Page 57 of Contingently Yours
His gaze flicks to mine, and a hint of rose paints his cheeks. He sputters out a breath, but then looks at our joined hands, jaw clenched. His hand moves down our lengths and picks up fervor.
“Fuck,” he grits, eyes slamming shut, bucking his hips up into our grip as I tag his prostate again and again. “Fuck.”
“I’m going to come all over you and mark you up, and you can’t wash it away this time,” I growl, surprising even myself when his eyes flare open. The damndest thing is that I want it to be true. Badly. Lucas, marked by me.
He keens, his grip going slack, but I can feel his rigidity as my hand slips over the top of his. Body frozen, tense, his cry echoes throughout the room, and he spills over onto my hand.
Fucking hell. I just talked him into an orgasm. Talked him into an orgasm by talking about owning him. And that…just did it for me.
Squeezing us as tightly as I can, my arm is about ready to fall off from working us so hard through my own release. I don’t know if I’ve violated Terry’s advice about whether I’m prodding, but as I pulse and endure full-body spasms, I keep my finger pressed firmly to that magic button inside Lucas’ warmth, desperate to hold him in this state of euphoria for as long as I can.
His neck is twisted, the cords in it strained from turning his head to bury his face in his pillow. I’m disappointed he’s muffling the feral noises he’s making, but it’s probably best. My head is so light I think I might pass out if I hear any more of hissounds. When my cock is spent, I slip my finger out and release him.
Falling onto my elbows, I cage him in with my hands in the air like a surgeon who just scrubbed up. I’m not used to this many fluids during sex, but I’m not complaining. It’s just another pleasant wonder. A welcome newness to an activity I thought could never surprise me anymore. I have half a mind to run my hands all over him and mark him even further. However, that might require us to leave the bed next. Lucas isn’t going anywhere if I have any say in it.
Covering his jugular, I suck hard against his labored breaths. I don’t know why. I don’t even like love bites. He tilts his head back as though it’s instinct to yield to my touch. If he does one more thing that makes me want him, I don’t know if I’ll be able to handle it.
Whimpering, he pulls away, so I release him and drop my head to his shoulder to catch my breath. The skin on his neck has a red spot the shape of my mouth that makes me smile.
I did it. I wrecked him. That strange, exposed sensation has been quieted.
As I lie here on top of this living, breathing moment, his warm, satisfied body beneath me, a sliver of dread embeds itself in me. I know he said he thinks there’s good in me, but what happens if I don’t have enough sunshine for him? I really want to have enough.
I think…I like having a fake boyfriend. Fuck me, though, if I know how to keep one.
CHAPTER 20
Lucas
As Andrew peels himself off me, our skin sticking together, I add it to the list of new and surprising sensations I never imagined existed. My body is still tingling from his touch, and the loss of contact stirs a need in me I didn’t know was possible to feel while being this spent. Is this the part where he goes back to Andrew-the-asshole? I was really hoping for something different this time, especially after the way he reacted to our verbal throwdown in the sunroom.
‘Sweetheart.’ When he said the word this time, it didn’t feel like he was mocking me. It felt like… well, kind of like he thinks of me as a sweetheart. Watching his naked body flex as he steps off the end of the mattress, I’m embarrassed by how much lust it stirs in me. This can’t be real. No matter how good it felt, no matter how surprisingly thoughtful and attentive he was, it’s Andrew—it can’t be real.
He disappears, dropping to the floor in a flash, landing with a thud and anoofnoise. Shit. Did he trip? I lean up on my elbows, but he pops up just as quickly.
“I’m fine!” he calls out, heading toward the bathroom, but glancing back and pointing at me in warning. “Stay there.”
This is all so confusing. I can’t say I minded discovering a part of my body could make me feel such bliss, but it’s still tender. I can still feel the sensation of his finger in my channel and littleaftershocks. I really hate that he was the one to show me that reality, and yet, part of me is celebrating that it was he who did. I don’t think I could imagine letting anyone else be that intimate with me.
What are we? How did we get here? And why do I want someone so unpredictable?
Lying back, I close my eyes and let out a long breath. I feel…good. Physically. Amazing, really. Knowing I might have to prepare for another emotional war in a matter of minutes, though, is not the kind of dynamic I’m looking for.
Listen to me… I wasn’t even looking for any kind of dynamic. I was perfectly content thinking that a relationship wasn’t in the cards for me. I’m thirty-seven, for crying out loud. Marriage, babies, the common path that people expect—well, I’m getting a little too old to think it was ever going to happen. Honestly, call me selfish, but the thought of taking care of someone else’s needs is a bit exhausting. I’ve been doing it my whole life. I’d do it again in a heartbeat for Mom and the girls, but I don’t know that I have it in me to be a doting boyfriend, fiancé, or husband again. I sure as shit got it wrong when I tried. Andrew was right about that—it is nice not having to make decisions for once. When I’m with him, I don’t have to think. Maybe in some strange way, I do trust him.
Something warm and wet touches my stomach, making me flinch. I open my eyes and gape at the sight—Andrew, wiping off my stomach with a wet cloth. He’s cleaning me up?
“I… I can do it,” I babble, taking the rag from him.
It’s probably just his fluids hang-up and the thought of sleeping next to me while I’m a mess. Andrew doesn’t strike me as the kind of person who’s thoughtful after sex, except then I remember what else he said. He told me he wanted to mark me up and didn’t want me to wash it away. As I swipe the rag overmy dick, my face heats at the memory. Why is just the thought making me hard again?
Setting the rag on the nightstand, I lean back. My neck touches an arm as my head hits the pillow. When did he reach over? I start lifting my head back up, so he doesn’t think I’m trying to force him to cuddle with me, but his hand grips my shoulder, tugging me closer to his side, almost like he wants me to stay put. This is…unexpected.
I blink at his profile. Eyes closed, his sigh sounds contented from where he’s resting on his own pillow. I have no idea what this means. Is he really not going to freak out?
“You, uh, okay?” he asks, motioning to my lower half with his chin.
Jesus. “Uh…yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”
