Page 30 of Rematch
Preston withdrew his finger from her ass, gripping her butt in his hands. Still kneeling between her outstretched thighs, he took a moment to study the delicate curve of her back, the way her hips flared out, the soft slope of her ass.
She was utter perfection, and he tried to commit her body to memory. Hell, he was tempted to ask if he could take a picture of her, just like this, something he could look at during the long, lonely nights he was facing in the future. He’d spent his entire adult life looking for someone like her.
He didn’t have to pretend with Chelsea, didn’t have to guard his words or reactions, didn’t have to shield parts of himself lest he come on too strong. God, she didn’t even know what he did for a living, which made this so much more powerful. Because he knew all the way to the depths of his soul, she was here for him—the real him—not the professional athlete.
“Preston?” she said after a few minutes.
He’d gone quiet for too long. “I’m still here.”
“I wish I’d met you sooner.”
Fuck. Those words hit him like a freight train.
“I wish the same thing.”
They let those confessions hover there, neither of them saying anything else.
Fortunately for him, Chelsea found a way to bring them out of that heaviness. Pushing back to her hands and knees, she captured his gaze.
“I want you to fuck me. Hard. I want to be able to still feel you next week when I’m in Paris.”
Preston wasn’t the type to shy away from a challenge, and goddamn, if he didn’t want to leave that kind of a lasting mark on her. Because she was sure as shit leaving hers on him.
Putting on a condom, he gripped her hips, slammed inside, and then he took them both on one hell of a ride, fucking her until they were delirious, out of their minds. He no longer gave a fuck who heard them, and it was probably a sure bet everyone on this floor could.
Chelsea came twice more, and on the second orgasm, she pulled him into the sweet abyss with her.
Preston wasn’t even sure how long they remained in place, connected, before he recovered his wits enough to withdraw and dispose of the condom.
When he returned to bed, she became the little spoon to his big one and they both drifted to sleep for an hour or so.
The rest of the night passed in a blur of sex interspersed with short naps and long heart-to-hearts, where they shared countless stories of their childhood and continued their “favorites” game, covering books, food, vacations, and more.
Neither of them was willing to waste the time sleeping, knowing this was all they could have. They were counting down the hours together, so they created a lifetime of memories in a single evening, sharing every secret, hope, dream, and fear.
At four a.m., their bodies and minds wore out and Preston fell into the deepest sleep of his life.
When he opened his eyes again, he blinked several times, a bright stream of sunlight from the curtain they’d forgotten to close last night nearly blinding him.
It took a second before he realized it wasn’t the sun that woke him up but the sound of someone walking around the room.
Rising, his chest tightened when he spotted Chelsea, fully dressed, sitting on a chair and putting her shoes on.
She glanced at him, offering what he was sure she’d intended to be a cheerful smile. She wasn’t selling it as well as she might have hoped because he could read every bit of the sadness he was currently feeling in her expression.
“I called for a rideshare,” she said softly.
Preston shook his head, quickly climbing out of bed, reaching for his jeans. “No. I’ll give you a ride.”
She stood and crossed the room to him, putting her hand on his, stopping him from fastening his jeans.
“The car is already on its way, and I think this is better.”
He scowled. “Better?”
“Rip the Band-Aid off.”
“Give me your phone number, your address, your last name,” he demanded. “This doesn’t have to be it.”
