He’d been so gentle, so careful. Even as he wiped his mouth on my thigh before climbing over me, he made sure not to put his weight down on me, aware that it might set off memories I so desperately wanted him to erase. He gazed down at me, raised up on his outstretched arms, his smile a force that shot straight to my heart. “You okay?” he asked.
I shook my head, and his brow bunched but I couldn’t speak to assure him that I wasn’t just okay, I was so much better than okay. Full bellies and warm shelters never felt as good as I felt in that moment.
I met his lips with my own, tasting my pleasure as I ran my hands down his sides and into his boxers. Nate tensed beneath my touch as he broke the kiss. “I’m so fuckin’ wound up, Bailey, I won’t last long.” He said it with humor, but the blush on his cheeks and the avoidance of his stare gave way to his embarrassment.
With one hand, I reached up, fingers gliding through his hair, and watched in fascination as his eyes drifted shut when my other hand circled his cock. He was so hard, but his skin was so soft, and I don’t think I’d ever felt more powerful than I did just then. He moaned loudly—a primal roar—as I started to stroke him, his lips blindly searching for mine. I kissed him with reverence, with passion, with pure wanton lust and when his hips started moving, matching my strokes, and his tongue delved deeper into our kiss, I knew he was close. After pushing his boxer shorts further down his legs, I wrapped both hands around his length as he kneeled between my legs, his arms still supporting him. With his eyes still closed, he said, “Fuck, baby. I’m so close,” and so I worked harder, faster. He bit down on my shoulder the same time I felt him pulse in my hands and the next thing I knew my hands and my stomach were coated with warmth, droplets of it seeping between my fingers and down my wrist. The room filled with the sounds of our heavy breaths and we tried to calm them, but besides that we lay perfectly still, my mind, my heart, my body wrapped around him.
He kissed my cheek, so soft and light and a complete contrast to the reason why my lips felt so raw. “I’ll go run us a shower,” he whispered in my ear.
And then he was up and walking toward the bathroom, his pleasure on my hands and mine on his tongue, and I watched, a smile twitching on my lips as his perfect bare ass moved away from me. And once he was in the bathroom, our views of each other obstructed by a wall, I kicked my legs and pumped my fists and screamed a silent ecstatic scream. Then I got up, careful not to make a mess, and joined him in the shower, pretending that I was just another eighteen-year-old girl, and he was just another guy—a guy who’d given me my first and most earth shattering orgasm in (I’m positive) all of existence.
26
Bailey
There was something intimate, something romantic about showering together that brought us that tiny step closer to each other. We ignored his erection, standing upright and pressed against my stomach as he held me around the waist, his arms loose behind my back while the water cascaded around us, the sounds of it hitting the walls and the floors creating a barrier from the outside world.
It wasn’t until we were in bed, my leg draped over him, my cheek against his chest and his fingers toying with my hair that we actually spoke. “How was the party tonight?” I asked, peering up at him.
He was already watching me, his features void of any emotion. “It was fine,” he said, his tone flat.
I sat up, making sure to take the blankets with me and covered my breasts as I half turned to him. “Can I ask you something?”
I’m not sure if it was my question or the fact that we were no longer a tangle of limbs that made him sigh softly, almost inaudibly. He linked his hands behind his head, the muscles in his chest flexing with the movement and nodded once. “I don’t have to answer, though, right?”
I returned his nod. “Do you like what you do?”
His brow knitted in response, almost as if he hadn’t heard me, but I’m sure he did because I made sure my voice was loud, clear, and confident. And so instead of repeating my question like he probably hoped I’d do, I waited—which earned another sigh from him before he looked up at the ceiling. “If you’re asking if I carry a smile while I work every day, then the answer is no. If you’re asking if I grew up wanting to be what I am, then the answer is no. But if you’re asking if I’d rather be doing anything else… then the answer is also no.”
My mouth opened. Closed. Opened. Closed. I scratched my head, a million questions on the tip of my tongue, but before I could speak his phone rang, the ringtone and vibrations echoing off the walls.
He sighed again, only, this time, it was loud, overly exaggerated. He didn’t bother to hide his annoyance when he tapped the screen and grunted. I watched, intrigued, as his face changed from irritation to concentration and from that to—“How long?” he said into the phone, but his eyes were on me. “All right.” He hung up and rubbed a hand across his face. Then he sat up, his feet hitting the floor with a thud. “I gotta go,” he mumbled over his shoulder.