Page 29 of Blitz'd

Nervous.

My mind tries to drift to my first time.

Was I nervous?

Fuck, was I even sober? My teenage years were a blur of football, getting drunk with my friends, and doing everything I could to stay out of my house as much as possible. Everything else was a memory I didn’t want to think of.

So I’m not sure.

But his eyes are just a little wide, and I heard the way he’d started to say my name.

I keep my hand between his legs, alternating between squeezing roughly enough to make him gasp and stroking him until he’s squirming in the seat. I only let him go when I’m in my parking spot at my apartment.

When I turn to open the door, Zander catches my wrist. “Fuck going inside. We can just do it here.”

There’s something new in his eyes now, hot and curling and snaking its way from his expression along the length of my spine in tingling zips that make me light up.

Desire.

“Oh, no. I don’t think so, Braithe. We’re going up to the apartment, and you’re going to take a shower. Trust me.” I open my door and step out, throwing my words over my shoulder to lure him out of the vehicle as I grab our to-go boxes. “You’re going to want to be clean for what I plan on doing to you.”

There’s a beat of silence, then the sound of the car door slamming and heavy footsteps. “What do you mean?”

I just throw a look at him, knowing my eyes probably reflect the same fire as his, because Iknowwhat I meant.

“You’ll see.”

He’s silent for a few seconds, until I get to my door and unlock it. “No, but like… really. What do you mean?”

I grab him by his shirt instead of answering, half pulling, half throwing him into the apartment, locking the door behind me. I’ve barely thrown the pizza boxes onto the table when he tries to press into me—fucking eager slut—but I push him down the hall and to the bathroom.

“Now… I want you to go in there and get yourselfreallyclean, Dimples. Don’t miss any spots, or I’ll bring you back and do it myself.” I shove him inside the room, relishing the sight of his wide eyes and the flush crossing his cheeks.

There’s a few more seconds of silence, then a low curse before I hear shuffling. When the water comes on a few minutes later, a smug smile crosses my lips. He might try to resist, but Zander Braithe seems like hereallywants to be good for me.

I have to admit, I like the thought of it.

I go to my room, leaving the door open and the light on so he knows where to come, and fish around for a few supplies.

I take my time, making sure the bedspread is smooth and the lube and condoms are in full sight for when he walks through the door. By the time I think to flip on some music, to at leastslightlymask the sounds I plan on drawing out of Zander from my neighbors, I hear the bathroom door open.

The sound of footsteps makes me turn, and I have to stop myself from staring. He’s standing there in nothing butmytowel, his hands fidgeting at the edges of it and his eyes roaming around anxiously.

“Nice room,” he says faintly. I’m fascinated with the way his eyes bounce to the condoms and lube on the bed and instantly away, like they’re going to reach out and bite him. It’s too late for him to say he wants to take it back… and even if he did, it’s not like he’s trying to run away.

He’s just standing there and staring at me like he’s waiting for instructions.

I stand up and yank my shirt over my head, then crook my finger at him. “Come here, you fucking puppy. Get on the bed.”

His mouth opens and snaps shut like he wants to protest, but the flush that crosses his chest betrays the defiance he’s trying to summon. The shuddery breath he draws in doesn’t really seem to brace him, but he still stumbles across the room and sits down on the edge of my sheets. Zander’s fingers stroke the fabric, and he blows out a breath.

“Of course they’re expensive.”

The jab seems to make him feel better, to give him some kind of balance. I don’twantthat, so I step forward and crowd between his legs, pushing him back and watching with satisfaction as his shoulders hit the black fabric.

Fuck, he looks good in my bed, doesn’t he?

When I slide my knee forward, he wriggles back reflexively, and by the time I’ve finished moving, he’s lying back across the king-sized mattress and the towel has dipped so low I can see the perfect V-line trailing across his hips. I drink down the way he takes such good care of his body, so that each muscle stands out and begs for my tongue to trace every inch, to memorize them like a map to some forbidden place I’m about to take him.

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