Page 52 of Night in a Waste Land

He was glorious. Gorgeous.

And he looked at her with a kind of held-back hope, a doubt, a fear to want, that twisted her heart in her chest.

“Hey,” he said, quietly, his voice a little rough.

She said, “I won’t regret it.”

He studied her a long moment, holding her gaze, asking – and then his gaze shifted down to her lips. “You’re sure?” he asked, airless.

She had to bridge that distance, because he was so afraid of overstepping. She took a deep breath. “Lance, I’m sure.”

A breathless moment hung between them.

Then he reached for her.

Oh, thank God, she thought, as he caught her wrist and reeled her in – into the room, into his chest, into his arms. He kicked the door shut, hooked an arm around her waist – but then he was all of tenderness as he cupped her cheek with his free hand and kissed her.

His lips pressed hard to hers, and his thumb flexed against her jaw. She felt the flicker of his lashes against her cheeks, the press of his nose to hers. Felt his rough exhale as his tongue probed the seam of her lips. Question and capitulation at once.

She fisted her hands in the front of his shirt – felt the heat and heft of the muscle beneath – and opened to him. Invited him. He sucked in an audible breath through his nose, and his tongue flicked deep into her mouth.

Rose dropped the last of her mental armor, and surrendered to it: to the simple, wonderful pleasure of his slick, hungry kisses, kissing as good herself in return. She mapped his chest and stomach with her hands, feeling the way his hard, sculpted body flickered beneath her touch, the way he leaned into it and kissed her harder, deeper, their breaths coming ragged in the space between kisses.

He touched her in return. Stroked her ribs, her waist. Cupped her breasts, briefly, through her loose cotton shirt, and groaned against her lips when he felt that she wasn’t wearing a bra. Then he dipped down and slipped his hands beneath the hem of her shirt, so he could get to her skin. His calluses caught at her, rubbed rough and thrilling across her stomach, and up to her chest, until he could finally touch her breasts skin-to-skin.

A low, involuntary sound built in her throat, and his tongue dipped deeper in response. He circled her hardening nipples with his thumbs, until they were drawn up tight and aching.

“Rose,” he murmured against her cheek. Her jaw. “Sweetheart.”

She strained up on her toes, pressing into his hands, his wonderful, knowing touch. “I’m not sweet,” she protested, breathlessly.

His teeth grazed her earlobe. “Agree to disagree.”

She stepped back – the way his face fell would have been hilarious if it wasn’t both touching and sad – but only long enough to pull her shirt off over her head, and shove down her sweats and underwear in one efficient movement. Then he went goggle-eyed.

“Not sweet. Take off your clothes.”

“Shit,” he breathed, and complied.

She knew a moment’s fleeting regret that, in her haste, she didn’t get the chance to properly admire him. She had the impression of shifting, bunching muscles, smooth, sun-starved skin, and coarse, dark hair on his chest, arrowing down his belly to his cock – the sight of which left her reeling in a good way.

Then he kicked away his own sweats, sat down on the side of his bunk, and reached for her.

She climbed into his lap gladly, thrilled by the hard steel of his thighs beneath her own, swaying forward to grip at his shoulders, bare now, flexing under her hands. His cock brushed her belly, and she ground forward into it; watched his eyes flutter shut in response, watched the tendons leap in his throat. His skin twitched beneath her palms.

He was so sensitive. And that was before she took hold of his cock.

“Jesus,” he hissed. He banded an arm around her waist, dragged her in even closer so she didn’t have much room to work. He reached up with his free hand, tangled it in her wet hair, and hauled her into another kiss.

She lost herself to it, for a little while. Her hand loosened, and her body took on that numb, melting feeling, like she was drunk.

She whimpered when he finally broke away from her mouth and trailed hot, slow, open-mouthed kisses down her throat. “What do you want?” he murmured. His hand closed over hers, where she still gripped him loosely. They stroked his cock together, fingers overlapping and interlaced. Rose tipped her head to give him better access to her pulse point and swiped her thumb over the head of his cock, smearing the moisture there, feeling his breath hot and unsteady against her throat. “Rose. What do you want?” he asked again, and set his teeth at the join of neck and shoulder, a gentle press that couldn’t be called a bite.

Everything had gone cotton-candy soft in her head, her body awash with sensation. She wanted more of that. More acute pleasure; didn’t want to think of anything except feeling good. “I want to get fucked,” she said. “I want you inside me.”

“God.” His hand lifted from hers – and slipped between her legs.

The first touch – the pads of his fingers skimming down her wet folds – left her cursing, and clutching at his shoulders with both hands again. She tipped forward to press her forehead to his, neck impossibly weak now, and spread her thighs wider, silently asking for more.

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