A tremble radiates through me. “Better to wrap around your hips that way.”
He jerks back, stares at me, then quirks his lips. “You dirty woman.” He presses a kiss to my jaw. “You can leave your shoes on with me anytime, you dirty, beautiful, fucking sexy woman.”
Woman.
He calls me “woman,” not “girl.”
And that turns me on even more.
But what would make me molten is seeing him.
I play with the waistband of his shirt. “My turn to strip you.”
“Don’t let me hold you back.” His tone shifts to playful, his eyes twinkling with mischief. But the lightness fades once more as I lift his shirt, raising it over his head and dropping it to the floor.
The enormity of this choice echoes in my mind and sears in my brain. I’m doing this. We’re doing this.
Damn the consequences.
My eager hands are ahead of my mind, my fingers trailing down the firm expanse of his chest, playing with the most delicious smattering of hair. Trembling, I continue my travels, an explorer traversing a new land.
He seems to sense I need this—this moment—to revel in the brand-new territory, to discover my best friend in this new way. He’s still as stone, letting me take this journey, like a cat in a new apartment, checking out every nook and corner.
The V of his abs. The grooves in his flat stomach. The happy trail that leads to where I want to be.
My fingers wander across the planes of his belly as I trace every carved inch of him, mesmerized by his body. Lifting my chin, I meet his gaze. Desire has darkened his eyes once more. His hazel irises shimmer with lust—a lust that heats me up.
“You’re kind of hard everywhere,” I whisper, then shake my head, correcting myself. I’m so lost in touching him that I can’t speak properly. “Not kind of. You are,” I emphasize, moving my hands to his arms, running them up his toned forearms to his biceps.
He’s no longer a statue. He reaches for my waist, jerking my body close to his, my skin against his half-dressed frame. “Yes, I’m hard everywhere, Peyton. Everywhere.”
As close as he holds me, my hip is the lucky recipient of the evidence, and I feel just how much he wants me. I shudder, my voice barely a whisper as I say, “I better finish getting you undressed.”
“Yes, you better.”
I nibble on the corner of my lip, both insanely aroused by and slightly nervous about what we’re doing. Somewhere in the back of my mind, or perhaps it’s in the front, I’m acutely aware I should say something before we do the deed. The requisite are we okay with this check-in.
Hey, Tristan. Real quick. We won’t let sex ruin our friendship, right?
’Course not. Friends with benefits sounds cool.
Awesome. I thought so too. Let me just get these pesky clothes off you right now.
But I don’t want to lose the intensity of this moment. It’s too perfect. Too wonderful in its own right.
Besides, of course we’re okay with this. We can handle this.
And I want to keep experiencing all the wonder of undressing him.
I unbutton his jeans, unzip them, and push them over his hips.
He helps me along, kicking off his shoes and shedding his jeans, until he’s down to only black boxer briefs that hide nothing. My mouth waters, and desire flickers through me like strobe lights in a disco.
I can’t wait.
I need him.
Need this.
I strip off his boxers, and my lips part in admiration and desire when his cock springs free. He’s beautiful. His cock is a work of art, a sculpture worthy of a museum exhibit.
I don’t even know what to say as I stare at him in the flesh, drinking in his strong, powerful body, his thick, hard length.
Words feel foreign. The only language I know is sensation.
I wrap a hand around his hard shaft, hot and pulsing in my palm. As soon as I touch him, he exhales sharply, like he’s been holding his breath forever.
Like I felt when he touched me.
The sound reassures me that he’s in this too, every step of the way.
I ache exquisitely as I stroke him, making me want him more and more. I search for words, something to anchor me to this moment. “I kind of can’t believe this is what you look like,” I say, as speech comes to me at last.
He blinks, like he’s trying to focus, trying to concentrate on answering me as I grip the steel of his erection. He rocks the slightest bit into my hand, need written on his face like a headline. “What do you mean?” he rasps out.
“All this time, all these years. And look at you,” I say, staring unabashedly.
He swallows, his eyes locking with mine. “And what do you see, Peyton?”
What do I see?
More than I bargained for.
More than I ever expected.
I see trust and sex and beauty and friendship. I feel fear and desire and unfettered excitement. And I see him. The way I wanted to ten years ago.
“You’re beautiful,” I whisper, emotion tightening my throat. “Everywhere. And I want you now.”
In one swift move, I’m on my back, legs spread, knees open, heels digging into my peach comforter. Tristan crawls over me, pinning my wrists at my sides. “Say it again,” he commands, rough and gravelly.
“Which part?” I ask, arching my body, aching for him. A pulse beats insistently between my legs, and he’s going to need to put me out of my misery soon.
“The last part,” he says, lowering himself so his hard cock rubs against my belly.
“I want you,” I say, gasping, desperate now. “I want you so much.”
His jaw ticks, and he breathes out hard. “You have no idea.”
“No idea what?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he lets go of my wrists and rises to his knees, his eyes scanning the floor. “Need my wallet. Need a condom.”
But I have another idea. “Tristan,” I say, insistent, pushing up on my elbows. “I’ve been tested. Since my last relationship. I’m clean, and I’m on protection.”
“Oh, fuck.” He drags a hand through his hair like I’ve said both the best and the worst thing in the world.
“What’s wrong?” I don’t want to ruin the mood. I reach up to his face, cupping his cheek. “Did I say something wrong?”
He turns his face to my hand, kissing my palm, soft and tender. “No. You didn’t say a thing wrong. And I’m clean too. I’ve been tested. I just don’t know how the fuck I’m going to last inside you like that.”
A smile spreads slow and easy on my face, and all my anxieties sashay out of the room. With my hand on his face, I pull him back down to me. “I guess we should try, then, and see.”
He flashes me a wolfish grin. “I’ll give it my best shot.” He raises my arms again. “I love the way you look like this. Can you hold on to the headboard so I can fuck you like this?”
Can I? With fucking pleasure. I scoot up and reach for the headboard, gripping it.
He’s on top of me, cock bobbing, parking his knees on either side of my hips, his hands sliding up my waist, over my breasts, to my neck. “Do you have any idea how gorgeous you look? How beautiful you are? You’re so fucking stunning in every way, but especially like this.”
My skin is sizzling. All the nerve endings in my body are unraveling. Pleasure consumes my every cell and he’s not even inside me. He’s simply praising me, and I could luxuriate in this attention all night long.
He lowers his face to my breasts and brushes a kiss between them, then more down my belly. “Your body . . .You need to be worshipped. I need to kiss every inch of you.”
I want that. Desperately. I want to feel him adore me with his mouth, his tongue, his lips.
But I need to be filled right now.
I need to be fucked.
My eyes float closed, and I lift my hips. “Worship me tomorrow. Fuck me tonight.”
The sound he makes is carnal and obscene. Like a wild animal.
/> And it thrills me, sending a wave of anticipation through my body. His hands slide between my legs, and he parts my thighs wider, settling between them. I open my eyes to see him running a hand down his hard shaft, then rubbing the head against my wetness.
My back bows.
His entire body shudders.
We are a feedback loop, and it’s intoxicating.
He groans. I moan.
He shakes his head, like he can’t believe this is happening. “I want you so fucking much.”
Then he slides inside me, and I’m so wet, so ready, that he’s all the way in me in seconds.
“Oh God,” I murmur as I feel him fill me completely. Tingles spread everywhere, a rush of heat floods my body, and I don’t want to hold on to the headboard anymore.
I want to touch him.
My hands fly to his chest, clutching him for dear life.
He doesn’t move for a few seconds. Clenching his jaw, he closes his eyes. Then he opens them, meeting my gaze.
“I want this to be so good for you,” he says, and there’s pure honesty in his words, an admission in the middle of all this heat and need. He lowers his chest to mine.
I wrap my legs around him, hooking my high-heeled feet together over his firm butt. “It already is,” I whisper as I lift my hands, thread them through his hair, and bring his face to mine, his stubble against my cheek.
He groans my name, some kind of plaintive wish to the universe as he starts to move in me with slow, unhurried thrusts.
The feel of him, the weight of him, the way he reaches for my thigh with one hand, angles me more open, is all so wickedly new and utterly wonderful.
I’m discovering a whole new side to my best friend tonight.
An erotic, seductive side.
A vulnerable, tender side.
With his palms planted by my face, he finds the most delicious rhythm, thrusting deep then stroking back, nearly pulling out before he drives back into me, right where I want him. That spot. Pleasure cascades through me, and I feel boneless as he fucks me, swiveling his hips, taking his sweet, fantastic time, and hitting the mark with every thrust.
He grins at me like he has a secret. “I’m going to make you come so fucking hard,” he says, and I light up like a pinball machine.
Those words.
His intensity.
“Yes, please, yes,” I say, dragging my nails down his back. “Make me come, Tristan.”
“Like you did against the wall,” he continues, his voice as ruthless as his desire. He rocks into me as tension grips my core.
“Yes, do it again,” I urge.
“Love it when you come for me. I want to make you come so hard you lose your mind with pleasure,” he says, and his filthy words flip the switch in me.
He has a dirty side too.
I never knew he was a dirty talker. How could I? The private knowledge thrills me, my body tightening, pleasure coiling in my belly. The ecstatic torture expands as I hover so damn close to the edge of release.
“Oh God, Tristan,” I moan, lifting my hips closer, my head falling back on the pillow, my body taking over as I go wild beneath him, bucking. “I’m coming. Coming again.”
One. Deep. Thrust.
And I am over the edge, tumbling into ecstasy as he praises me. “So fucking beautiful, so fucking perfect, love it when you come, love it so damn much.”
His words merge into his groans and his pumps, the thrusts of his cock deep inside me as he fucks me to his own oblivion.
Then he fills me, his cock twitching, his body collapsing on me, his pulse racing so fast, I can feel it under his skin as my hands roam his frame.
We’re both quiet for a minute. Our slowing breaths and the soft music from the other room are the only sounds.
Soon, our breathing slows. But I can’t stop touching him. I want to worship him too.
I want to have him again and again.
And I hope, dear God, I hope that he wants all the same things I do.
When he slips away to the bathroom, grabs a washcloth, and cleans me up, I nearly cry. It’s such a tender, sweet gesture. It’s one I’ve never experienced from a man.
He sets the towel on the floor, returns to bed, and wraps an arm around my waist. Nuzzling me, he kisses my neck, then whispers, “I need to go soon.”
That’s not what I wanted to hear.
22
Tristan
The last thing I want on earth is to leave her.
But I have to.
Besides, leaving is easier.
If I stay, I’ll curl up with her all night long, wrap her in my arms, and tell her she has my heart in her hands.
And what if she doesn’t want me to spend the night?
I can’t deal with any form of rejection this second.
Nor can I deal with a conversation about what this is or isn’t. I’m not sure I want to have any conversation. Because I don’t know what the hell tonight means for her. I’ve got no clue what we’re doing or what she wants. But I can’t handle hearing anything hard right now, anything that would slice my heart in half.
She has the power to destroy me, and I can’t afford destruction. I have a business, a family, responsibilities. I don’t want to put my heart through that wringer again when I have to deal with life head-on every damn day.
Besides, I don’t know if she chose me tonight, or if circumstance did. Because in the past, I’ve never been the guy she chooses.
That’s why I need to leave.
Plus, I actually do have to go, even though I want so much more of her. I want her over and over.
“You have to go?” She scoots up in bed, sitting, wrapping her arms around her stomach.
I grab my boxers, tug them on. “Barrett will be home by midnight. Well, he’d better be. Curfew and all.”
“Oh, right,” she says, blinking, nodding. “Of course. You need to be home when he returns.”
“I do.” I love that she doesn’t ask why, that she simply gets it. Sure, Barrett’s a senior in high school and he can take care of himself. But I don’t want him coming home to an empty house. That’s not how I’m raising him—to fend for himself and set his own rules. I need to set an example for him of how to be a man, and this man has a responsibility.
To be home when his kid brother returns.
She slides out of bed, searching for her clothes. She yanks open a drawer in her bureau and pulls on a long T-shirt. But when she turns, and I see the panicked look in her eyes, it cuts me to the core. It reminds me of how she looked when she came to my restaurant after she found Gage in bed with another woman.
Devastated.
My heart lurches, and I grab her arm, spinning her around. “Peyton,” I say, and it’s the most desperate her name has ever sounded on my tongue. “Tonight was . . .”
A revelation?
Ten years in the making?
The most intense night I’ve ever had, and I don’t want to let you go?
She presses her lips together, like she’s holding in all her words too, all her feelings.
“Tonight was incredible,” I continue, admitting some truth. “You’re incredible.” I draw her close, plant a kiss on her forehead. But she’s tight and tense, and I fear I’ve done the wrong thing. Does she think this is a one-night stand for me? Is it for her?
But how can it be anything else?
Still, one-night stand doesn’t feel like the right term for what just happened. Only, I don’t have a clue what category to put this evening in.
I pull back, needing to reassure her of something that won’t rip me to shreds. “You mean the world to me,” I say, trying that on for size.
She nods, her shoulders shaking slightly. Her lip quivers. “But . . .? It sounds like there’s a but in that sentence.”
“But nothing. But everything.” I cup her chin, wanting her to know what she means to me, how I can’t stand the thought of her vacating my life. “I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to lose our friendship.�
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“So we’re still friends?” she asks, tentative.
“Of course. We better be.”
“And we just do what? Put that behind us?” She flaps her hand toward the bed.
Oh, how I wish I could read her mind. That’d come in real handy right now. I cast about for something, anything, to save myself, to save us. “We don’t have to put it behind us,” I say, testing that option, as my brain tries to figure out what the hell we do next. Wind back the clock? Or spring forward into more sex? More experiments? I don’t want to get hurt, but I’m dying for more of her. Once was not enough. Because, hell, this isn’t a one-night stand for me.
“And if we don’t put it behind us, we’d put it in front of us?” she asks, her eyes full of questions.
Yes. All the way in front of us, forever and fucking ever.
But that wayward thought stays locked up. “The way I see it is you have two more scenarios to play out,” I say, because maybe that’s the way to navigate through what this is—focus on the research. Yes, this new twist in the experiment is how I can have a little more of her for now, and still have her friendship when it ends. Because it will end. That’s a fact of life.
She lifts a brow, intrigued, it seems. “What are you saying? That you want to try more scenes?” The words come out measured, but less awkward. We’re returning to common ground.
I try to keep the mood light, hoping that works. “I don’t think we’re quite done, are we? I bet the book doesn’t end with panty shredding.”
Her lips twitch, as if she’s holding in a grin. “Or panty shredding that led to sex.”
“To amazing sex,” I correct.
She shakes her head, tsking. “No, Tristan. It was earth-shattering sex.”
“I stand corrected. Happily corrected.” I square my shoulders, pride thrumming through me. “Maybe we should make sure some of the other scenes work too? And that they’re just as toe-curling?”
She licks her lips, lifts her chin, then waves a hand, erasing the awkwardness. “Exactly. This doesn’t have to change anything. I mean, c’mon,” she says, nudging me with her elbow. “We kissed before, and we’re still friends. We can totally screw and still be friends, right?”
Sex And Other Shiny Objects Page 13
