by Devney Perry
And God how I want.
So I lean into him and take control of the kiss. I talk without sound this time. With lips and teeth and tongue, I let him know I want to enjoy the kiss just as much as he does.
I throw my concerns out the window. Tell myself to worry about them later, be mad at myself later, but for now just enjoy this virile and attractive man who wants me just as much. I slide my fingers up his chest, touching him the same way I often have to when I stretch his shoulder, but now there is no thought of anything other than how much I want to feel his weight on top of me.
He runs his hand down the line of my neck to the curve of my shoulder and then down until it rests on the small of my back, where he’d placed it earlier tonight. But this time when he pulls me in tighter against him, I don’t resist. This time I welcome everything about it. The heat of his body. The flex of his hand against my back in tangible restraint. The bulge of his erection as it pushes against my lower belly.
And damn if knowing he’s already hard for me doesn’t add fuel to my firestorm of want.
“Scout.” It’s my name again, but this time I know exactly what he’s asking me.
“Yes.” One word. It’s all I say, then that need and desire simmering between us ignites into a combustible wildfire where first-kiss-caution is consumed by unfettered lust and reckless abandon.
That hand on my back slides under my V-neck and runs up the side of my torso, thumb rubbing ever so gently over the underside of my breast on its way to help unclasp my bra.
My body burns with the expectation of his touch.
And then it lights on fire when his fingers trace their way back—skin to skin—beneath my loosened bra and over my nipples. They harden instantly as his thumbs rub circles over them—they tease and pleasure—all the while his lips and tongue launch another assault with a renewed vigor that only makes me want more.
And he gives me that more when he lifts my hands above my head, pulls my shirt off, and dips down and takes my nipple in his mouth. The warmth of his tongue mixed with the scrape of his stubble adds an element of contrast, soft versus rough, that twists my insides and leaves me wanting to know if he’s as slow and thorough with every other part of his sexual attention.
My hands are in his hair as he teases one breast and then the other, and I’m not sure if I want him to stop and come back to kiss my lips, or if I want him to keep stoking that fire bright.
Emitting the sexiest growl I’ve ever heard, Easton makes the decision for me when he puts his hands on my waist and lifts me like I’m a feather. There’s no hesitancy on my part, only need, when I wrap my legs around his waist, thread my fingers through his hair, and lose myself under the haze of desire his kisses are unleashing on that sensitive spot beneath my jaw.
And then he begins to walk.
His mouth is on my neck. His unshaven jaw tickles my collarbone. The cool air of the room slides over my breasts. His hips rest deliciously between my thighs.
All of those things tempt and taunt me, but it’s when he lays me down on the bed, when I’m so desperate for more from him, that my own control snaps.
We reach for the waist of each other’s jeans at the same time. Without any finesse, we fumble and bump hands, our laughter forcing us to come up for air, making us realize it would be so much quicker if we undress ourselves.
So in a rush of movements we strip and shimmy and step out of our clothes until we are naked, laughing in panting breaths, hungry for more and eager to have it.
But it’s when I look up from where I lie on the bed to where he stands at its edge, my laughter falls off. He’s watching me, wanting me, and everything about him, from his expression to his eyes to his body, is breathtaking. He’s hard lines and tanned skin. He’s confidence with a half-cocked grin, and he’s desire restrained with the tense set of his shoulders. His fingers flick, ready to conquer and claim, and his lips part, ready to lead the assault.
But it’s his eyes that command my attention.
They ask and demand and want as they slowly scrape their way up my legs, pausing at the apex of my thighs before continuing up my abdomen to my breasts. When they finally make their way back to mine, they are darkened by a desire I’m desperate to sink whole-heartedly into.
So many things about him—the look in his eye, the set of his shoulders, his impressive dick standing hard and thick between his muscular thighs, and the sexual tension snapping in the air around us—has me craving more of him and willing to beg for what comes next. The push and the pull. The give and the take. The need and the greed. The wish and the want. The climb and the release.
Lost in the haze of lust and expectation, my mouth waters. My body aches. My fingers beg to run over every dip and dent and curve of his body.
“Easton.” It’s his name on my lips this time. My turn to ask, to demand, to beg.
My knees fall apart in invitation.
His breath hitches.
My body hums, and chills chase over my skin.
He licks his lips. Steps. Stares. Admires.
And then he’s on the bed, crawling over me and dipping down to take my nipple in his mouth again.
“Oh, that feels good,” I murmur as my back arches and offers.
His chuckle vibrates the sensitized flesh. “I’m about to make it feel a whole lot better. Time to fuck your pretty kitty, Kitty.”
I manage to laugh through the sensations his skilled tongue is evoking, but it turns into a gasp of welcome pleasure when his hand slides between by thighs. His fingertips dance over my seam, taunting with a feather-light touch before slowly parting me to brush ever so slightly over my clit. Warmth. Heat. Electricity. The current of desire jolts my system, and my hips buck into his hand and beg for more.
“You like that?”
“God, yes.”
“I don’t think God has anything to do with this, but feel free to call his name.” He chuckles and looks up at me over the rise of my breasts, his eyes sharp with desire and contradicted by a cocky flash of a grin. “’Cause we’re about to get biblical.”
“Oh, please.” I laugh, but it’s lost to him as his lips claim mine and his fingers rub and tease and work my clit into a frenzy of overwhelming sensations. I writhe and lift and tense, wanting to prolong this onslaught of ecstasy and reach my climax all at the same time.
“Greedy girl,” he murmurs, kissing his way down the line of my neck and up to my ear where he nips on my earlobe. “I kind of like that.”
His simple praise and the soft chuckle that follows only adds to the riot of hormones racing to my every nerve as his fingers continue to work me to my brink.
“East . . .” A pant of his name is all I can manage as my hands grip tighter onto his forearms, my body edging that fine line before climax. “East.” Another pant. Another warning that I’m going to come.
My nails score his skin. My body vibrates with tension.
And then nothing.
His fingers stop. His hand stills. My head snaps up so I can look him in the eyes. And once our eyes meet, once he knows he has my attention, he takes the pads of two fingers and slides them ever-so-tauntingly-slowly down the line of my sex. He teases me, wetting them with my arousal before just as leisurely sliding them into me.
My exhale is unsteady, nerves already strung tight and primed to snap. But it’s his eyes on mine—unwavering and intense—that dare me more than anything. To come for him. To please him.
He hears every hitch of my breath. He watches the arch of my neck. He notices when I bite into my bottom lip. He feels each clench of my muscles around his finger. And it’s this complete attention that creates an unexpected intimacy and encourages me to slip under that veil of pleasure.
The orgasm slams into me, hijacking my breath as the explosion of desire morphs into a flash of white-hot heat.
My hands grab the sheets. My hips buck into his hand. My lips part, but no sound escapes. My body is seared by the sensations he’s just brought to life.
&nbs
p; The bed dips as he moves, and I can just barely hear the telltale rip of foil over the thunder of my pulse in my ears. And before I have any chance to recover from the orgasm still pulsing through me, Easton’s hands are on the back of my knees, pulling me toward the edge of the bed.
He meets my eyes as he steps between my legs and wastes no time making that first carnal connection when he runs the crest of his dick up and down my slit to prepare both of us for what comes next.
And oh, how I want it to come next. Especially if it feels this incredible already and we haven’t even gotten to the good part yet.
He groans, his struggle to take this slow written all over his face. But I don’t want slow. I want him. Now. And I’m desperate to have him, so in an attempt to snap that control of his and get what I want, I spread my thighs as wide as possible in invitation.
His eyes flash up to mine, a ghost of a smile on his lips that tells me he knows what I’m doing, but he holds on. Resists. And then he taunts me right back by pushing just the tip of his cock inside me so I can feel that burn that is oh so good before he slowly pulls back out.
I lift my hips to try and prevent him from withdrawing completely but he just steps a foot back with his cock in his hand, and smiles at me.
Smug bastard.
We wage a visual war of wills, but when he looks back down to where I’m wet and waiting for him, he caves.
But if I thought this time the wait would be over, that he was going to give me what I want—all of him—I was wrong. Because he continues to toy with me, tease me, arouse me by rubbing his tip just inside of me until I moan with want, before pulling back out.
And the best part is his expression. Not just the taut lines in his neck telling me he’s struggling through the denied pleasure like I am, but the widening of his eyes and how his lips fall lax in pleasure each time he enters me.
The next time he pushes his hips forward, I prop myself up on my elbows so I can look between my thighs and see what he sees. How my arousal—visual proof of what he does to me—glistens on his shaft. How each time he pulls out, he slides a little deeper into me the next time, uses his hand to guide his cock so it rubs expertly around all of the nerves within me, and then withdraws.
Before starting the process all over again.
It’s arousing. Heady. Intoxicating. To see my body accept his hard girth. To watch how I stretch around him, adjust to him, and then take him in a little more. To see how when he pulls back out, my pink flesh clings tight like I don’t want him to part from me just yet. To know that, even after coming once, my body is more than willing to go again with him.
His patience is admirable. His determination to stretch me bit by bit, escalate our desire inch by inch, is frustrating and erotic and leaves me vibrating with need.
And then finally, with one final thrust he bottoms out, fully sheathed, root to tip, within me. Our mutual groans fill the room as we each allow the other to savor the moment, the feeling, our first time coming together like this.
Seconds pass. Anticipation steals our breaths. And then he reaches out, puts his hand on my shoulder, and holds me in place so he can grind his hips against mine, seating his cock even further into me.
And holy fuck does he feel incredible.
We both gasp, caught up in the slow circle he makes with his pelvis and the absolute eroticism of the moment.
And then he begins to really move.
Our foreheads are pressed against each other’s. Our lips kiss and then pant and praise. Our hips move, grinding and bucking in that first-time dance as we find the friction we both need to drive us to the edge. Our hands tense and grasp and grip as Easton picks up the pace.
We crash together in a torrent of lust and lips and tongues, where wants now become needs. Where greed becomes the game, and satisfying it becomes a by-all- means-necessary type of strategy. Where bodies mesh and meet and tease and pleasure.
The room fills with sounds.
Fuck, that feels good.
Right there.
Scout.
Yes. You’re incredible.
Oh god.
I can’t hold back much longer.
Harder.
Good?
Faster.
Scout.
His hands grip tighter.
“Scout.”
His hips buck harder.
“Scout.”
A second warning. His restraint is gone.
“I’m coming.” I can barely get the words out. The second orgasm that hits is ten times more intense than the first. My body, my breath, my thoughts, my sensibility is all lost as I buck and writhe and take and claim every single ounce of what he gives me while he races to claim his own.
I’m barely coherent, lost in an unforgiving sea of bliss, but when Easton’s fingers dig into my thighs, I’m pulled back just in time to watch his climax slam through him. His groan is guttural. His head is thrown back. My name is on his lips. His hips grind violently against mine.
It’s sexy as hell to watch him come undone. To know I did this to him. To see his muscles, taut from release, slowly relax, one by one. And when his fingers loosen their grip on me, murmurs of praise are on his lips until he leans over and fuses them to mine for one last kiss.
And then we collapse onto his downy soft bed, his weight on top of me, his dick slipping out of me, and his head resting on my chest.
Seconds turn to minutes as we catch our breath and let our heartbeats calm.
“Well, it wasn’t the private field downstairs, but I guess it’ll do,” I tease as I lazily run my finger up and down the line of his spine.
His laughter rumbles through his chest into mine. “It’ll do?” he asks in mock disbelief; and that alone—the scrape of his scruff and the heat of his breath from speaking—causes chills to chase over my already sated body. “I played your field all right and slid perfectly into home.”
“If you say so.” My voice is coy and playful as I shrug and fight the smile on my lips. “This field is pretty impressive.”
“I guess I’ll have to try harder next time to outrank it then.”
“I’m a hard girl to please.”
He props himself up on his elbows and just stares at me. But there’s something different about the look, the kind of different that suddenly makes me panic and feel fluttery and like I need to go but want to stay.
So I do the only thing I can think of to quiet the chaotic thoughts and prevent them from ruining the moment—I lean up and brush my lips ever so gently against his.
“A demanding woman indeed,” he murmurs before giving me that tender type of kiss that reverberates to your toes and then all the way back up until it slams into your belly. Or heart. “Good thing I’ve got a big bat and know how to use it.”
Scout
The sun is blinding. It takes me a minute to adjust to its brightness, and when I’m able to fully open my eyes, Easton’s face is inches from mine, dark features half hidden in a sea of light blue pillowcase.
My first reaction is to run my fingers along the scruff on his jaw. To touch him again. To make sure he’s real. And to validate every single thing I felt last night as we came together, again and again and again.
My second reaction is oh shit.
The buzz I had long into the early morning hours vanishes, gone with the rising of the sun. But with its disappearance comes that groggy awareness of what I allowed—what I wanted to happen—but know can’t happen.
Realization hits.
Oh. My. God.
I slept with Easton Wylder.
Hot, delectable, just-as-talented-in-the-sack-as-on-the-ball-field Easton Wylder. The one lying naked beside me in bed, his tanned, sculpted body nestled beneath these pristine sheets.
The player.
A client.
My ticket to getting the Austin Aces’ long-term contract. The last wish left on my dad’s bucket list, to put the cherry on top of his incredible career.
The wish I just risked by breaki
ng the rules of my ironclad contract.
My head dizzies with the possible consequences if someone were to find out.
My stomach flip-flops over the sight of him sound asleep, so peaceful, so mouthwateringly gorgeous.
Then the panic returns. Not over breeching my contract, like it should be, but rather over how last night made me feel. And man, how I did feel. But now that the sheets have cooled and the haze of lust is gone, I’m not sure what to make of these newfound feelings. Or what do to with them now that they still linger.
Oh crap.
What am I thinking?
There can’t be feelings.
There can’t be anything.
There wasn’t even supposed to be sex.
There was supposed to be rehab.
There was supposed to be me getting Easton back up to par, athletically, so he could play again and I could tell my dad I did it. Make him proud of me. Give him something more to live for.
Staring at Easton only makes my emotions riot that much louder, but I know what I need to do.
With guilt eating at me like acid, I slide out of the bed slowly so as not to disturb him. How could I be so selfish? So reckless? I search for my clothes, all the while desperate to push these feelings away and crawl back into bed with him. Let him wrap his arms around me and kiss me again just like he did last night when we finally decided we were too exhausted to go another round.
Conflicted in heart and head, I pull on my jeans as quietly as possible and pad out into the condo to find my bra and T-shirt. They’re lying on the floor, a scarlet letter of shame to slide on as a reminder of what I’m about to do: leave as silently as possible.
The elevator ride down feels like it takes forever.
It gives me too much time to think. To regret. To realize Easton lifted me up last night. And I let him do it, when I definitely weigh more than he should lift with his shoulder. Did he hurt it? Did he reinjure anything?
No. He’s fine. It’s my panic talking.
Because there was no pain in that moment. There was only want and greed and need and selfishness and selflessness. Definitely not pain. That sexy growl of his fills my head and begs me to stop the elevator right now and press penthouse instead of lobby.
