Page 43 of Rivals to Lovers
“I didn’t want it to end,” he said. His eyes met hers, but one of his hands traced the outside of her thigh gently. “It was one long tease—knowing how it ended but going mad trying to figure out how you got there.”
She wriggled her hips underneath him, unable to keep still. She felt him react, tighten against her. Good. She wanted him here, present. “More,” she said.
He laid a palm lightly on her stomach to hold her steady, resting it on top of the knot to the robe. “And your sentences,” he said, his mouth close to her ear now and fingers working at the knot. His beard tickled her cheek. “Who taught you to write sentences like that?”
Her skin tingled as he pulled back the robe, exposing her body to the air. She was still wet from the rain, and her skin goose-bumped in the cool room. She didn’t want to draw the robe around her, though, especially since Wes lowered his mouth on her neck, kissing a line from one end of her collarbone to the other. “And your metaphors—your extended metaphors were sublime.”
She pushed up slightly, face close to his. “Oh really? What extended metaphor was that?”
He kissed the upper part of her chest, forcing her back down on the bed. Between kisses he said, “The car, the car that Clive gives her. The one she drives away in at the end.”
Her brain was trying to split in two now, one part—the part tied into the nerves in her breasts—wanting to focus on what his tongue was doing. Gentle flicks, the scratch of his cheek against her sensitive skin. But that part of her brain wasn’t the one controlling her mouth. “What did you”—here she couldn’t help moaning as his teeth bit down softly—“see that as a metaphor for?”
He looked up from his work, eyebrow cocked. “Oh, the car was the American dream, or at least as far as capitalism can take you.”
She laughed at that. “Sometimes a car is just a car.”
He made a noise of disagreement, then pushed back the rest of her robe to fall slack on the bed. His face rose toward hers, brown eyes meeting her hazel ones. He paused there, one hand moving back to her waist.
The touch, lightly moving across her hips, made her analytical brain fizzle, almost refusing to come back online as a shot of warmth went through her core. Sex and pleasure were sometimes intertwined in her life—but more often, sex was another kind of emotional intimacy first and foremost. She had a little device in the top drawer for nights when she needed release. She had been brought to orgasm by men before, but it wasn’t a given, not even with Aaron. Men didn’t seem to always take the time, and she felt awkward telling them what she needed. If a guy needed a checklist to get there, it wasn’t worth it to her. But with Wes, it was different. She’d never been so attuned to what was going on with her body, never had a lover this patient. Every inch of skin waited for him to make his next move. She felt each part of him separately, dividing her attention as best as she could as one of hishands continued to play with her breast and his mouth moved lower and lower until it rested between her thighs.
She heard herself gasping—not orgasming but enjoying the heightened pleasure of his conscientious attention. He heard it too, casting his eyes to hers. Those eyes, warm brown under a tangle of dark hair. She couldn’t resist any more and moved her hands to plant into his curls. He raised himself up and placed her hands above her head. “I’m not in a rush, are you?”
How could she tell him that she was—that the longer he took, the better he made her feel before she came, the more time she had to picture this happening again? The longer the memory, the more potent, the less likely that she could go back to her room tonight and not wish she’d stayed over. Not wish this would become something more. She didn’t want to complicate things, but they already had, hadn’t they? He’d read her book, and he’d read her—both too well. Both in ways that she hadn’t even read herself. “Not everything is a competition.”
“Isn’t it?” he asked. “Because I bet I get you first.”
That was a bet he won. As she came down, head still spinning and made worse by how hot she felt, she whispered in his ear. “You got a head start. Not fair.” She liked the uneven playing field, the way her pleasure seemed to give him pleasure.
She tugged on the collar of his shirt, which was still on. In a minute, he had evened the score. They were both naked, him lying next to her and the robe kicked completely off the bed. He pulled a condom from the top drawer of his dresser and rolled it on. After, she kissed him, tasting herself on his lips, and as the kiss deepened, she shifted her weight on top of him and held his hands above his head. She pressed down on them experimentally. “You said you like to lose control sometimes, don’t you?”
He didn’t exactly growl, but he didn’t exactly not growl.
“Listen,” she said, biting his earlobe, then releasing when he sighed. “When I write a metaphor, you will know it’s a metaphor.”
He chuckled, deep in his chest, and tried to move his hands. She kissed him harder, holding them. She knew he could break free if he wanted to, but the wicked smile on his face told Maureen he was enjoying this reversal as much as she had enjoyed his hands on her earlier. After a second, she reached behind her, letting his arms go, and pulled him close.
Sometimes sex was the destination, the moment of climax, but every time Wes had touched her, it was journey focused. He was locked in on her, her pleasure, and she couldn’t look away from his face. Finally, he entered her, and it truly felt like that—all of him filling all of her up, core to chest to head. He took up space inside her brain every moment, and not just these ones when they were naked. This was dangerous. She knew she shouldn’t fall for him, but when he was so eager to catch her—when his hands were holding her tight enough to let her feel safe falling—then how could she resist? That face he made, the way he bit his lip to hold on for her, did it, sent her spiraling over the cliff and into herself again.
They finished together and lay back panting. She realized she was, in every sense of the word, really and truly fucked. She’d told him not to think about endings. To improv with her. The truth was that she wanted him, all of him, and she would never be satisfied unless she could have him.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Wes
Finally, finally, he could appreciate the benefits of this huge shower. By the time he had warmed the water, Mo had joined him in the bathroom, and together they lived up to its potential. Wes knelt before her, worshipping her under the jets until she fell back against the wall and landed next to his shampoos on the seat. He had never brought a partner in here before. There’d been a woman a few months ago, but that hadn’t lasted long and the only connection she cared about was the ones Wes could make for her. Then he’d seen a guy for about three months about a year ago, but the guy broke it off when someone else came along. Wes hadn’t even been heartbroken. He hadn’t been ready to make a commitment anyway, and it felt like serendipity to let him go.
But gazing at Mo’s face under the running water, soaping her as she sat on the seat afterward—gently, not sexually, from her toes to her thighs—made Wes realize that he couldn’t not do this again. He needed her, needed to be able to exploreevery room of this brownstone with her, but also every corner of this city. He wanted her to meet Ajay and Loris. He wanted to ask her thoughts about bookstores—which ones did she go to, and which booksellers did she ask for recommendations from? He wanted to know her coffee order—it felt wrong that he didn’t already, when he knew so much about her body and her book.
They toweled off—or rather, he wrapped a towel around himself so he could grab her one from the hallway. She stood at the doorway, completely naked, watching him fetch it for her. “So fancy and domestic. You even have a linen closet.”
He handed her the towel, and she dried her face before wrapping it around her body like a dress. Her skin, the part that wasn’t covered, had goose bumps up and down from the few seconds’ delay, and he felt a twinge of guilt. “Are you … can you stay over?” he asked.
“I mean, it is pretty late.”
It was only nine thirty. “And it could rain again at any moment.”
“This feels more and more like ‘Baby, It’s Cold Outside.’ ”
