Page 48 of Head Over Heels

He draws me into his arms and kisses me. And I’m melting. Losing definition, losing edges. I whimper, which makes him clutch my head and kiss me harder, his tongue probing, then plundering.

“Upstairs,” he says, but I’m having trouble letting him go—I have his hair and I keep pulling his face back to mine, and he keeps obligingly kissing me, until finally he tears himself away. “Upstairs,” he repeats, in a tone of such complete command that it finally breaks through my sex haze and gets me off the couch.

“Your room,” he says.

“Your bed is bigger.”

“But I like your room more.”

This is so un-Chase-like that I can’t mount any kind of argument or even questioning. I follow him to my room, where he backs me up against the bed and then tips me onto it and follows me down, his thigh wedged between mine, his arms holding his weight off me except where I most want it.Mmm.We are dry-humping like horny teenagers and—

“Chase,” I moan.

That makes him grin. He lowers his mouth to mine and keeps up the friction below, until it bursts like gold in me and I cry out into the kiss.

“You’re so easy, and it is the sexiest thingever,” he says.

“I’m only easy because it’s you,” I say. Which is completely true. I’m never like this, uninhibited and push-button ready. Chase has the trip wire.

He kneels up over me and tugs his T-shirt off. I have to stare, because apparently I will never get enough of the visual spectacle that is Chase. The jeans come off next, and then his boxer briefs, and then he begins peeling me out of my clothes, and I’m too limp and glow-y to even help very much.

He pulls a condom out of his jeans pocket—

“Really?” I ask. “Were you a Boy Scout?”

“The Boy Scouts didn’t want me,” he says. “I was too much of a spazz in meetings. But I’m way better at being prepared in all situations than a Boy Scout. The Boy Scouts ask me for help when they’re out in the woods.”

I don’t doubt this. I take the condom out of his hand and tear it open. “You have a very—is it weird to say ‘pretty’—cock?”

“Handsome?” he offers.

“Thick and curved just right, and—”

“Jesus,” he says, snatching the condom back. “Keep that up and you’ll never get as far as the condom.”

“Nice fat head.”

His eyelids are so heavy it’s miraculous he can still see. “You didn’t say you were a dirty-talker,too.”

“Had to keepsomesurprises back.”

He rolls the condom on, partially obscuring my view, but it’s okay because what comes next is better than the view. He lines himself, but then instead of plunging in, he plays. Tip of his cock against my super-sensitive clit, but he seems to know how lightly he has to stroke to keep me on the pleasure side of the pleasure-pain line. I drop my head back on the pillow and struggle to breathe.

“Tell me what you like.”

“I like that,” I say.

“And this?”

A finger, curled inside me, steadily stroking my g-spot. I moan my answer.

“And this?”

His mouth on mine and then slipping around to brush breath and teeth over the sensitive curls of my ear, along the fine down on my jawline, across the bare skin of my throat, down to trap one nipple so it’s held lightly between his teeth. His tongue comes out and flicks.

He plays. Finger, cock, tongue. The tension winds so tight in my low belly that I writhe and squirm and call his name, but he won’t let me go over. Won’t and won’t and won’t. I press my hips up, trying to get more, but he won’t give it.

I’m past verbal. Can’t even manage his name. Pushing my breast into his mouth, tipping my hips desperately, bearing down on the finger that is too thin to grab with my needy inner muscles. So riled I want to twist right out of his arms.

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