Page 9 of True Fate

“Anything on under there?” she asked, breathless.

Justin shook his head and, taking her by the elbows, backed her into the wall. Her hoodie zipper was halfway to her waist before he even had time to think, her small breasts bare, nipples pink, perfect, and already erect.

Begging for his touch.

It was a breathtaking discovery—shewore nothing beneath.

Nothing but heat and invitation.

He blew on one pebbled nub, then the other, his cock twitching as her head dropped back in pleasure. His lips followed where his breath had been, then his tongue, then his teeth. Gentle, but when she asked on an achy whisper,notso gentle. Until he wondered if his steady grip was the only thing keeping her from melting to the floor.

Her lids fluttered. A muffled whimper escaped as the grind of their bodies hit a fever pitch, sending a sharp, blinding spike of lust through him.

If she wanted him, he wasn’t above fucking her right there, standing in his kitchen.

Workinghis hand inside the waistband of her shorts, his fingers met her slick heat, the glistening folds welcoming him back. She moaned, her lips parting on a soft breath. Her cheeks were flushed, her chest rising in shallow gusts.

He stared, captivated.What a beautiful woman she’d become.

And she felt familiar, in that haunting, heart-clenching way that made it hard to breathe. He rarely involved his heart in sex. So he shoved aside the unsettling sensation of falling…of landing somewhere he wasn’t sure he’d ever truly left.

Stay in the moment, Justin. Nothing more.

He stepped in, his lips at her ear. “Remember the first time I made you come? In my bedroom, after the ballgame? God, you were the most incredible thing I’d ever seen in my life. We had less than an hour before my father got home, and I thought I’d die from wanting you.” Parting her lips, he sank his finger inside her, then began to stroke. Steady thrusts as she clenched around him. Her hand rose to grasp his shirt, the other sliding low to clutch his hip and draw him in. “Now you’re a stunning woman, Lain, and I’m dying all over again.”

He worked another finger inside her warm folds as remembrance took over. He recalled what she’d liked. Deliberate,thorough,patient, fingers curling to caress a spot he knew held the key to unlocking her pleasure.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered on a tattered gasp, her teeth sinking into the tender skin at the curve of his neck, his back arching into the move. “Don’t. Stop.”

She slid her hand to the front of his jeans, and he was honestly afraid he would embarrass himself if she hit her target. So he caught her wrist, kissing her as he worked his finger deep inside her. “Let me. For now, just let me.”

The kiss deepened as they battled, passion flooding every shadowed corner of his kitchen, echoing beyond its walls and circling straight back to his heart.

What if theywerefated, as he’d once believed? What if that reckless boy who’d loved without hesitation had been right all along?

Lainey groaned, her lids fluttering, her hips rocking against his hand. She was wet, tight, and so fucking incredible. He glanced over her shoulder, measuring the distance to his bedroom. Too far. The couch? Closer.Hell, the kitchen counter’s height was damn-near perfect.

Except, she was close, and from the way she responded, he suspected it had been a while for her. He could have told her—but he wouldn’t—that it had been a while for him, too.

He wasn’t letting her leave this room without falling apart first.

Therefore: priorities.

“Relax, sweetheart. Let’s get a quick one out of the way,” he said, even as the image of her shorts around her ankles while he knelt between her legs powered through him like a freight train.

Why not now?

Deciding it might be the best idea he’d ever had, Justin kissed his way south. He paused only long enough to suck her hard-as-hell nipples, then trailed his tongue down her toned stomach—halting when he hit the zipper of her hoodie. Grinning, he flicked it open and dropped to his knees in front of her.

The pounding of his heart nearly drowned out her whispered plea to keep going.

Almost.

He had a finger hooked in her waistband, tugging her shorts down, when the wall phone started to ring. A leftover from the ’70s—a kitschy, glaring tangerine—it was a relic he liked enough to keep.

Her fingers tangled in his hair, nails grazing his scalp as she drew him closer to her heat. She smelled like female ambrosia—ripe, sweet, utterly addictive.

“Ignore it,” she whispered.

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