He touched her face, using his thumb to move a strand of hair. “We’re never going to see one another again,” he said, wrecking the delicious intimacy of the gesture with the mood-killing words.
“So I thought last night.”
“Tell me what you like,” he said, ignoring her jab. “What you’ve always wanted.”
“Excuse me?” She wasn’t sure where he was going with this, but she was beginning to like the sound of it.
“We’ve gotten this far,” he said. “So tell me what you want. Let’s make it happen.” When she didn’t respond, he continued, “It’s either that or bask in the afterglow from last night. And I know which one I think seems more interesting.”
“I want it rough,” she blurted. She experienced an almost immediate pang of regret for saying that out loud, but the thrill of having this fantasy fall in her lap—at the hands of a hot computer-geek-tech-writer-hacker guy, no less—burrowed through her.
Intimately.
“You want it rough,” he said, more of a statement than a question.
Maybe permission.
Definitely a yes.
“I want it rough.”
He dragged his thumb across her cheek, then pulled her close, almost kissing her. But before the contact was fulfilled, he stood, taking both her and the blankets with him.
Then he walked over to the bed.
She gasped when he let go and playfully threw her onto the mattress, but the playfulness ended there, because he immediately landed on top of her, one hand tearing at her clothes while the fingers of the other tucked and twisted between strands of hair, making her feel coveted. The odd little flurry of misplaced emotion twisted through her, then away. She’d removed clothing for him once before, but this experience was entirely different.
The day before he’d asked.
Now, he yanked, stripping her pants. Demanding access. He managed to get them off in a singular motion, never relinquishing his hold on her head, so that when he leaned back to drag the leggings free of her ankles, he took her with him.
She sat, briefly dazed, breathing heavily, fully expecting to hit the bed again. But instead, he slid his free hand between her legs and plunged his fingers inside her.
“Oh shit,” she bit out.
He hesitated. “You okay?” he whispered, his lips grazing hers.
“I’m so okay.”
Gray eyes poured into hers, serious and sexy all at once. “You sure?”
“I trust you.”
Odd that she meant that. She’d just been screwed by life and definitely screwed by her ex. Everything she thought solid had been obliterated. She’d been betrayed.
She was the last person who should trust.
Yet, inexplicably, she did.
Something passed between them in that moment. Maybe it was the last shade of awkwardness dissolving with the decision to have sex again. Maybe it was that she was subconsciously riding his hand, which she realized when he shifted his thumb so that it grazed her clit.
She jerked at the contact, but he didn’t relent. Instead she felt his lips move and just knew it was a deviant smirk she tasted when he kissed her, grinding harder, swallowing the little noises that managed to escape her throat.
She was drowning. Drowning in this man, and he’d hardly done anything.
A couple of fingers and a thumb.
And he wasn’t finished yet.
He tore his mouth from hers, leaving her gasping. He snagged her lip with his teeth, then dragged a soft kiss along her jawline, his stubble rough and biting.
She arched into him and held on so tight, she wouldn’t have been surprised if she snapped a fingernail.
He worked her with his fingers, unrelenting. Pleasure rocked her, so intense it bordered on pain. He released her hair long enough to yank her shirt over her head. When she emerged, breathing heavily, he stilled, then ever so slowly withdrew his fingers.
The loss was immense, leaving her wanting, but he held eye contact while he pushed her to her back, then reached past, blindly grabbing a condom.
“You’re wearing too much,” she said, biting back a hint of laughter.
He responded by tugging off his shirt and tossing it. It followed a similar route to hers, though this time a growl followed. She peeked past him to see the ugly cat laying on her shirt, Grady’s now tossed over the cat’s hind end.
“I kill at carnival games,” he said with a grin. “If you ever need a big stuffed animal, I’m your guy.”
“Yeah, like Mr. Anti-Romance One-and-a-Half Night Stand is anyone’s guy.”
“Hey,” he said, his tone dripping with mock offense. “You want a one-night stand or a big stuffed animal, I’m your guy.”
“A big stuffed animal could be considered romantic,” she pointed out.
He gave her a sexy little smirk but otherwise ignored the statement as he unzipped his pants and opened the fly enough to put on the condom.
“You’re not taking off your jeans?” she asked.
“I’m being rough.”
“By wearing jeans to bed?”
He grabbed her calves and pulled her against him, driving into her so fast and hard she thought she’d explode. “What if I don’t want to waste time taking them off?”
She hoped it was a rhetorical question, because she was in no condition to answer. She couldn’t breathe, and she hadn’t remedied that when he folded over her, still inside, and sucked the tender peak of her breast into his mouth. He slid an arm under her, lifting at the small of her back, and rocked his hips into her, pumping lazily deeper while his mouth worked her hard, his tongue and teeth teasing her nipple.
She was going to die. Death by sex. Not even rough sex. He was way too tender, but she loved it. Every blissfully thick inch of him, plowing in, drawing out, seemed to drive her closer to that edge.
And then he pushed. He abandoned her breast, laced his fingers through hers, and reached past her head. The jeans must have worked their way down because she only felt their telltale presence with her feet, and then his leg was bare when he drew his knee up against her thigh and, gripping her hands, slammed into her.
All the oxygen left the room.
It hadn’t made it back when he withdrew and did it again, deeper, faster, crushing her with a kiss, leaving her gasping and begging harder, though she wasn’t sure if she’d spoken aloud or only breathed the word against his lips. Good God, the man was sexually dexterous, fully encompassing her with his mouth while at the same time pounding into her so wickedly that they inched across the mattress, something she realized when her head touched the headboard.
He pushed back with their joined hands, giving her space, taking it back. All traces of the nice guy were gone as the headboard slammed the wall and he drove into her, his rhythm a stark contrast to the unsteady racing of her heart.
He let go of her hands, leaving her to grab fistfuls of sheets, only to lose her grip all over again when he flipped her over. The emptiness lasted only a moment before he grabbed her hair again, pulling just enough to get her into position.
One hell of a position.
His free hand did something to her clit that left her seeing stars.
The bed may have broken, judging by the abrupt change in elevation and a rather ineloquent crashing sound.
He didn’t stop.
She was spiraling, literally falling, and pretty sure she’d never have just sex like this ever again. Through her haze, she realized he’d landed on her, breathing heavily, utter dead weight.
Great. They even had simultaneous orgasms.
“What just happened?” Grady asked.
She peered over her shoulder at him, looking up, as it turned out. The foot end of the bed was still up, while the head was down. Way down. “This is hilarious,” she said. She suddenly felt terribly deprived. Sex had never been fun before. Not ever. Not like this.
“That’s not entirely offensive,” he said, though his expression remained wary. “Did you find that acceptable? Because if you
need a do-over, I’m going to need a minute.”
“Only a minute?”
“Smart-ass.”
“You are literally still inside me calling me names.”
“So very sorry.” He withdrew.
She wanted him back and almost told him that, but he leaned forward, millimeters from kissing her, and whispered, “Smart-ass. Amazing ass. And I’m not actually sorry at all.”
Chapter Eight
Sleet or ice or freezing rain—Grady had never really understood the difference—smacked the window, echoing like the ticking of a clock. He wasn’t sure what time it was.
Or what he’d been thinking when he’d decided that more sex would be a good idea. Granted, it had been an excellent idea, but if he’d ever intended that it could get her out of his mind, he was wrong.
Stupidly wrong.
The second she said she wanted rough sex, he was in. Pathetically in. Because the idea that that woman wanted him to take her like that left his mind spinning.
Yeah, his mind.
Leave it to him to be handed everything he wanted—no-strings sex and a woman with zero desire to hang around afterward—and question it.
But he hadn’t expected to like Olivia, much less admire her.
He’d never dreamed they would connect outside of sex. Hell, he had only hoped they’d be able to function within it.
How could something going right make it all so unbelievably wrong?
And why did it matter? He’d never be the Prince Charming she wanted—or would want when she was ready for a relationship, judging by her taste in movies. He didn’t even want to be that guy. He already knew they were completely incompatible in the real world, so there really wasn’t anything to contemplate. And if all else failed and they were great on every other level, she’d be done with him the second she found out what he’d done.
So why the second thoughts?
And why the hell wouldn’t the snow melt so she could go home?
He glanced toward the window, seeing nothing but white.
“You’re frowning,” Olivia murmured, peering at him through thick lashes. He liked seeing her there, curled against his pillow, his comforter piled over her. They were under it together, and on the heels of his earlier thoughts, he made a point of causally moving his leg away from her.
Naked touching wouldn’t ease his mind.
But looking at her lying there next to him, eyes bright and warm, wouldn’t help, either. Then it hit him. “Espresso,” he murmured.
Her eyes widened. “There’s coffee?”
That was the second time she’d perked over the idea of coffee. Not exactly a distinguishing characteristic, but he could too easily see himself at a coffee shop with her.
Which sucked.
“Not without electricity,” he said. “Actually I was referring to your eyes,” he said. “I’ve been trying to think of the right word.”
“You’ve been thinking about my eyes?”
Instead of answering, he let the question linger, his gaze drifting after hers, his chest caught in a silly little squiggle when she pegged her attention on his lips. He didn’t exactly do squiggles, silly or otherwise, but there was something oddly warm about holding her this way. For a guy who usually considered sex a requirement of intimacy, the effect was startling.
Kind of like her eyes.
He needed to shake this shit off.
He needed to not need her.
“Please don’t look at me like that,” she said.
“Which is how?” Her words set him back.
“Like you want something. Like there’s more.”
“Why the hell not?” As soon as the question left his mouth, he wanted to take it back. She was giving him what he wanted. Again. And yet he kept on wanting her, which was the worst possible idea of all ideas ever. And he certainly hadn’t meant to argue in favor of looking at her some kind of way when he definitely wasn’t doing that.
“Because I need to walk away.” She scooted away and began ticking off reasons on her fingers. “I don’t want to be in a relationship right now. And even when that changes, I want to be with a guy who gets me. Someone who believes in sappy romance. Someone who will care enough to make an effort because he wants me to be happy, not because it’ll score points.” She gave him a softer, less defiant look. “Does that make sense?”
“You want the guy who doesn’t have to feign romance,” he said.
“Yeah, I guess I do.”
He ran a thumb across her bottom lip. “Don’t guess. Own it. Own the need to be romanced, to be made love to, to have someone thoughtful who will bring you flowers and gaze adoringly at you.”
Belatedly, he realized he probably sounded sarcastic. Or mocking. But rather than disdain, his words earned a soft, almost sad look. “The funny thing,” she said, “is that all I’ve ever wanted is to have a man look at me the way you are now.”
A bitter, abbreviated laugh escaped him. It was a knee-jerk reaction. Self-preservation. “I don’t want anything you want, Olivia. Whatever you’re reading is a lie.”
She closed her eyes, briefly, and it made him ache. He wasn’t even sure what he was denying anymore. He just knew there wasn’t enough air in that drafty apartment.
Frustrated and suddenly very much in need of that morning-after escape he’d signed up for, he threw back the covers and did his best not to touch her when he crawled over her to get out of bed. He dragged on his jeans and found a clean sweatshirt, then felt like an idiot when he realized they could have layered those a long time ago.
It would have been a million times safer than sex.
He tossed a second sweatshirt in Olivia’s direction, intentionally grabbing one that bore the Star Wars logo. He wondered if she’d wear it. Knew without looking what her expression would be when she saw what it was, and that made him want to smile.
Damn this emotional shit.
“Are you hungry?” he asked, not bothering to turn around.
“If you have food and have been holding out all this time, you might want to protect yourself.”
“I think the tenth time you opened the fridge, you figured out I didn’t have food.”
“Fine. I’ll play ball. Feed me.”
He rolled a kink out of his shoulder and grabbed the biggest bowl he had, then headed for the window. For a moment, he thought it was frozen shut. Then it snapped open, and he realized it wasn’t as cold inside as he’d thought, because holy hell, it was frigid outside. He scooped a pile of snow into the bowl, then brought it inside and shoved the window shut.
Movement from the bed caught his attention.
Olivia wore the sweatshirt and a disgruntled expression. “I hate you,” she said.
He grinned.
“What are you doing with snow?” she asked.
“Snow cream.”
“Wow. It’s been years since I’ve had that.”
“I don’t know how filling it’ll be,” he told her, “but it’s food. Sort of.” He didn’t tell her how many memories it brought back for him, or that for some reason, they dug in harder this time than most. Instead, he dumped in the milk and sugar and vanilla until he had frozen perfection. Not the best meal without heat to counteract the chill of ingesting frozen stuff, but it was something.
He carried the bowl and a couple of spoons over to the bed, realizing a beat too late that he’d inadvertently created a cozy little scene, piled in bed with blankets and dessert.
But she didn’t seem to notice.
“Where did you learn to make this?” she asked, after taking a bite and making one of those faces women did on commercials after they sampled gourmet chocolate.
“My mom,” he said.
“Does she live in the city?”
Damn. How had they ended up here, talking about his family? This went beyond morning-after small talk and into deeply personal territory. “I’m from Weaverville in Northern California, population thirty-five hundred, give or take a few. My parents are both
gone, but until a couple years ago, my sister stuck around there.”
Olivia’s eyes widened. “I’m so sorry about your parents, Grady.”
Her emotion caught him off guard, filling his throat with an unexpected knot. “It’s been a few years,” he said. “It’s not as raw as it used to be. I just…”
“Didn’t imagine they wouldn’t be there forever?”
“Pretty much,” he admitted. Actually, she’d nailed it. “I’m a typical guy. I haven’t been planning my wedding since I was a kid, waiting for the right person to fit into the scenario. Growing up, I spent precisely zero moments thinking about having kids.” He paused. “Actually, I still don’t think about that stuff. I just think about how they’ll never see any of it.”
“That’s really sad,” Olivia said, managing to sound sincere. She probably was, but he wasn’t used to that. Most people heard your parents were dead and very politely skirted the subject. Meanwhile, it felt like she’d opened some kind of door and swept away the cobwebs, and suddenly, he did feel raw.
“It was never supposed to be me who gave my sister away when she got married,” he said. “Dad was supposed to be there. They were supposed to be here to meet the grandchildren they don’t have yet.” He gave a short laugh. “They make Star Wars stuff for babies now. He could have enjoyed a lifetime of corrupting the next generation.”
“You got that from your dad?” Olivia asked.
“Yep. That’s why I never got rid of the sheets, threadbare as they are.”
Olivia blinked back something he hoped like hell wasn’t tears. “That’s surprisingly sweet and sentimental from a guy who believes in none of the above. You’re a good person, Grady. I bet your father would be proud, even if you did just throw that next generation phrasing from Star Trek into a sentence about Star Wars.”
The knot in his throat expanded to his chest. The need to throw up a wall or two was almost crushing, but he wasn’t sure he could do that. Not to her, not right then. He settled for a bitter, self-deprecating laugh. “Yeah, I bet having a son who hit up an app for sex in place of forging an actual connection with another human being would be a real source of pride for the old man.”
She didn’t share in his amusement. In fact, she managed to dole out a glare while still maintaining that soft, understanding look that would inevitably haunt him. He’d never seen that on anyone. Not ever. A bouquet of flowers, dinner at some fancy overpriced restaurant with three spoonfuls of food on the plate, and sold out tickets to a much-lauded Broadway show that could not have been more boring hadn’t earned that expression.
One Sexy Mistake (Chase Brothers) Page 6
