He flashes her a mega-watt smile. Damn.
She goes first to the apartment and stops hard in the doorway. Owen’s blankets and backpack are no longer by the couch. His shaving kit and apple-smelling hair products are no longer on the counter. A pang of sadness replaces the giddy lust that overtook her in the car.
Harry crosses the floor and skims her legs, giving her a quiet “meow.”
“I know,” she says, running her hand down his back. “I’ll miss him too, but I don’t blame him for wanting his own bed.” Harry picks up his foot and licks it. “You didn’t help, you know.” The cat gives her the equivalent look of, “meh.”
She heads back out the door and makes her way to the dormitory.
A voice hits her the instant she opens the main door. A singing voice, going full force, with zero hesitation. Astrid follows it, wandering down the hallway. It grows louder until she finally stops outside one of the bedrooms. It’s no longer an empty shell but there’s a full-sized bed and a dresser with belongings on top. A desk with a laptop open. Owen stands, no rather, dances in the middle of the room. White earbud cords hang down to the iPod tucked in his waistband and he belts out another familiar line.
Astrid stands in the door, fighting the smile on her face. She leans against the door frame and watches this man act so silly. It’s a contrast from the pain she read in his echo and it makes her happy to see him happy.
He spins, belting out the chorus, opening his eyes at the end of the final line. He jumps out of his skin, shouting, “What the fuck, Astrid!” and pulling the headphones out of his ears.
“Gloria Gaynor?” she asks, hearing his heart try to explode from his chest. His cheeks turn pink. “I Will Survive?”
“Cake version. It’s an awesome song.”
“It is.” She nods, stepping into the room. “So much passion. I never knew.”
He laughs. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Astrid, but at least you can say that now you’re informed about my love for 1970s disco remakes.”
Noticing a photo on the wall and the box he’d kept the Pixie Dust in on the desk, she asks, “Did you go back to the house and get this stuff?”
“Yeah, a few things.” He notices her concerned frown. “I was safe. Cloaked myself. It doesn’t look like anyone had been there recently.”
She sits on the bed, running her hands over the blue quilt. “It’s so clean in here. It’s weird.”
“Some of us don’t like to be surrounded by every object we’ve ever owned.”
She makes a face, but it reminds her of what Demetria said. Maybe there’s a reason behind her hoarding. “Lame. It’s better than this…prison. A really boring prison.”
Owen stands over her, arms crossed. It accentuates his biceps in a very appealing way. “Are you done?”
“I guess.” She sighs dramatically. “I’m just going to miss you up here.”
His knees touch hers. She’s still in her running gear. “You’re always welcome to visit. Any time.”
“Yeah?”
He leans over, planting a hand on both sides of her hips. His nose grazes hers and a chill runs up her spine. “I mean, there’s a fee.” His lips move to the spot under her ear, trailing kisses down to her shoulder.
“What kind of fee?” Her voice sounds weird. Breathy. He nibbles her jaw.
“It’s fucking pricey as hell,” he admits, leaning his forehead into hers. “But for you, I’m willing to work out a payment plan.”
He finally kisses her and Astrid’s fingers grip the edge of the bed. She’s been waiting for this—for another taste. He licks her lips and says, “Mmmhmm salty. Eating all the chips again?”
She laughs and rolls her eyes. “Just a jog. No chips.”
He kisses her again and pushes her back on the bed. The mattress creaks under their combined weight. “Whatever it is, you taste delicious.”
With hands and mouths they explore one another. Over the last few weeks Owen has committed to his training, developing his skills as well as his physique. She skims the hard, lean muscle cording his arm and the taut broad planes of his back. He kisses her neck and she shivers, relishing the feeling of him being so close.
On all fours, he straddles her body and there’s no mistaking the hard length between his legs. The thought of him makes her warm, her belly fluttery with nerves and desire. She already knows how she wants this to end—or where she wants to begin.
Crawling out from under his body, they switch places and she positions herself over him. He smiles lazily at her, pushing her hair over her shoulder.
“You’re beautiful, you know that, right?” His green eyes burn with intensity—with hunger, but she’s the one that wants to fulfill his needs. Without hesitation she tugs at the button of his jeans. He watches her, curious, his hands moving to trace the swell of her breasts.
“Sit up,” she commands. He does so without asking why. Together they remove his pants and they pool at the floor around his ankles. His length is still contained beneath the fabric of his shorts. She kneels and Owen swallows thickly when she runs her hand down the cotton between them.
“I’ve never done this,” she confesses, a little alarmed at how hard, how thick, he is.
“You don’t have to,” he assures her, brushing her cheek.
“I want to. It’s your, uh, room warming gift. Something to think about when you’re up here all alone.” She gives him her most wicked smile in an attempt to quell her nerves.
“You never,” he asks in a careful voice, “did this with Quinn?”
“Not this.” She licks her lips and decides to be bold, tugging his shorts off his hips. He helps her, raising off the bed and then watches as she takes in his prized possession; the length, his girth. He’s pretty damn big.
She eyes it warily; there’s no way that thing is going to fit anywhere in her body. Not that Quinn is small, but it may be the proportion to his body that takes her by surprise. He misinterprets her hesitation as she watches it bob between his legs.
“There’s no doing it wrong,” he assures her. When she still doesn’t move he takes her hand and gently guides it to the shaft. Owen exhales at her touch, a sigh of relief, and the small sound bolsters her confidence.
Slowly, she explores his cock. Feeling up and down the hard length, fingering the soft, velvet tip. Goo sticks to her thumb and she runs it down the side, using it to lube her movements. He reacts as though every move is perfection—it’s hard not to be encouraged—especially when her hand dips below his balls and he shivers in delight.
“Christ,” he breathes, eyelids lowering. She repeats the move and he shifts closer to her, knees bent over the edge of the bed. He can reach her this way. Her hair and her neck. He tugs at the collar of her tank. “I want to see you.”
She’s wearing a sport tank that requires no bra underneath. He lifts it over her head and once exposed she thinks she may melt under his gaze. His fingers brush against her nipples, shooting fire down to her belly and below. Licking her lips, she leans closer to him and sucks the tip of his cock before opening her mouth to him.
The sound of his strained breathing fills her ears, the smell of pheromone-laced sweat tickles her nose. His heart hammers, hammers, thrumming in time with her movement of her mouth and hand up and down the shaft of his cock. Impossibly he grows harder—hotter—blood flows through his limbs. She would have thought the sensations would be too much, too human, but instead it elicits a thrill, a desire of her own she had no idea existed inside of her.
“As,” he mutters the nickname he’s given her, through a clenched jaw. His eyes are closed and his cheeks very red. There’s no mistaking the frantic uptick in pace, the salty slick of his semen. She cups his balls and he grunts, pushing her back with both hands. She falls backwards, confused, until she feels the hot spurt of his seed landing on her chest then dripping down the valley of her breasts to her belly. He pumps his cock, milking the last from inside. Astrid rests her hand over his, wanting his touch.