Page 89 of Sexting the Coach
But right now, I can only think of one thing.
“Hey,” I whisper back, finding her ear and reveling in her shiver at the sound of my voice. “I’ve got this nice hotel room, just down the street?—”
She grabs the front of my shirt, pulling me closer with a laugh. “I’m there, Wolfe, but you might have to carry me.”
“Deal.”
Chapter 39
Elsie
True to his word, Weston carries me the entire way down the street as I laugh, clutching onto him. Despite the cold, Ontario is alive around us with tourists, commuters, and the general sounds of the city. We pass both old and modern buildings, people in hats and mittens, their breath puffing up into the night.
I breathe in Weston’s scent as he brings me home. We probably look crazy, but I don’t care.
Just before we reach the front door of the hotel, it starts to snow softly, and I stare up at the sky, at the TV static look of the clouds and snow drifting down, and think that I’ve never been this happy in my life.
He holds me the entire time he unlocks the hotel room, and then carries me to the bed. The moment I hit the duvet, the look on his face changes from contentment to hunger, and the sight of it runs through my body, making me shiver at the thought of him touching me.
We move quietly, efficiently, him slipping off my dress and me pulling at his dress shirt until he slides it off over his head. We’re two warm bodies, two people reaching for each other at once, and when bare skin touches, the heat is almost unbearable.
I want him inside me, and I say as much, but Weston shakes his head, pulling back and placing a kiss to the side of my head, just below my temple.
“I’m taking my time with you,” he says, his voice low enough that I can barely make out the words.
Holding himself up over me, Weston kisses down the side of my face, then to my collarbone, trailing his fingers down my biceps in a way that sends a battalion of shivers running the length of me. I’m in nothing but my lace underwear, and Weston pauses for a moment, reaching over for a remote that sends the fireplace in the corner of the room blazing to light.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs, dragging the tip of his nose between my breasts, and it feels like he’s connected to my breath, like each time he touches me it gives my lungs permission to expand again. “So,fuckingbeautiful.”
The praise should make me self-conscious, but there’s nothing about being with Weston that doesn’t feel right. He places a hand on my hip, his fingers splaying out possessively over the bottom of my stomach, and I sigh into him, the feeling of being the sole object of his desire.
Running his hands down the insides of my thighs, Weston hitches at the knees and spreads my legs, kneeling down between them with a wicked look on his face. My panties come off, and I’m bare before him.
I’m mute, breathless and beholden to him as he lowers down between them, dragging his tongue crudely up and through me. I cry out, and one hand flies to his head, my fingers looping around his hair, my heart skipping several beats as he explores me, forgetting rhythm or pattern and instead teasing me, running his tongue along the inside of my thigh, swirling several times over my clit before leaving, dipping his tongue just into my entrance until I’m shaking and gasping for him.
“Weston,” I finally plead, writhing, the desire coursing through me nearly painful. “Weston?—”
“Yes?” he asks, rising up and wiping his mouth roughly with the back of his hand. The sight of him like this, his eyes dark, the faint lines of his abs visible from the flickering of the fire—it makes me sick with an almost primal need.
I rise up to meet him, tasting myself on his lips and not caring. He sighs into the kiss, one of his hands falling to my hip, the other planting on the bed just above my shoulder.
Grinding up and into him, I press my clit along the length of his shaft and whimper at the feeling, at the desperation with which I need him inside me. Reaching down, I run my hand along the thick velvet of his cock, and his body shudders appreciatively for me.
Voice like gravel, Weston says, “I love you.”
I tip my chin up to him, catching his eyes, overwhelmed with the number of feelings there. Amusement, wanting, desire, affection. “So, show me.”
And he does.
When Weston slides inside me, it’s like butter, so easy and slick that I think we’re about to catapult into something fast, a mirror of the other times we’ve been together. Me rocking into him, begging for more, and Weston delivering pace and impact.
But he doesn’t.
Thrusting his hips, Weston delivers long, slow strokes that keep my orgasm just on the horizon, his body over mine a tease, his hot skin and solid frame a clear indication of how roughly he could treat me, but how much he refuses to in this moment.
As he fucks me, he leans down and kisses each of my shoulders, uses one hand to pin down my hips so I can’t squirm, can’t rise to meet him with each thrust. He forced me to take what he’ll give me, and it creates such a slow, steady rise to orgasm that I’m lost to the movement, so when it finally startsto wash over me, it’s like it comes from every part of my body at once.
I feel it in the tips of my fingers, in the cool, sweet sensation on my tongue, in my hips and the backs of calves. Nerve endings reacting, lighting up in a chorus of pleasure.
