Page 53 of Back for More
He inhales deeply as he stretches his arms out over his head. “Smells good. Thanks. How you feelin’?”
I take a seat at the edge of the bed. It’s then that I realize he’s packing morning wood. Either that or he sleeps with a child’s baseball bat for protection. I just sat my ass right down next to it, and a less talented actress than myself would not be able to ignore it. Fortunately, what I have to say is not at all arousing and is guaranteed to deflate that thing immediately.
But before I’m able to say it, he touches his finger to the underside of my arm. “You got butter on you.”
“Oh.” I raise my arm to my mouth and lick it off before maneuvering myself to face him. Heat flashes in his eyes, but he remains still. I say what I want to say to him. “I’m embarrassed about last night. I don’t know why I…” I shrug. Sometimes only angsty eighties power ballads can adequately express who you are at your core: “Every now and then I fall apart.”
“I told you,” he says, all husky-voiced and bleary-eyed. “You don’t have to be embarrassed.”
I scoff at that. “But I criedandvomited. I mean, normally I’d just do one or the other, but both is…not okay.”
He drags the tip of his thumb up the back of my arm and then sucks the remaining butter from his fingertip. “You missed some,” he says. I just stare at his smirking mouth as he licks his upper lip. “If you’re embarrassed about that,” he continues, “then how embarrassed are you going to feel after what happens this morning?”
I have to clear my throat to find my voice. “What’s happening this morning?”
In one swift move, he has me on my back, and he’s hovering over me, staring directly into my eyes. “I’m going to make you come harder than you ever have in your life.”
Gulp.
“You gonna be okay with that tomorrow, when we’re working together? Or are you going to let your embarrassment get in the way of enjoying our weekend?”
“Try me.”
He takes my face in both hands and gives me a long, slow, deep kiss. It’s so unlike the frantic, lust-fueled, grabby frenzies we’ve experienced in the past, I don’t even recognize us. I feel myself sinking into the mattress and relaxing into the hypnotic rhythm of his mouth and tongue as it moves with mine. His hands stroke my hair and my neck before slowly making their way down my torso.
Oh God, just the weight of his big hard body on top of mine is so much better than anything I’ve ever felt.
Until his hands find their way under the T-shirt and he lets out a groan. “You feel so fucking good.”
Yes.Thisis the best thing I’ve ever felt. His slightly rough hands exploring my smooth skin as if he’s confident we have all the time in the world for this. His fingertips tickle the skin underneath my breasts, graze the sides of them, and when he cups both of my breasts in his hands at once and swipes his thumbs over my nipples, I sigh and tremble and try so hard to maintain this tempered pace.
Until I remember that I have hands too and that Wes is shirtless.
I reach around to grab hold of his perfect man buns and then I let my hands roam, up and down and all around his muscular back and broad shoulders. The warm skin on his body is so much smoother than I had expected it to be. It must be amazing to be him. To inhabit this body and know that he can lift anything and defend himself and build things. Every single thing about his body turns me on—the way it looks and feels and moves and what he can do with it.
I don’t know how to do anything other than resent him for making me feel this way.
I drag my fingernails across his back—not hard, just enough to make him suck in his breath and then groan.
I wriggle around and bite his shoulder, like some manic puppy who can’t control herself.
The pressure in my clit is profound, and I realize I’ve been grinding against his erection, my legs wrapped tight around the backs of his legs, and I’m moaning and swearing under my breath.
Fuck this slow, sexy rhythm—there isn’t one part of me that’s capable of being anything other than crazed when it comes to Wes Carver.
Why isn’t he losing his mind while touching me?
“Are you thinking about me crying and vomiting?”
“No.” His voice is a low rumble of thunder just below my ears. “Are you?”
“No!” I shriek. I am so close to orgasm I want to scream—he’s barely even done anything yet, and I am unraveling. “Breakfast is getting cold!” I hiss.
“I have a microwave,” he says, so calmly that it makes me want to pummel him with my fists.
I’m having the hormonal equivalent of a panic attack, and he’s being logical and taking his time kissing and fondling me.
Finally, he slides his hand down between my legs and discovers that my panties have basically dissolved at this point.
