Page 59 of Some Like It Hott

“It’s too good, you going for it like that. Taking what you need. It’s too hot.”

“Preston.”

“Hold still and let me give it to you. Don’t chase it.”

“God,” she moans. “You’re going to kill me.”

I dip my head again, teasing, swirling, biting, working those hard nubs—one, then the other—until she dips a hand between her thighs and grinds herself against it. I tug her hand away and twist it behind her back, and she says, “You’re somean.”

“Trust me,” I say. “Just trust me.”

Her other hand tries to take its place, so I pin both behind her while I return to tonguing her nipples, until she’s rocking her hips against empty air.

“Preston, please,” she begs.

“What do you need?”

“I need to come.”

“How do you want to come, baby?” I ask, the endearment slipping out. I’ve never used it before, but there’s something about this moment that’s different. Some rawness and tenderness I don’t even know how to name.

“I want to come on your cock,” she pleads, and I want that, too, so fucking bad. I picture it: taking my cock out, yanking her bathing suit to the side, easing into her. The fact that we’re in a semi-public place, that we don’t have condoms—those things don’t matter in this wild, taut moment.

But I also don’t want this to be over, exploring her, teasing her, making her wish for things she can’t have yet from me. I want to surprise her and make her wonder and want.

I guess I want to be her fun for a while.

So I step close again, give her my cock through my board shorts and her bathing suit, and she takes what I’m offering with a groan of gratitude that almost makes me lose it. I wrestle myself under control again and play with her nipples, and she rubs against the hard, swollen bulge in my shorts. It only takes her maybe ten rocks of her hips before she’s coming, crying out, cursing triumphantly—and this is what almost takes me over the edge with her—telling meyou’reso good, so fucking hot, Preston, just like that, you did this, this is all for you.

29

Natalie

What surprises me most is the way he holds me afterward. Both arms around me, one hand cupped behind my head, tucking it to his chest. He saysshhhhand rocks me. It’s so unexpectedly tender and I’m so wrecked by pleasure already that my eyes fill up with tears.

We stay like that for a long time. He doesn’t ask for anything back. He’s still hard between my legs, and I can feel his cock jerking from the contact of my body against his, but he doesn’t push or press or seem to have any needs at all outside of wanting to make me feel cared for.

Whoisthis version of him?

And how can I keep myself from falling for him?

Because, shit, I think I am.

But the facts of our situation—they’re still basically the same. He has to go back to New York, and I want to be here in Rush Creek, doing the job I finally admitted to myself I want indefinitely.

That’s even assuming he wants more. And there’s no reason to think he does.

Well. Maybe this:

You’re good at what you do, and what you do matters. You’re funny and generous and giving andfun. So fuck them if they can’t see that.

But that’s not a promise. It just means he likes me. Not that he wants tobewithme.

I draw back, needing to put space between us. He goes unwillingly, letting go of my head, unwrapping his arms. His eyes track over my face like he’s trying to read my thoughts. I feel exposed, certain he’ll be able to tell I have feelings I shouldn’t have.

He doesn’t say anything, though, only reaches for my bikini top and helps me put it back on, urging me to turn around so he can retie it. Even that bit of tenderness makes my eyes tear again…andwhat is wrong with me?

I guess I just haven’t been with guys who believe in aftercare.

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