“What do you want?” I ask as I resume my work, practically holding my breath with the hope that she wants the same thing I do.
“I want the night with you not to end.”
17
She came looking for me . . . and her hair is stuck in her zipper. I’ve got to focus on part two of that first. I wiggle the zipper one way, then the other, then back again, until at last, her hair is free and the zipper is undone.
I don’t unzip it. Not yet. Instead, I sweep all her hair off her back. “Your zipper is fixed,” I tell her, as I press my fingertips against her bare shoulder.
“Your hands,” she murmurs. “You have good hands. You know what to do with them.”
“I do know what to do with them, and what I want to do with them,” I say, as my fingers travel to the edge of her shoulder. Even this small touch turns me on like crazy. “And I want to touch you so fucking much.”
“Oh God, please touch me.” The words spill out of her in a breathless rush.
Everywhere there are sparks. Just everywhere—lighting up my skin, spreading inside me like wildfire. I run my left hand down her arm. The little hairs on her arms stand on end as I trace her soft skin, my fingers heading for her wrist. I lay my hand on top of hers, and she opens her fingers. I slide mine between hers, and she gasps.
That sound ignites me, makes me want to never stop touching her.
I clasp her hand, and it feels erotic and romantic at the same time, and I’ve never in my life enjoyed holding hands this much. It’s as if every cell of hers reaches for me, and every nerve inside me blazes for her. I have never felt so sure that a feeling is mutual before. Never.
She wraps her fingers tightly around me, and I’m pretty much done. I brush my lips against the back of her neck, and my mind goes hazy with desire.
“Oh,” she says, a gentle moan.
She tastes so fucking good. With my free hand, I thread my fingers in her soft, silky hair and skim my nose across her neck, inhaling her, letting her scent wash over me, like the best drug. She doesn’t smell like springtime; she reminds me of honey, and oranges, and all my fantasies. I nip her neck, flicking my tongue over her flesh. The need to kiss her everywhere builds.
Her shoulders rise and fall, her breathing grows fast, and her fingers grip me harder. I layer kisses all over the back of her neck, drawing out moans, and gasps, and sighs that drive me crazy. They tell me how much she’s into this. How much more she wants.
I’ve been dying to kiss her lips, to feel her body mold to me. Now, here she is, alone in my hotel room, and she came for me, and that staggers me. It’s everything I wanted and refused to believe would happen.
“Harper.”
“Yes?” It sounds like she’s dreaming.
“What would you do if I kissed you right now?”
I ask not because I’m unsure, not because I’m worried she doesn’t want it, but because she likes to talk about kissing, I’ve learned.
She’s feathery soft as she answers me, “I would probably melt.”
Or maybe I will.
I let go of her hand and turn her face to me. My eyes hook into hers, so open, so vulnerable, so damn ready. I run my thumb along her cheek, and she shivers. Her lips part, and I want to crush her mouth to mine this second, but I want to draw out the anticipation even more. Because in her eyes I see so much want, so much desire, so much of everything I’ve craved from this girl, everything I’ve seen flashes of in the last few weeks. I want her to feel all of it. To experience every second of this moment before I kiss her.
But I can’t wait any longer.
I press my lips to hers, and the temperature in me soars. I kiss her soft and tender as I touch her face, my fingers exploring her. It’s such a rush to kiss her in private with no one watching, to have her permission behind closed doors. It’s a privilege to know this part of her, this side she so rarely shows. The side of her where she lets me in, where she lets go.
We fit so extraordinarily well, our lips eager and greedy. She’s so soft and so hungry at the same time. Soon, this pace isn’t enough, and I slide my tongue between her lips. She opens for me, and it’s electric. Her tongue meeting mine. Our breath mingling. We both moan at the same instant, because this is so fucking intense. So damn good. I kiss her harder, deeper, wetter. I suck that sexy bottom lip of hers between mine, and her hands shoot up and thread through my hair. She’s not a hot mess at all. She’s just hot and fevered, bursting with need. She’s rough, too, as she curls her fingers around the back of my head and clutches me closer, like she can’t get enough of kissing me.
I can’t get enough of her, either.
Kissing has never been like this. It’s never been this good, this intense. I’m drunk on her, intoxicated on her taste, her tongue, her mouth, her sweetness.
Harper fucking loves being kissed. And she’s right. She does melt. She melts into me, and that’s where I want her, so far gone. Her warm, pliant body is like water in my arms, moving with me, gliding against my chest, pressing against every inch of my hard body. I can only imagine what it will be like to have my lips all over her, to explore every inch of her, to drive her wild with my tongue.
She moans, and I swallow that sound. She wriggles even closer, her breasts pushing against my chest, and her hands play with the hair on the back of my neck. At one point she kisses me so hard, she pushes my glasses against my nose.
“Ow,” I say softly, breaking the kiss.
“Sorry,” she says.
I separate from her, set my glasses on the nightstand, and return my attentions to Harper, running my fingers down her arms, making her shiver.
“I hardly ever see you without your glasses,” she says softly as she studies me.
“Do I look like a different guy?”
She shakes her head, then takes my face in her hands, running her fingers over my beard. “No. You look like you, and you look so good. And I love kissing you.” Her voice is stripped bare and full of a beautiful lust that heats my skin all over, that burns in my bones.
Her lips fuse to mine and that frenzied pace returns. This kiss ignites, picking up speed, racing to a whole other level. She makes the sexiest sounds as she moans and murmurs, completely consumed with the way we kiss. Her noises make me want her even more, and I didn’t think it was possible to crave a person this much.
But I do. I just fucking do.
Her fingers brush across my stubble as we devour each other. I bring my hands to her hips, shifting her so she’s on me, straddling me. I’m so lit up with her. I can feel her everywhere, and I want to do everything with her.
I’m pretty sure she wants the same because she pushes against my hard-on, grinding into me through all these goddamn clothes we’re both wearing. Too many stupid layers. I don’t know where we’re going tonight, how far or how fast, but I can’t even think. I want to be in the moment with her. Every moment, including this one, where my hands find their way to the hem of her dress, and I slide them under the fabric.
I break the kiss. “Stockings,” I say, like a man hypnotized.
“You like stockings.”
“I do, and you’re killing me.” My fingers travel up the back of her legs, and she rocks against me.
I grow even harder as she thrusts. Then harder still as I reach the top of the stockings. They’re thigh-highs, and I want to look at them, gawk at them, stare at them. But I’m not moving her off me. No chance of that. Not when she breathes this rapidly, each one coming faster than the next. Not as she grinds against my dick. And not as I move my hands to her delicious ass, sliding them over the sheer lacy fabric.
She cries out, and her face falls into my neck. She buries it there, moaning as I squeeze those luscious cheeks.
“Oh God,” she whispers, her voice strained as she rocks into me, her breathing wildly erratic.
“So you like this,” I ask rhetorically as I grip her ass. I can tell she likes it. I can tell she loves it.
“So much.” Her voice breaks
, her pitch rises, and this moment crystallizes to its pure, wicked possibilities.
I grab her skirt in the front, gather the material in a flash, and yank it up to her waist. She still straddles me, still riding, still thrusting against me. My hands return to her ass again as if I’m steering her, moving her sweet hot body against the outline of my rock-hard cock. It’s just Harper in her wet panties, rubbing on me.
“Ride me, princess,” I whisper harshly in her ear. “Ride me like that ’til you come.”
I’m rewarded with another oh God, as she moves faster, rocks harder, picks up the pace. She grabs my face, grips my jaw, and holds me as she dry-humps me. Every single thing about her turns me on—her need, her want, her wild lust, her sounds, and this ass. It’s spectacular—firm and so damn soft at the same time. I grip the flesh hard, how she likes it, and she lets out a sexy squeak.
“I fucking adore your ass,” I say roughly.
She moans something unintelligible.
I dig my fingers inside the lace on her rear, guiding her moves, making her ride my erection faster and wilder. “You’re so close, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” she cries out. “Oh God, Nick. Oh my God.”
Those are the last words I can make out. The rest is just noise—pure, carnal sound as she rides me to the edge, and then trembles, shaking as she comes on me. So hard. She comes so fucking hard on me, clothes on, the friction itself all she needed to get there. I lace my fingers in her hair, pride surging through my entire being as I take in the flush in her cheeks, the shuddering in her shoulders. I want to remember every detail of what it feels like to make her shatter this first time.
Truth be told, I kind of want to draw a picture of her, too. Because she looks amazingly beautiful like this.
“I want to make you come again. I want to hear you go wild, and make you fall apart,” I tell her as she breathes hard, panting in my arms.
She runs her fingers over my face and brushes her lips on mine. “I want it all.”
After she comes down from her high, she blinks. Her blue eyes register surprise, as if it’s just dawned on her what she did—dry-humped me. Which is completely awesome in my book, but in hers, I have no idea. I tense, waiting for Harper to slip into that armor she wears so well.
Instead, she loops her arms around my neck. Okay, that’s much better. Then she says, “There’s something I want to tell you.”
18
I’ve never been a huge fan of those words, so it’s time for me to don my own trusty shield. I unsheathe the sword of humor and brandish it. “You want to strip me naked and have your wicked way with me?”
She smiles and nods. “I do.”
Well, I’ll just keep up this tactic. Since that particular weapon, if you know what I mean, is all the way up. “Great. Start here,” I say, pointing to my belt.
She laughs and then grips my shoulders, lowering her voice as if she’s about to admit a secret. “But seriously. I have a confession. As soon as I learned her name, I read J. Cameron’s newest book.”
Sighing, I run a hand through my hair, unsure why we’re back on this topic. “You did?”
Her eyes dance with naughty delight. “It’s so delicious. It’s so hot. And it made me curious,” she continues, and maybe I don’t mind her bringing up the ex at all right now. Not if those books get her turned on rather than ticked off. Hell, maybe I should gift her some.
“What did it make you curious about?”
Harper sits up straighter on me, as if she’s about to make a Big Pronouncement. “I know this may shock you, given how utterly cool you’ve seen I can be, what with getting my hair caught in a zipper and speaking in tongues,” she says, then stage whispers, “but I’ve never been tied to a fridge. Or done it on a desk.”
“And do you want that?”
“That’s the thing,” she says, an excited undercurrent to her words. “I only know what I like to look at. What I like to read about. I have an idea of what I might like. But . . .” She lets her voice trail off.
“But what?” I ask, because I’m dying to know what comes after that.
She takes a breath, purses her lips together, then speaks. “I was a virgin until I was twenty. I’ve only had sex with two guys, and none of it was very memorable. None of it was on a counter, or the dryer, or even in a hotel bed,” she says, patting the mattress.
Maybe it’s the dark of the night, maybe it’s her, maybe it’s just that the only thing better than having hot sex with the woman you want is talking about hot sex with the woman you want. Or, just possibly, it’s that she’s opening up to me for real now. Perhaps that’s why I open up to her.
“I was twenty the first time I had sex,” I say, serving up a detail I don’t share with many people, because it’s personal.
Instantly, her eyes widen. “Are you serious?”
“No, I’m lying,” I say sarcastically.
She pushes my shoulders, nearly toppling me on the bed. “Stop it. I want to know the truth.”
“I was a sophomore in college when I finally ditched the V-card.”
“You were a late bloomer,” she says softly, something like wonder in her voice.
“Girls were a complete mystery to me before then. I didn’t know how to act around them, or what to say. Sort of how you feel sometimes, too.” I realize that maybe Harper and I aren’t that different. I just got over my awkwardness around the opposite sex well before she did.
She gives me a sweet smile. “I guess we do have that in common. Among many other things,” she says, and my chest heats up as she inches closer. “Was she a sophomore, too?”
I shake my head and laugh. “No. She was a grad student. She was the teaching assistant in my animation class.”
Her eyes turn into moons. “Did she teach you everything you know?”
I reflect on her question, and the answer is a big no. But she started my education in women. She was instrumental in showing me the ropes, and telling me every little thing that drove her crazy. I was a good student. I followed her directions, and it was the best damn class I ever took. Any guy who thinks he automatically knows how to please a woman is a conceited ass. Every woman is one of a kind. Every woman has her own titillations and turn-ons. From my teaching assistant, I learned the foundation—how to listen to a woman’s cues, how to give her what she needs, how to make her want more and more.
I don’t say that to Harper. I liked the conversation better when it was about us. “How would you feel if we stopped talking about other women?” I ask, echoing her sentiment from the train on the ride here. “I’d rather talk about what we just did, and what other things I can do to you.”
She swallows and takes a breath. “When I said touching your arms in Central Park was the most action I’d gotten in ages, I meant it. I haven’t done that much. But I want to, Nick. I really want to,” she says, her voice impossibly soft. “I just feel like I don’t know what I’m doing.”
I tuck my finger under her chin and lift her eyes to mine. “You were amazing, Harper. You rode me like a champion equestrian. I loved every second of it. Wait. I loved every millisecond of it.” I shake my head. “Make that every nanosecond.”
She grins, then erases the smile from her face just as quickly. “Riding you was easy. But beyond that, I want to know what feels good to you, and what you want. And I want to know what I like. I can tell you what I think I like. My God, I love looking at dirty pictures, and sexy pictures, and naughty gifs, so I think I have a good idea.”
“So you’re not curled up at night with your deck of cards after all,” I say, fixing on a look of overdone surprise as I touch her fingers. “You’re saying you’ve done a lot of one-handed computer work?”
That naughty grin returns in force, shining at full wattage. “My web history is an homage to the hottest Tumblr feeds around,” she confesses.
“I’m going to need to see that. As part of this whole dating lessons thing. I need to know exactly what you’ve been looking at. And to l
ook at it with you.”
“That’s what I’m getting at.” She stops to take a breath, then holds her chin high. “That’s why I kept asking you what you liked, and now I want to ask you something else, since you seemed to like what we just did.”
And it clicks. It goes off like a starting gun. “Teach you. You want me to teach you,” I say, my voice raspy, full of want.
Her eyes twinkle with naughtiness. “I do.”
Her words echo back to another I do, one I heard earlier in the day. We’re at her brother’s wedding, and I’m messing around with my best friend’s sister. For the briefest of moments, a streak of guilt flashes like a warning sign on the highway. Danger ahead. But hell, it’s too fucking hard to think of anyone except her when she’s with me. Truth be told, it’s not easy the rest of the time either. It’s like my desire for Harper hogs the remote control and flicks all the channels back to her.
Besides, Spencer takes off for Hawaii tomorrow, and what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Especially since Harper and I won’t hurt each other. We know the score, and everyone in our game wins.
I shake off any doubts.
I drag my hand down her chest, palming one perfect tit. “You want to kick our lessons up a notch and learn what feels good to you.”
“Yes,” she says, mirroring me as her fingers play along the front of my shirt. Damn, that feels fantastic. “And what feels good to you.”
“Let me think about it.” I sigh heavily and stare at the ceiling then back at her. “I thought about it long and hard—”
“Long and hard. It felt that way to me when I was riding you like a rodeo star.”
I give her an appreciative nod. “Oh, it is long and hard. Especially around you and that dirty little mouth of yours,” I say, running my finger across her lips.
She nips my finger. “I have a dirty mind, too. I just want to put it to use now. In every way.”
“You came to the right man,” I tell her. “And you came with the right man. And you will again, and again, and again.”
Mister O Page 12
