know the questions.
I came to life when I first kissed you
I’m alone in my room at the hotel. Utah is asleep on the floor, snuffing and huffing, legs moving in her sleep. I’ve got the curtains drawn, and I’m on my bed in just my jeans, idly flipping through the channels.
Bored.
Trying not to think about Niall.
Trying not to relive every last moment, over and over again. Trying to keep myself from jumping in my truck and hauling ass to her house, pinning her to the bed and fucking her until neither of us can see or think or breathe.
But fuck, it’s hard.
So hard.
I’m hard—all it takes is a single stray thought, and I’ve got a raging hard-on.
I mean, Jesus. Like an idiot, I barged into her house, again, and caught her masturbating. Caught her in the act of giving herself a monster O…calling my name. She thought of me while she masturbated. God, that’s hot. So goddamn hot. See? I’m hard as a rock again, seeing her in my mind’s eye, her hand in her pants, moving fast, hips flicking up and down, head tossed back, eyes closed, face in that beautiful, almost-pained expression of orgasm. Calling my name.
And last night? I barely pulled out in time, and she wrapped that small, soft, perfect hand of hers around me and helped me finish. Helped me finish all over her belly.
In a fit of I-don’t-know-what-possessed-me, I stopped at a drug store on the way home and bought some condoms, and—just to make myself feel better—some water and a jar of cashews. I was buying condoms because I was hoping like hell I’d get another taste of Niall James.
I’m trying so damn hard to keep my thoughts away from her, but it’s impossible.
Those springy brown curls. Her hips, deliciously bell-shaped. That ass, so juicy, so plump and ripe for so many dirty things. Those goddamned perfect tits. D-cup—I happened to catch a glimpse of the tag on her bra. Pale, creamy skin. And her eyes? Light, light brown—the most expressive eyes I’ve ever had the pleasure of gazing into, streaked with shots of green. She can express wicked, biting sarcasm with just a look. Or she can beg me for more with a wild, hungry plea in those brown eyes. Almond-brown, that’s the shade I’d say they were.
She’s just…everything. All of her. I want all of her.
I fight it for hours. Even do some exercising. Pushups, mountain-climbers, planks, Bulgarian split-squats off the couch, until I’m trembling and sweaty and I stink to hell.
I shower, and all through the shower I have to fight myself, fight to keep my hand off my cock and my thoughts away from Niall. I can’t jerk off thinking about her. I’ve done enough to her without using her like that.
But…fuck. Just fuck.
I get out of the shower, towel off, and wrap up in one of those thick terrycloth robes that hotels often provide. I pace around and fight my thoughts. I ignore the ache in my balls. The urge to go to her, take her mouth and use her hard until we’re both spent.
I can’t fucking help how my thoughts, when they go to her, turn dirty. The way I turned to her, and then had her beneath me. Her hand on me, stroking me. The way she yanked open my jeans with such ferocity, as if she needed me right then, couldn’t wait. She knew exactly what she wanted and wasn’t shy about going for it.
I picture all the things I want to do with her, and to her. Get her on her hands and knees, on this very bed. I’m sprawled out on my back on my bed, robe open, only sort of held closed by a loose knot. The TV is on, but I’m not paying any attention. I’m staring at the ceiling, fists clenched, jaw tensed, trying my damnedest to guide my thoughts away from Niall, and losing.
“Fuck,” I snarl.
I give in. God, I hate myself for this, but I’m out of fight. I ache. I’ve been hard for hours, and I’m about to explode.
I wrap my fist around myself, close my eyes, and picture Niall. The way she was that first time I showed up at her house. Wearing nothing but a tiny tee. Big, beautiful breasts stretching the thin cotton. Nipples straining, hard and thic
k. Her tight core playing peekaboo under the hem, trimmed close. Not bare, no funny shapes, just well-trimmed and well-groomed fuzz. Perfect. All woman. Those thighs, brushing together but with a tiny little keyhole gap. If she took a deep breath, her tits would lift, and the shirt would go with them, and I’d have been able to see all of her core. Tight, taut, glistening with need. Shit, even better, wet with my saliva.
I’m stroking myself, thinking of her body, her core, the way she tasted, how sweet she tasted on my lips, how responsive she was, how her tits bounced as she writhed in my grip, the way she came apart so beautifully. God, I’m aching, throbbing.
I hear Utah snuffle in the other room, making a little sound in her throat, padding around and looking for a new spot to lie down. There are other sounds, but I’m not paying attention. I’m focused on imagining Niall, and getting myself there.
I happen to blink my eyes open, and for a moment I know I have to be lost in the throes of some kind of hallucination or exceptionally vivid fantasy, because I could swear Niall is here in my hotel room with me, watching me jerk off. Hand over her mouth, eyes wide, leaning against the doorframe.
I let go of myself, abruptly. I sit up. Blink hard. But the vision of Niall doesn’t go away.
Her hair is loose around her shoulders, just the top part tied back out of her face. And she’s wearing…god, holy fucking shit, she’s wearing a shin-length sundress, tight and patterned red with white zig-zag stripes. Molded to her ass and thighs so tightly it’s clear she’s not wearing a damned thing underneath. No sleeves, just little straps over her shoulders. The top part is molded to her too, propping up her magnificent breasts. It’s a casual dress, a summery thing. You see chicks wearing them all summer long. But on Niall? It’s pure sin. Raw temptation.
She’s got a little clutch purse in her hand, dangling at her side. She drops it, brows drawn, eyes wide, her expression one of torture, of need, of conflict.
“Don’t stop,” she whispers.
God, she’s real.
She’s real.
She’s here.
I can’t fathom it. Don’t know what to do. I throb, my pulse hammering like a drum from nerves and need and from having been so close to coming and having stopped.
“Lock…don’t stop. Keep going.” Her voice is a dulcet whisper.
“What do you want me to do, honey?” My voice is a whisky-rasp, rough, gruff, low.
“Keep touching yourself.” She takes a step closer, hips swaying sensuously. “You were thinking about me, weren’t you?”
“Yeah,” I grunt. “I was thinking about you.”
I clutch myself in a shaky hand, my grip tight. I watch, enraptured, as Niall sashays like a ghost, a dream, a succubus toward me. She looks as conflicted as I feel about everything, but just as unable to stop this as I am.
“Touch yourself,” she says in that slow, raw whisper, “and think about me. Like you were.”
“I’d rather touch you.”
“I know. Me too.” She climbs onto the bed, and I’m aching in my hand. “But I want this, first. I want to watch you do this.” She kneels on the edge of the bed near the foot end, out of reach. “The way you watched me.”
I groan. “God, Niall. You’re making me crazy.”
“This whole thing is crazy. But I can’t seem to stop myself.” She inches closer. “Stroke yourself.”
I glide my hand down, root to tip, once, slowly. “Like this?”
She moans, a tiny sound in the back of her throat. “God, yes. Like that.” She puts her fingers over mine, holds me, but I can only feel my own hand on my erection, and her soft hand over mine—it’s tantalizing and torturous. She shows me with gentle pressure how she wants me to move my hand. Slowly, in a smooth rhythm. “Like this.”
I’m fighting the edge away, fighting for control. And losing. “Jesus, Niall. God…” My hips buck, and my stomach tenses, but I hold it back, fight it off, keep my eyes open.
She tugs the top of her dress down with one hand, lifting her breasts free. “Does that help?”
“God, Niall. You’re so…”
“So what, Lock?”
I remember her telling me how badly she needed to hear me tell her how gorgeous she is. “Perfect, Niall. You’re utter perfection. So beautiful it hurts.” I groan and lift my ass off the bed, feeling my O rise up inside me, making me shake and tingle and hum, still fighting it off, now using muscle control to keep it back. “God, I want to touch you. I want you to touch me.”
She lets her hand slide off mine. Her fingers wrap around me, above my hand. Hers is small and pale above my larger, tanned hand. We move in sync, both of us stroking me, now.
“I want to watch, Lock.” She inches closer. Biting her lip, that conflicted expression of forbidden, irrepressible desire on her beautiful face. “You watched me come, heard me say your name as I came. Now it’s my turn.”
She finds my other hand, fisted beside me, and lifts it, placing my palm on her breast. I take the heavy globe in my hand, squeeze, knead; brush my thumb across her nipple. She watches, rapt, as we pulse and pump our hands on my erection. She doesn’t take her eyes off me as I get closer and closer to losing control.
But I never want this to end. I want to feel this forever, her here with me, touching me, her soft breast in my hand. Seeing the need in her eyes, knowing as soon as I’m done, I’ll get to make her feel this good, too. Or better.
She leans over me, breasts brushing my chest, and kisses me. It’s a soft, slow kiss. And all too brief. She pulls away, kisses the corner of my mouth, teasing me with the idea of another kiss, but then pulls her lips away from mine and kisses my chest. My stomach. Her hand above mine, still moving. Kisses my stomach. She glances up at me, hesitant. And then she lets go of me.
“Don’t you dare stop, Lock,” she says. “You’re close. I can see it. Don’t stop.”
I keep my hand moving, jerking slowly up and down. I watch as she kisses her way down my body. Glances up at me, now and then. Reaches the tip of my erection. Glances up at me again, eyes full of need and trouble and so many emotions I don’t know the names of them all. Places her palms on my thighs. Slides them up my body, and then back down. Surrounds my erection and my sac with her hands, touching, cupping, sliding back up my belly. Kisses one hipbone. Then the other.
God. Oh, god.
I can’t help the words, now. “Jesus, Niall. I’m so close. I’m right there, I’m about to come.”
“Yes, Lock, come for me. Let me watch. Let me see it.” She whispers this against the taut skin of my erection.
I flex my hips into my hand, which now flashes up and down hard and fast.
She touches my wrist. “Go slow. Take your time. Make it last.”
I slow down, but it’s impossible to go slow when I’m so close. But she’s got her hand on mine, as before, feeling me as I stroke myself to release as slowly as I can. Slowly, for her.
And then, fuck, fuck, fuck, she’s got me in her mouth. Just a tiny taste. I nearly lose it, but hold it back. But then I can’t hold back. Not when she does it again, taking me in her mouth, so wet, so warm, so soft, so fucking incredible. I groan her name in a drawn-out moan. Fist my fingers in her hair, involuntarily. Struggling for control. Her hand still on top of mine, guiding the pace of my strokes. Her tongue flicking and licking in circles against the tip.
I arch off the bed, fighting for enough control that I don’t lose it in her mouth without warning, so I don’t fuck into her mouth like the wild animal I feel like right now.
“NIALL—fuck, fuck, Niall, you have to stop. I’m—god, god, oh god, you have to stop or I’m—fuck, I’m coming. Right now, I’m coming, Niall—”
I feel it, can’t stop it. No control anymore. She backs off at the very last second, letting me pop free with a loud noise, and then I’m jerking my erection into my hand, into hers wrapped around me. I spasm, and come all over myself. All over my hand, all over hers, all over my stomach. But after the first spasm, she knocks away my ha
nd and buries me in between her lips, and takes the rest in her mouth, sucks it all out of me, moaning, and gliding her soft, strong hand all over me, up and down and up and down until I swear I come a second time, or more, or something, I don’t even know what it is except another powerful, ripping, spastic explosion of gutting bliss.
I gasp and go limp. “God, Niall. Holy shit.”
She’s using the robe to wipe me clean, and then she’s tugging at the terrycloth knot and jerking it out from beneath me, wiping her hand and mine, her mouth, and tossing the robe aside.
I watch this, gasping for breath.
I shake my head, rocked to speechlessness by the vision of her. Up on her knees, breasts bared over the top of her sundress, hair coming free of the tie at the back of her head, wisping around her face in ringlets, dress wrinkled and rucked around her thighs.
Lunging up and forward, I wrap my hands around the backs of her thighs, grip, feeling the muscular strength under the soft pale skin, and then slide my palms up to cup her ass. Tug her closer, closer, and she moves on her knees to straddle me, dress stretching across her thighs and then her hips. I brush the hem up, up, until it’s bunched above her hips, baring her core for me. And yeah, she’s not wearing any panties. She straddles me, moving over my thighs, my hips. Letting my slack manhood slide between her thighs, grinding on me, skin hot now, and softer than silk. I lay back, pulling her closer. Confused, she moves with my guiding touch, up over my stomach, my chest. Falls forward and grips the headboard, staring down at me in consternation.
“Lock?” Her voice is tremulous.
I have no words for her now. Only my tongue and lips all over her thighs and core. She rocks, groans. Tastes so sweet, so smoky, a taste I could lap up and never get enough of. I cup her ass with one hand, encouraging her to move. Encourage her to ride me. Slide two fingers inside her, spear them in and out. And god, she’s so tight two fingers is all I can fit. She moans, rocks, moves.
“Lock, oh fuck, Lock. God, this feels amazing.”
She lets go of the headboard with one hand and stabs her fingers into my hair, grips a handful and pulls my face against her, taking all she wants from me. Her hips are grinding in circles, and I feel her clenching around my fingers. She’s moaning and whimpering, eyes open and staring down at me in an expression of wild, uninhibited need conflicting with amazement and bliss and the ever-present confusion as to what the fuck is going on between us. But she doesn’t stop, continues to ride my tongue until her movements are stuttering and fluttering and her fingers are gripped painfully tight in my hair.
Yours: A Standalone Contemporary Romance Page 17
