Because I need to drown out the negative thoughts about how this will never work. How he’s leaving. How we’re too different to be together.
I’m a pale canvas next to his tattoos. Something about our juxtaposition makes me feel bland. Like I’m whatever nameless piece of art that’s mounted next to the Mona Lisa. I’m a little girl from Texas, and he’s this beautiful tattoo artist from Boston. He’s edgy and biting and brisk, and I’m all Southern hospitality and polite welcomes.
Except nothing about my legs dangling open on either side of his face is polite.
My breath catches in my chest. God, I love the fact that he gave in to this.
That’s what I need to do. Give in. Live in the moment for once and enjoy this fling.
Because that’s all we’ll ever be. A fling.
And when he pushes two thick fingers into me, that’s exactly what I do. Give in.
His tongue swipes at the pulse between my legs, and it’s all I can do to hold in a scream. I toss my arm over my mouth and writhe on my bed. His hand grips my thigh tighter while he works me over. Until I’m gasping and tightening and pulsing against him.
“Oh, my God,” I gasp, turning my face into my pillow. “Fuck. Fuck. It feels too good. Stop.”
But I don’t want him to stop. And he doesn’t. Just softens his touch as I come down.
I’m basking in the warm glow of the best orgasm of my life when he collapses next to me and pulls me to him.
I expect him to throw on a condom and start pounding into me, but he doesn’t. Instead, he lazily strokes my hair.
Closing my eyes, I toss my leg over his and snuggle against him. In the background, behind the gentle hum of the rain coming from the baby monitor, the football game ends, but I couldn’t care less who won.
His arms wrap around me and he rests his cheek against my forehead.
My heart squeezes, wanting to let myself feel for him. It’s easy to feel for Brady.
But I remind myself that’s not what he wants. Or needs, not with everything he has going on right now.
So I do my best to stamp out my emotions. And then I pull myself up over him.
His eyes open as his hands lift to my hips. I want to squirm with the way he watches me. I’m stark naked and he’s still wearing track pants, but the slow sweep of his attention over my body makes my tummy flutter.
I drop down to kiss him, and as my tongue slips between his lips, he moans. I can taste myself on him, which makes me wonder how he’ll taste.
“Can I reciprocate this time?” I whisper against his mouth.
A laugh escapes him. “You’d better. My dick has been pissed at me all week.”
I snicker as I nuzzle against his neck. “Hmm. Well, we can’t have that.” I mark a path down his body with kisses and licks, stopping to appreciate his deliciously cut abs that lead to the promised land.
When I press my lips to his lower stomach, I pause to stare at the wall of tattoos in front of me, wishing there was more light so I could appreciate his ink. Later. I’ll definitely have to look later.
An appreciative grunt rumbles in his chest when I rub him through his thin track pants.
I look up and pause when I realize he’s watching me, which makes me feel the urge to put on a show. Because I want this to be the best hookup of his life.
So rather than pull down his pants, I lean down and stretch the fabric taut over his erection and run my tongue slowly across his length.
His thighs tense beneath me, and I glance up in time to see him clench his jaw and groan, “Fuck, that was hot.”
I smile as I hook my thumbs in his pants and tug them down. His length surges upward and bobs between us.
Whoa, he’s hung. I mean, I knew he was packing something serious, but it’s different to be up close and personal.
That pulse starts again between my legs as I take him in my hand and squeeze. My fingers barely make it around and at the base don’t even touch.
That’s gonna hurt.
A sick part of me gets excited.
With both hands tight at his root, I lick up that vein, shuddering at the thought of having him in me. When I make it to the tip, I swipe my lips across his flared head. Once. Twice.
His big hand tangles through my hair and grips me tight, and I pause, my mouth resting at his tip. I can’t move, so I part my lips and swipe my tongue across him. I can feel him watching me as I lick slowly before running my lips across his swollen crown.
He’s the tiniest bit salty on my tongue and smells like his bath gel and clean male.
I glance up and feel a heated rush from how Brady’s eyes are lasered in on what I’m doing. As if he realizes how tightly he’s holding my hair, he lets go and presses his palm to my cheek.
I lean in, all the while, letting my mouth rub against his sensitive skin.
“Jesus Christ, Katherine,” he grunts as he juts his hips forward slightly.
My breath is a faint flutter in my chest to see him this turned on. And I want to feed the fire. So I whisper against his cock, “Go ahead. Pull my hair,” just before I take him in my mouth.