Page 78 of Sleepover

Chapter 38

Sawyer

I think most guys, or at least most non-asshole guys, make it a point of pride to last more than a few minutes during sex.

For literally the first time in my life, I may fail at this goal.

The instant we climb up into my truck, we are all over each other. Elle’s hands rip my tux shirt out of my pants, slide up over my stomach and chest, then down to find me tangled and painfully hard in my briefs. My hands slip under her skirt. Her panties are drenched.

“Jesus, Elle.”

We’re kissing, open-mouthed, desperate. Our tongues tangle, battle. There’s a band of pressure on my dick from my clothes, and that, the slide of her tongue in my mouth, and the memory of her clit, swollen under my fingers, make my cock throb dangerously, so I push her away. “God knows I want to kiss you more,” I tell her, “but it would be really embarrassing if I didn’t make it back to the hotel room.”

“I didn’t make it back to the hotel,” she says, with a shrug and a grin. “I think it would be pretty hot. I could make you come now and then you’d have plenty of staying power for round two.”

It’s so tempting, especially when she grabs me through my tux pants, the touch both relief and its own form of torture. And she’s right—I would have more staying power if she got me off now, but I want it like this, both of us pushed to the edge of our patience, to the edge of sanity. This is how it was that first night at Maeve’s, and it was too fast, but it was also just right, and I know that after I fill her once, I’ll be ready to take her a second time, slow and sweet.

Reluctantly, I draw back, peeling her hands off me. Just as reluctantly, she tucks her hands into her lap. We drive back to the hotel, keeping to our own seats. When the truck stops, we don’t turn toward each other but instead climb down from our respective sides of the truck. We hold hands chastely through the hotel lobby, up all those floors in the elevator. We make it all the way into our hotel room, close the door behind us, and then—

“I am not going to fuck you against the wall again,” I murmur into her mouth.

She is pressed up against the wooden door, my body covering hers.

“We are going to make it to the bed,” I insist.

She wrestles her panties, trying to tug them down.

“Don’t. Don’t.”

She unbuckles my belt. Unbuttons and unzips my pants. Pushes them down, then my briefs. She wraps her hand around my dick, which pulses hard in her fist, so hard I have to concentrate not to come.

“Lift me up,” she demands.

I do, and she wriggles like a madwoman to try to get what she wants, but I’m stronger, and I wrap her up and carry her to the bed, where I deposit her, sideways, and kneel. I ruck her skirt up and press my face into her pussy. She smells unbelievably good, rich and fresh and salty, and I’m licking her like a cat that’s got into a dish of cream, busy, hungry. My dick, freed from constraints, is throbbing and straining, but I ignore it, ignore the weeping pre-cum I can feel all over the head, ignore the roaring demand in my balls. I lick and lick and suck and nip and slide two fingers into her, and she comes with a cry.

“If you don’t fuck me now, Sawyer Paulson, I swear to God—”

I fumble in my pockets, extract a condom, fumble again (with a few choice curses because even the pressure of the condom on my dick is a problem at this level of arousal), and oblige her.

I press in slowly. I know my time is limited, and I want to spend it well.

“Ohhhhhhhhh,” she says, as I spread her. Fill her.

“Yeah?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“You want more?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“That good?”

“More.”

I slide farther, then farther still, then all the way home. The hug of her body and the feel of being seated deep in her push me closer to that looming, tantalizing edge. “Like this?”

“Just like that.”

“Again?”

“Again.”

Still inside her, I wrap my arms around her, lift her, and slide her back on the bed so I can climb over her and look into her eyes, as per our conversation the other night in the restaurant. For a moment, it’s steadying. She looks back at me, and there’s trust there, and joy, and my attention shifts from the furious demanding pressure where we’re joined to the sensation in my chest, like fruit ripe to bursting.

And then she lifts her hips, just the tiniest bit, and closes her eyes and opens her mouth, and the look of total pleasure, utter abandon, on her face does me in. Completely.

I roar my release, thrusting into her deep, twisting against her as I bury myself fully, watching as it pushes her past the edge again, the flush pouring up over her skin.

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