Page 34 of Sexting the Coach
“Oh,” I say, knowing my voice sounds a little too breathy, but not knowing how to fix it. “That’s just the elevator. It always sticks like that.”
Then, the lights go out.
“Does it always do that, too?”
“No,” I admit, feeling unmoored in the darkness of the elevator, my pulse quickening. Without thinking, I take a step in his direction, reaching for him, like I need to anchor myself to another body. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust, but when they do, I can see his form through the dark.
When my hand lands on him—in the center of his chest—he sucks in a quick breath. I feel it under my palm, the air entering his lungs, and for a long moment, we’re stuck hovering like this, my hand on him, us breathing together, suspended in the dark.
Then everything changes.
Like a rubber band finally snapping, Weston moves, his hands wrap around my back, sliding over the slick material of my dress, making it ride up over my thighs dangerously as he twists me around and presses me against the elevator wall.
When Weston covers my mouth with his, he tastes like spearmint.
I react, reaching for him, balling the fabric of his jacket in my fists, letting out an embarrassingly desperate little noise from the back of my throat.
My mind splutters out for a solid three minutes at the start of the kiss, even as I’m responding, hips pressing up to his. One of his hands drops, palming my ass, squeezing obsessively, sliding down to the back of my thigh, hitching my knee up so he can press into me.
He’s hard, and that fact makes my blood molten. Feeling him against the fabric of my panties makes me gasp, and he swallows the sound with a deeper kiss, his tongue licking into my mouth.
There’s nothing in the dark elevator but the sound of our heavy breathing, the raspy scrape of hands over fabric and skin. Even though I know I should stop this—remindbothof us that this isn’t what we’re here for—I can’t. I won’t.
Maybe I want it too much. Or maybe everything that’s happening has short-circuited my brain completely, and all that’s left of my nervous system is the places where Weston’s fingers touch.
He kisses me in an all-consuming way, his tongue sliding against mine, the movements timed to the rhythm of our breathing. His hips jerk, the friction sending pleasure scattering through me, the movement a crude approximation of what I really want.
At first, when he slides his hand away from my knee, I’m missing the touch, but then his fingers land on the inside of my thigh, sliding higher. Weston toys with the edges of my panties, infuriatingly, and I go completely still, as though it might be the answer to getting those fingers where I really want them.
“Say you want this,” he rasps, his lips moving against mine as he does.
When I nod, my nose bumps into his.
“Not good enough. Say it out loud.”
I whine, shifting my hips to try and force his hand inside my panties, but he holds it back until I say, “Iwantthis, Weston.”
With that, his fingers are sliding under the hem of my panties, dipping into me in one long stroke. My body flies apart, the boundaries of myself dissipating, my hands clutching desperately at his shoulders.
If it was hard to form a coherent thought before this, it’s impossible now.
He presses his knuckles into my clit, anchoring his other hand on my ass to hold my hips how he wants them. When he slides a finger inside me, he drops his lips to my neck, pumping in and out, letting out a low noise into the crook of my neck.
I’m nothing but feeling, nothing but wanting as he fucks me, driving his hand up and into me, the fabric of my underwear straining around the side of his fist. When my legs start to shake,he anchors his other arm around my back, holding me up and against him.
My cheek presses against his chest, my back against the elevator wall, every synapse in my brain hyper-focused on the feeling of his thick fingers curling inside me.
Then, he pulls back and returns thicker—two fingers rather than one—moving his fingers in a way that tells me he’s done this before, a swift pulse and curl that makes my soul leave my body.
I come—embarrassingly fast—around his fingers, feeling my walls tighten around him, latching onto the low growl in his throat at the little moment. I cling to him, breathing hard, body rolling along the waves of the orgasm like I’m a boating drifting into the shoreline.
Then, as though timed to my pleasure, the elevator light flicks on.
Weston draws back from me like he’s been burned, roughly wiping his mouth on his forearm.
My feet are on the ground, but I can’t feel them. My legs are shaking. Distantly, I tug at the hem of my dress, returning it to something a little closer to how it’s supposed to be worn, rather than bunched around my hips.
When the door opens a second later, Weston clears his throat, “Good night, Elsie.”
