by Lindsey Hart
Somehow, I believe he’s sincere about not hurting me. People can be sincerely wrong, but maybe that would be both our faults or no one’s fault. Things happen, and I shouldn’t be contemplating endings before beginnings even start. I know that, but I also know I’m a planner, and I don’t want to cultivate disaster by just blazing through life, oblivious to other people.
This time, I have to be extra careful because of Shade, Luke, and my own fragile, searching, hopeful heart.
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Can we go upstairs?” The words fly out of my mouth, falling all around us like scorching water in the shower because the tap was turned the wrong way. It’s shocking, burning.
“Yes,” Luke says slowly after a moment of contemplation. “Yes, it has a lock. And yes, we can go upstairs.”
“I’ll be totally silent.” I watch his lips twitch again, but to his credit, he doesn’t laugh at me. “No one will know, I promise. I…I can’t sleep in your bed after. I’ll go back to mine…”
“Yes. I know.”
“Well, maybe just a few hours. But not past three in the morning. Do you have a phone with an alarm that just vibrates? Is there someplace I can hide in case Shade gets up in the middle of the night and knocks on the door?” I feel like we’re planning for the perfect crime over here.
“Yes. And yes.”
“Where?”
“The closet,” Luke quips with a hint of a smile.
“How cliché.”
I should stop this. I know that. But I can’t because I don’t want to. I feel like I should give Luke one last warning, though, so I say, “You’re not the only one who feels exhausted, trying to be strong all the time. I might not have a well of hurt, but I do have painful little stings and cuts. Will you take me like that?”
“Obviously,” Luke snorts. “Look at the state I’m in.”
For a second, I think this is going to go the way of the kitchen and not happen. We’ll go our separate ways, apologize again in the morning, and make sure we aren’t tempted in the future. We’ll blame it on the whisky neither of us drank, on holidays spent, or the freaking full moon or something, because it makes people act crazy.
I’m so sure and unsure at the same time.
Luke’s hand sweeps over my cheek. He has such power in those big hands, but they’re gentle, and his touch banishes the uncertainties. He leans in and kisses me so tenderly that the parts of me still undecided shape up real fast.
All of a sudden, he stands up, and I’m swept into his arms like he’s a freaking white knight from corny songs and cheesy movies. I wrap my arms around his neck and hold on tight, clinging to him. Ducking my face into his shoulder, I drink in the delicious scent of his t-shirt, skin, cologne, deodorant, and a day of unshowered scents that slowly built up. It’s utterly intoxicating.
I keep my face there like it’s my own secret, private spot—my old go-to and treasured favorite—like I’ve been drinking in his scent for a lifetime. He carries me up the stairs, down the hall, and to his room without making a sound.
I say nothing, just inhaling deep breaths as my face remains buried in his shirt.
CHAPTER 18
Luke
We silently make it upstairs to my room, and I manage to shut the door. I silently lock it and find the bed in the pitch-black darkness. Feeney hangs onto me like I’m a lifeline, even when I go to set her on the bed. She doesn’t unclasp her hands, but instead, she drags me down on top of her. It’s not graceful, and I hear her soft exhale of surprise in the inky black as I quickly get an elbow into the bed to wriggle away, so I’m not crushing her anymore.
I feel clumsy, useless, and out of practice. My dick is as hard as a goddamn tree in my jeans. It’s been a while.
Feeney doesn’t seem to care. She doesn’t seem to care that I’m awkward, and if she knows I’m suddenly nervous, she doesn’t say anything. She just wriggles below me until her soft breasts are pressing into my chest, and then she wraps her hands around my neck again to tug my face to hers. Her hips arch up as instinct takes over for both of us. At least I remember how to kiss because it’s instinct. Or maybe she makes it easy to kiss her because I’m doing it furiously, so hot and hard that I’m sweating. And also, hot and hard everywhere else too.
Feeney’s hips rock up into my jeans, and her pelvis presses against mine. My knee slips between her legs, which part around me with one curling at my hip. My dick throbs into her stomach, although she can probably feel it, even through layers and layers of clothes.
She rocks against me again, and the clothes make it hotter, not less hot. When we’re like this, pressed together with her body beneath mine, all wild heat and burning passion, I’m very much aware of how much smaller she is than me and the difference in our bodies. She’s not little or delicate, but next to me, she comes off as both of those things.
Her nails dig into my neck and shoulder like she knows what I’m thinking, and she’s reminding me, subtly, that she can’t be broken like this. She squirms eagerly beneath me, also reminding me that she wants me as badly as I want her.
It’s pitch fucking black in here. I need to do something about that. I mean, not because I don’t remember how this is supposed to go or what I’m supposed to put into what, but I just can’t see a damn thing, and I don’t want to ruin this before it even starts by accidentally sticking a finger in Feeney’s eye or something.
I manage to swing my arm around and reach for my phone in my back pocket. I flick the flashlight on and turn it away from us. Feeney blinks into the bright light, but when I set it on the nightstand, facing the other way but still illuminating most of the bed in softer, white light, she doesn’t tell me to turn it off. She stares up at me, her eyes heavy with wonder and concentration battling with wild desire. Her hair is a tangled mess around her face and splayed out on the pillow while the light makes her skin look like porcelain. Her lips are swollen, and I can see the slight red tinge on her chin, right where her skin was rubbed by the stubble on my jawline. I think she might be the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in a very long time.
She silently reaches between us and tugs at my shirt. I remember what she said about not making a sound, so I get the message. In response, I rear up and strip it off. Her eyes widen, and a little gasp does escape her as her eyes roam over my chest. The idiotic teenager still lurking in the depths of me somewhere wants to inhale a deep breath or maybe even make my pec flex.
Jesus. Yeah, because stuff like that would impress anyone.
Because there’s space for her to sit up, Feeney yanks her shirt off too. She has a white sports bra on underneath, which is not as sexy since it’s built for utility and comfort, but good lord, it might as well be silk and lace. My mouth goes dry, and my hands sweep up her narrow waist, over her flat, muscled stomach, up to her bra. They splay over her shoulders and back, searching for a clasp, but nothing. Not in the front or back.
Feeney makes a sound near my ear—a tiny exhale that makes my dick feel like it’s going to explode. I keep going, trying to get my fingers under the bottom of the bra, but it’s tight as fuck. It feels like it’s glued to her. Can that honestly be comfortable? I keep working at it, trying to push it up. It rolls, the tight material wrapping over and under and in on itself. I think I’m making things worse.
This time, the noise in my ear isn’t as sexy.
“Sorry,” I whisper. “Am I hurting you?”
“No. Here. Let me.”
I lean back and watch as she tucks her hands beneath the bra, tugging it violently until it pops up. She raises her hands over her head, still tugging and jerking, contorting herself into strange positions. I think I even heard her shoulder pop and crack. Her hand grazes my face as she tugs, nearly connecting with my jaw as I jerk back just in time. Finally, the thing comes free. Feeney’s cheeks are red, and she throws the bra across the room. I would, too, if something held me captive like that.
“Hmph,” she sighs. “There.”
&nb
sp; There. Yes. There.
Right. There.
I can’t stop looking away from her chest. I know I should look into her face, but I don’t think anyone could look into her face when they’re faced with such beautiful perfection—two twin globes, more than a handful, both perfect and pale with dark nipples that are also pure perfection. They’re wonderfully hard and taut like it’s freezing cold in the room.
Those breasts beg for my hands and mouth, but I can’t seem to move. I’m so focused that I’m frozen, but then Feeney’s fingers curl into my hair as she drags my face to hers. I kiss her furiously, then finally rip away and do what I was too frozen to do before. I lay her back and suckle her throat, memorizing the delicious taste of her skin with my tongue and lips as I cup her breast and roll my thumb over the pert bud. She whimpers, just a hiss of air escaping, and I kiss my way there, down to my hand. I think my brain checks out, and something else takes over. It might have been a long time, and I might have a tendency to overthink things, but my body remembers what it’s supposed to. I roll my tongue around a rosy bud, tasting the sweetness and suckling her gently. Her chest arches up, thrusting her breast into my tongue, and my dick just about explodes.
Feeney isn’t just content to let me have all the fun. Her hands trace over my arms while I worship her, her soft fingertips burning a path as she explores. Just that innocent touch up my arms and over my shoulders makes me see all sorts of bright lights that aren’t coming from the phone on the nightstand.
She trails her fingertips over muscle and veins, then over my shoulders and down. When her index finger brushes over my nipple, I freeze. My dick feels like we’re already nearing the end zone, and I can’t let this be game over before I even get out of my jeans. I know it’s been a long time since my dick saw any action other than my palm, but…but…chicken nuggets.
I force myself away from Feeney’s breast, noticing, of course, how her nipple hardens in the cooler temperature of the room after my mouth leaves it. The hard bud is wet and glistening with my saliva. At that sight, my balls contract and expand. Yes, they really do, and not in a good way. Rather, it’s in the I’m giving you two seconds warning before I blow, and there’s nothing you can do about it kind of way.
“Can I take your pants off?” I whisper-gasp.
Feeney nods.
“And your panties?”
She nods again.
“Can I taste you?”
“Holy bananas,” she whispers thickly. “Yes, if you want to.”
If I want to. If I want to.
I don’t think there’s the slimmest of slim chances I could ever not want to taste her. No. No, there’s none. No chance at all. I realize I’m frozen, and Feeney practically wriggles out from under me and peels her pants off her legs. My hands finally join hers, stripping away her panties.
I have to grind my teeth hard and take a breath, which isn’t easy at the same time, to get myself under control. I don’t think it would be complimentary to lose my shit now. Or maybe…no. No, it would definitely put a damper on things.
But seriously, Feeney is perfect. Beyond perfection. She’s obviously gone the expensive and likely painful route of getting some sort of waxing. I think. No, I know, because when I reach out, daringly, and run my fingers over her, there isn’t any way smoothness like that ever came from a razor. I don’t know where the heat is coming from, but it’s most likely from everywhere—my fingers, her body, my body. My dick’s about to explode, and it’s giving off some weird radioactive vibes. She’s already slick, and when I brush my fingers over her, she exhales loudly and drops back against the pillows.
I fully realize this could be a disaster for me as I’m barely holding it together. Feeney is like a goddess, all glorious perfection, and just the sight of her would be enough to slay any mortal.
“Is…is something wrong?” Feeney whispers.
I realize I’m just sitting here, frozen, staring at her. God, this has to set a new record for creepiness. No wonder she’s unnerved.
“No! I…I’m just…having a bit of a problem.” I lower my eyes down south to the massive bulge in my jeans.
Feeney’s eyes get even bigger as she follows my gaze. “Uh, are you okay? What’s wrong? If you don’t want to…do you…is it a medical problem? Do I have to call an ambulance?”
I don’t want to think about what kind of problem I could have with my dick that would require an ambulance. I don’t even want to think about that. Thinking it is like inviting it, and I don’t want to invite something surgical to happen to my dick. I’m rather attached to it, in more than one way. Hah.
“No. Definitely not. I…uh, the problem is, I’ve never known it to be a problem before. And uh, if it happens, I’ll just need a few minutes. It’s a compliment, really. I…it would be more embarrassing than—”
“Oh.” Feeney giggles. “Oh. I see. That kind of problem.” She shrugs even though she’s still lying down. “That’s not a problem. It actually makes me feel better. I’m very…well…wet…”
My cock kicks dangerously.
“I’m just, yeah. Already close. I don’t think it should stop us, though, from…I mean, it’s okay if it happens fast, isn’t it?”
“I might set a record for fast.”
“That’s okay. This is…it’s fine.” She swallows hard. “But it is kind of nerve-wracking sitting here, totally naked, and just being stared at. But if you want to do that for a little while longer, I’m okay too.”
“I’m sorry. Yeah, you’re right. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. I was just…you’re insanely beautiful. You know that, right?”
She just stares back at me. “I don’t know about insanely. I guess I’m pretty enough, but um…maybe you should get naked too, so I can look at you. That way, we’re even.” A ghost of a smile appears, and I’m so relieved she has a unique sense of humor because I’m badly butchering this.
I get off the bed and slip out of my jeans. I debate leaving my briefs on, just for something tight to hold everything in place, but I figure it probably won’t really help. And I want to be in control. I am in control. Of my dick. The fucker is going to get in line and listen to me. It’s not going to do whatever the heck it wants. My balls beg to differ, but I send them a silent threat for compliance as well.
“Wow,” Feeney says softly. “You’re kind of insanely beautiful too.”
Shit. I think I might actually be blushing. My skin heats up, and my cock, which is so hard I’m practically looking it straight in the…err…eye when I look down, bobs in agreement.
Okay. Time to get my shit together.
I bend over her and take my time as I run my hands up her smooth, sleek legs. I eventually end up at her waist, and with a little tug, I drag her gently toward the edge of the bed. She makes a sound low in her throat but helps me by positioning her heels at the edge. I’ve had enough hesitating. I want, more than anything and like my life depends on it, to taste her.
My knees hit the floor harder than I intended, and I wince, not from pain, but because they make a bang that seems to reverberate through the house. We both tense, then Feeney giggles and slaps a hand over her mouth. Reaching over, she grabs the pillow beside her and shoves it over her face. I’m glad she can laugh about this. At least that makes one of us. I guess it is kind of funny, and I suppose I am smiling too.
I plan on making up for all of this—all the awkwardness and tension. I want this like crazy, I really do, but it’s harder than I thought to just get back into it. And no, it’s not because my body doesn’t remember how. I imagine it’s a little bit like riding a bike. Just not naked. Ouch.
I wrap my hands around Feeney’s legs and tuck my hands under her hips, lifting her to me as I lower my face to her. The first taste of her is beyond heaven, sliding down my throat like the sweetest ambrosia, making my nerves fade. The tension drains out of me, and I’m not thinking about anything before this or tomorrow. I’m just here with her. I’m not even worried about the pain in my dick,
the vibrations going through my thighs, or the trembling going on in my balls. Yes, balls can tremble. It’s physically possible.
I take my time savoring and exploring every part of her box, drawing out the pleasure.
Feeney moans and tucks the pillow back over her face.
CHAPTER 19
Feeney
I guess I shouldn’t have worried about the way Luke was looking at me. I didn’t think it was weird or creepy, as I can’t imagine this is easy for him. I thought the problem was in his head. I didn’t imagine it was located…uh…much lower than that. I could tell he was embarrassed, but he seems to have gotten over it. Or maybe he’s forging through. Either way…Oh. My. Chicken. Nuggets.
I know I should probably keep the pillow over my face to drown out the whimpers and moans I can’t seem to swallow back, but I have to breathe. I tell myself that’s the reason I toss it aside, not because I’d rather be doing something else with my hands—something like tangling them in Luke’s thick, soft hair and tugging his face a little harder into me, guiding him and his tongue, both of which need no guiding at all, to just the right spot.
I think he’s hitting all my spots. I don’t think there is a right one because they all feel so deliciously wonderful.
His tongue is very, very talented. He takes his time, driving me wild before his fingers get involved. I think I’d be pretty embarrassed if someone else were doing this—exploring me like this, opening me to them, and tasting all my secret places—but not with Luke. With Luke, I’m not embarrassed. Currently, I’m not doing anything but melting into the bed in a writhing, whimpering, glorious heap of ecstasy.
I feel better about Luke telling me about his problem because I’d feel that, with my body beginning to quake and tremble, my feet and legs getting numb, and other spots throbbing with liquid fire, it’s too fast, too soon, and embarrassingly quick. As in, he might have only been doing what he’s been doing for two minutes, tops. When my climax hits, it’s completely unexpected, but it’s also white-hot and brutally wonderful.
