A tentative thrust, then he adjusted, and slid in. She made a shocked, disbelieving sound when he breached her, and with a stifled curse he tipped her head into his shoulder. “Shh,” he said, predatory and soothing all at once.
Her legs, already overtaxed from riding the bike, were quivering. “Hold on,” he said.
She wrapped her arms tightly around his neck. He adjusted his hold on her, bringing both hands forward to grip the sorest part of her bottom. She gasped, writhed, then gasped again when her squirming set off signal fires flaring from her sex to her nipples. In the back of her mind, she was shocked she wasn’t glowing.
“Okay?” he asked.
“Yes,” she breathed. The pain was there, steady, manageable, and making her crazy hot. “Oh, yes.”
He leaned forward, using his shoulders to brace her back against the wall. With each thrust she trusted more of her weight to his strong arms and hips, tightening her crossed legs above his loosened jeans, sinking into it. There was no kissing, no touching other than his hands on her aching bottom and his shoulders pinning her to the wall, his plush mouth hot and open against her ear. Each thrust was slow, measured, devastating, until all she could hear was her heart pounding in her ears, his staggered breathing, and the dirty, slick sounds of his body taking hers.
She came with her face buried in his shoulder, choking on the sounds trying to tear free from her throat. With one final deep thrust he pinned her to the wall, shudders ripping through his body. They rode out the aftershocks together, tension slowly seeping from their bodies until she could relax her legs. He disengaged their bodies, stepping into the darkness at the back of the study room. With trembling hands she patted at her hair, her blouse, then bent to untangle her trousers and panties from her ankle. Faint sounds reached her ears, the rustle of a plastic bag, cotton against skin, a zipper.
“Can you bring me my backpack?” she whispered, giving up on working out the knot of clothes and kicking off shoes, pants, panties.
He set the bag down in front of her. She dug through the front pocket for tissues and cleaned herself up as best she could. When she looked up, he was holding out a paper with the remains of his fast food dinner and a tied-off condom. She added her tissues, and dressed while he folded the top of the bag over, hiding the evidence. “Food is not permitted in the study rooms,” she said in her primmest voice.
“You gonna turn me in?” he asked, one corner of his mouth lifted in amusement.
“I’ll let it slide this once,” she said, the sound of her zipper belying her prim tone. “Do I smell like sex?”
“The whole room smells like sex,” he said, but leaned in and sniffed her. “You actually smell like leather and sweat.”
“Great,” she said, relieved.
“It’s pretty hot,” he murmured, his lips brushing her skin sending a shiver along her nerves. “Really sexy, actually.”
She turned to kiss him, his tongue a velvety flicker of heat teasing without pressing for entrance. “I’ve got to get back to work.”
“Okay,” he said, but his hand slid into her hair, holding her close.
“I really … really have to … stop that,” she said, smiling and holding him at bay. “I have to get back to work.”
He stepped back, hands raised in a feigned innocence she found laughable, and very amusing. She unlocked the door. “Wait here,” he said, and walked out, his booted feet echoing off the stacks as he checked first one hallway, then the next. “You’re clear.”
“Thanks,” she said, preparing to make her escape for the stairwell no one ever used that led to the storage rooms.
“Wait,” he said. “I made an appointment for your tandem jump. A friend of mine can take us up on Friday morning. The weather looks great.”
She blinked, felt a smile flicker across her face. “You did? You made the appointment.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I hope that’s okay.”
“You’re not going to talk me out of it.”
He bent his head and kissed her. “Never,” he said. “I will never try to talk you out of something that matters to you.”
She reached up and ran her hand through his hair, making it come up crazy cowlicks. “Thank you,” she said. “Friday’s my day off, so that sounds great.”
*
Friday found Jack standing in a hangar, watching Erin as she zipped herself into a borrowed jumpsuit. “Laces tight?” he asked with a nod at her running shoes.
“Double knotted,” she answered.
“I’ll take those,” Jack said, pointing at Erin’s earrings. They were pretty, long and gold and nestled into her hair, and definitely a hazard.
“Why?” she asked.
“At a hundred and twenty miles an hour, they could get tangled in your hair, or the harness, and rip right out of your ears.”