by Lexi Ryan
“What are you—”
But then I get it because his face is buried between my legs and his hands are under my hips. He licks me—right up my center—and my whole body shudders.
My hips buck toward his face. I try to stop myself, embarrassed at my own lack of control, but he holds me tight, his fingers digging into my hips.
“Don’t you dare hold back.” His words are muffled, but I hear him. I feel him.
He nuzzles my clit with his nose while sliding his tongue inside me, and I’m lost. My hips jerk and rock, and all that heat and tongue and pressure down there feels so good that everything else slips away.
I lean back on my hands because it brings me closer to him, closer to the strokes of his tongue and the pleasure of his kiss. By the time he slips a finger inside me, I’m already halfway gone, and his lips wrap around my clit and send me over the edge.
When Nate stands, he’s breathing heavily and his eyes are all over me. I scramble to right myself, but he steps between my legs before I can hop off the counter. He cups my face in his hands and kisses me—long and slow and steady. My disintegrated nerve endings fire to life again, one by one.
If I had any idea that letting a guy kiss me between my legs would feel like that, I might have gotten over my insecurities and let Max do it when he asked. “You’re always making me feel so good, Hanna. Let me return the favor. I’m dying to kiss you there.”
I kiss Nate harder and thread my fingers into his hair as if I need to hold on to him—to the here and the now—to keep the memories at bay.
Between kisses, I find the hem of his shirt and pull it over his head. The sight of him takes my breath away. He’s not as built as Max, but he’s still gorgeous—a date tattooed above his right pec, the glinting blade of a sword tattooed up his left side, the Hulk tattoo he mentioned in the bar on his shoulder. I promise myself I’ll explore them all later.
My hands drop to the waistband of his jeans. I unbutton them and shove them down his thighs. I slide my hand inside his boxer briefs and wrap my fingers around him. He draws in his breath in a hiss that shoots something electric through my veins and emboldens me. I’m insecure about my body, but I know I’m good at this.
He sweeps his thumb over my shoulder. “You’re cold.”
“I’m fine,” I promise, but he sheds his briefs and leads me into the shower.
The water rains down on us as he draws me against him, my back against his front. He lathers soap between his hands and slowly washes my body. His fingers knead small circles down my belly, slip between my legs, and trail back up. When his hands cup my breasts, I close my eyes and let him toy with my nipples.
“I could do this all day,” he murmurs against my ear. “I love the way you respond when I touch you.”
As I turn in his arms, his cock juts out between us, long and thick. I drop to my knees under the spray.
“Hanna.” He reaches for me.
Before he can say anything else, I draw my tongue up the underside of him, from root to tip. I focus on the salty taste, the way he mutters “Jesus” and slides his hands into my hair, the memory of him touching me outside the bar, moving his fingers inside me, and making me come with people milling around the corner not ten feet away, the still-tender skin of my inner thighs marked by his stubble. It all compounds and gets my mind back where it belongs—on this man, this night, and the way he makes me feel.
I wrap my hands around him and squeeze, stroke, squeeze, stroke. Then I part my lips and taste the head of his cock, licking it, and then opening to take more of him in.
He leans back against the tile and tugs lightly at my hair. “Fuck, angel, I could come just looking at your lips stretched over my dick like that.”
His words tie a knot of pleasure between my legs, and I suck him deeper. He’s a big guy, and I use my hand to stroke the part of him I can’t take. With my other hand, I gently cup his balls, and a long, pained groan rips from his chest.
All my life, I’ve had this need to please others, to do for them instead of myself. It’s a characteristic I’ve cursed many times, but it made me damn good at this. Right now, being good at bringing Nate pleasure is the only thing that matters. I love the feel of his hands tightening in my hair when I pull him deep, love the taste of him on my tongue, the way his hips buck forward and pull back when I suck. He’s struggling to hold on to his control, and that knowledge only makes me hungrier for him, for this, for what will come after.
“Hanna.” His voice is rough, a painful scrape of control against pleasure. “Get up here, baby. I’m—”
I relax my throat and drop my hand, taking nearly all of him, farther than I thought I could. But I’m so turned on the discomfort barely registers. I add pressure to his balls, massaging them until he loses hold of that control and lets his hips rock toward my face. The movement pushes him deeper, and I swallow, knowing that the pressure will squeeze him. His hips jerk again, and I’m so turned on by what I’m doing that I moan, and the vibration of my lips and mouth pushes him over the edge. I swallow as he comes in my throat, his hand fisting almost painfully in my hair.
I withdraw slowly, and he draws me up until I’m standing, my needy and trembling body leaning into him.
He loosens his grip on my hair as he kisses me, long and thorough and a little rough. He bites my lip before pulling back. “I didn’t think you could taste any better than you did.” He presses another kiss to my mouth and growls. “But tasting myself on you… Jesus, Hanna, there’s nothing as sexy as that.”
“Hmm, I like the way you taste.”
It’s my turn to take the soap. To let my fingers explore his body while I clean every inch of him. He watches me through thick, dark lashes as I lather his shoulders, his pecs, the flat of his stomach.
I’m struck by the intimacy of this act—of how vulnerable we are when bathing. It’s more intimate than what he did to me on the vanity. And here I am, sharing it with a man I just met. Showing him and giving him more than I ever gave Max. Because there’s a security in knowing that this is just one night. If Nate doesn’t like my body, or if he’s disappointed that I can’t do some yoga-inspired position in bed, I don’t lose anything.
How many times did Max invite me to shower with him? I always declined because I passed on anything that involved getting nude with Max. I didn’t want him to see my painfully imperfect body. I was afraid he’d realize I wasn’t as beautiful as he thought.
I’ve circled around Nate and begun washing his back when he turns to me, takes away the soap, and rinses us both.
“I need more, angel,” he murmurs.
I’m not sure what he means, but when he takes my hand and leads me out of the shower, I follow him. He dries me with a soft towel and pulls me into the bedroom.
My steps stutter just inside the door.
He turns to me, and my stomach clenches. He’s hard again. Already. This knowledge has me equal parts elated and terrified. Am I really going to go through with this?
He’s studying me, worry etching his features. God, he’s gorgeous. I’d be foolish not to do this. Wouldn’t I?
I DON’T know what happened between the bathroom and the bedroom, but Hanna looks terrified. Am I rushing this? Rushing her?
“What’s going on in that head of yours?”
“Nothing. I mean…nothing bad. I mean…we can do this. It’s okay.”
Oh, hell. She’s spooked. Her dark hair frames her face in long, wet waves that fall past her shoulders and nearly cover her breasts. She’s so fucking gorgeous. Wet, nude. Like Aphrodite risen from the sea foam.
I cup her face with one hand and trace her lips with my thumb. She closes her eyes at the touch, and I can see some of the tension leak out of her. “Do you want me to take you back to your room?”
“You… I mean, I thought we were going to…” She motions toward the bed.
I could lead her there, touch her until whatever’s got her tied in knots loosens. “Are you thinking about him? The ex?”
“No!” Her eyes widen and lock with mine. “I promise that’s not what’s wrong.”
I nod. “So there is something wrong.”
She frowns and worries her lip between her teeth for a solid thirty seconds before she speaks. “It’s just…I’ve never done this before.”
My shoulders sag in relief. The whole one-night stand thing is freaking her out. “I didn’t think you had.”
Her jaw drops. “You…knew?”
“That you aren’t the kind of girl to have a one-night stand?”
“Oh. No. Not that.”
“You have had one-night stands before?” I don’t like the idea of that, though it’s a little hypocritical of me to feel that way.
“No. I haven’t. I’ve—” She rolls her eyes and takes a deep breath. “I guess I should just spit it out.”
“Please?”
“I’ve never done this before.” She waves to the bed again.
She looks such the perfect combination of sweet and sexy standing there, nude with her thick, dark hair falling around her shoulders, her hands twisting in front of her. But I’m so hungry to have my hands on her again that my brain is struggling to make sense of her words.
“Done what exactly?”
“Sex.”
“Sex?”
“I’m a virgin.”
NATE DRAGS a hand through his hair and lets out a long breath. “A virgin? Like…born again something?”
“Not born again. Just a virgin.” This is a really mortifying conversation to have under any circumstances, but it’s even more mortifying to have it while standing here buck naked. “Do you have a T-shirt I could throw on or something?”
He drops his hands to his sides and his eyes to his own naked body as if just remembering we don’t have clothes on. “Um. Sure.” He grabs something from his drawer and crosses to me. He’s barely a breath away when he looks down at me and shakes his head. “I really hate to cover up all that gorgeous skin.”
“Sorry.” I snatch the shirt from his hand and yank it on over my head. It’s soft blue cotton with a Superman insignia on the chest that stretches across my breasts. Though too snug at the chest, it falls to the tops of my thighs and makes me feel less exposed.
Nate stares at me for minute, running his gaze over me in his T-shirt, my bare legs down to my painted toenails. Finally, he grabs a pair of athletic shorts from his drawer and pulls them on, leaving his chest bare. Despite the awkwardness that hangs around us like a thick fog, and despite the fact that I’m pretty sure my confession put the brakes on tonight’s sexy times, I want to lick him. Right between his toned pecs and over his hard abs. I want to lick those numbers above his left pec and the sword blade up his side.
A moan slips from my lips as I imagine what I’m likely going to be missing out on tonight. Hours in bed with Nate. Exploring his body while he explores mine. His face between my legs, his hands on my breasts…
“Can I just take back what I said just now?” I ask.
“About being a virgin?”
“Yeah. I’d like to rescind that statement.”
He looks so hopeful, his dark eyes softening as they connect with mine. “Because it’s not true?”
“Unfortunately, it’s true. I want to take it back because it changed things between us.”
He tucks my hair behind my ears. “I’m sorry, Hanna. I just…” He shakes his head. “Food. We need food.”
“What?”
“Cooking relaxes me, so I only stay in suites equipped with full kitchens if I can help it.” His bashful grin melts something inside of me. “Will you let me cook for you?”
Not where I expect this night to go, but… “Sure.”
I follow him to the kitchen, a small but lush space with a single-burner gas stove, granite countertops, and a stainless-steel fridge. I wonder what “cooking” means to a celebrity like Nate Crane. More than throwing a pizza in the oven, sure, but can he really cook? To me, cooking is about sauces and tender cuts of meat paired with fresh, crisp vegetables. I love cooking in a way my mother could never understand. And even better than cooking—baking. The chemistry of flour and sugar and the perfect hints of flavors melting on the tongue. I was always trying to spend more time in the kitchen, and she was always trying to chase me out of it.
Nate washes his hands in the sink then pulls a sauté pan from the cupboard and sets it on the cold stove. He starts removing items from the refrigerator and placing them on the butcher block—fresh asparagus, bell peppers, thin-sliced chicken breast, strawberries, and heavy whipping cream.
As he starts washing, dicing, and chopping, the surprise must show on my face, because he winks at me. “Did you expect Pop-Tarts?”
I grin. “Maybe. Can I help?”
“You’re the company. Sit and let me take care of you. Here…” He grabs a bottle of wine from the fridge and pours me a glass. Pinot gris. “Drink.”
I pull a stool up next to his butcher block and settle in to watch him work. He has great hands. Nate chopping vegetables, flouring chicken, and drizzling oil in the pan to heat is far sexier than I would have imagined. Then again, it’s a beautiful man cooking. What’s not to love?
“Where’d you learn to cook?” I ask.
His lips quirk in a lopsided grin. “Here and there. Mom was always off on some movie set, and my dad, well…” He shakes his head. “I was close to our housekeeper. She let me help her in the kitchen, taught me to cook.”
“Your mom’s an actress?”
He nods. “Film and TV. Family curse, and I count my blessings to have escaped it.”
“Where was your dad?”
He shrugs. “Busy.” He exhales, and his shoulders drop as if he released his frustrations with the breath. “So I learned to cook young, and I liked it. I started watching cooking shows and shit. Just getting ideas.”
He places the flour-dredged chicken into the sizzling oil and gets to work washing strawberries and removing their stems.
“I love cooking,” I confess. “Well, baking, really. I always dreamed of opening my own bakery. I love making my friends cakes for special occasions, and I can just picture a little bakery on the main strip at home.”
He lifts his head and grins at me. “Why can I imagine you as a child, baking cookies with your mom?”
“Hardly.” I sigh and roll back my shoulders. “No, Mom doesn’t bake. In fact, she pretty much hates any food that tastes good. And it always seemed like the more my mom tried to teach me that food was the enemy, the more I loved it.”
“Food is life.” He grabs a freshly rinsed strawberry from the bowl and offers it to me.
I open my mouth, and he places it between my lips for a bite. Sweetness explodes on my tongue, and I close my eyes.
“Food and sex,” he murmurs. “I never understood why people have to demonize something meant to be enjoyed.”
I WANT her. Fuck, do I want her. I watch pleasure flash across her face as she chews, and my mind instantly conjures an image of her enjoying a different kind of pleasure. It was too dark outside the club, and I wanted to see more. I want to know how she looks when she comes. I could hardly give my attention to her face while mine was buried between her legs. And then her confession pretty much spoiled the rest of my plans.
I can’t take her virginity, and if I would have known earlier…
No, I can’t lie to myself and say that I’d have resisted. Asher warned me off and I still didn’t stay away. I needed her tonight. Needed to escape in her, and she proved to be so much better an escape than tequila.
Her eyes stay on me as I work. I’m so hard and so uninterested in this food. All that interests me is being inside her. I can only imagine how good she’d feel. As fucking tight as she was around my fingers, as much as she responded to my touch, she’s a fucking fantasy. And I’d watch that sweetness in her eyes turn to heat as I slowly stretched her out.
I have to get my head together. If I study her lips for another minute, I’m either going
to lose my mind or kiss her, and we both know it wouldn’t end with a kiss. I add wine and cream over the chicken and whisk it into a sauce before adding the asparagus to the pan. When it’s all ready, I place it on small plates that I take to the suite’s dining table.
Hanna hops off the stool and walks over to join me, the shirt shifting with every step to reveal another inch of her thighs before hiding it again.
She heads to the chair opposite me, and I say, “Nuh-uh. Come here, gorgeous.” I drag the chair between us a little closer to mine.
She grins as she sits. “Okay. If you don’t bite.”
“I never made any such promise.”
“Oh. Well, in that case.” She scoots the chair another inch closer and traces the numbers tattooed on my chest. “What are these?”
“My son’s birthday.”
Her lips part in surprise, and she studies the numbers again. “You have a son?”
I nod and swallow the thick knot in my throat. I don’t tell many women about my son. Not because he’s a secret, but because he’s none of their business. Telling Hanna about him feels like cutting myself open and exposing my soul for her inspection.
“He’s an amazing little kid. Wicked smart, clever, great sense of humor if you aren’t too mature to laugh about bodily functions.”
She grins. “What’s his name?”
“Collin.”
“And have you introduced him to Star Wars yet?” she asks, her face a mask of seriousness.
“Not yet,” I murmur. “I will when he’s ready.”
Her smile lights up her face and her laughter fills the room.
I’m so done for. “Wanna talk about the boyfriend who’s not really a boyfriend anymore?” It’s not my style to ask about old boyfriends, but I need to get my mind off the bed waiting for us in the next room and the sounds she made when I used my tongue between her legs.
Frowning, she pokes at her food, so I scoop up a bite on my fork and offer it to her. She parts her lips and closes them over the tines so slowly that my brain slingshots right back to the shower, to Hanna on her knees, her lips stretched around my cock.
