Page 42 of Sexting the Coach
Then he’s reaching out, grabbing me, pulling me into his room.
I let out an embarrassingly breathless sound as he cradles me—one hand behind my head, the other at the small of my back—and presses me against the wall, his mouth slanting over mine, his tongue hot and seeking.
It’s just like that day in the elevator. Like the tension has snapped between us, and we can come together without word or discussion.
I press into him, hands sliding up into his hair, tugging, and I realize he’s not wearing a hat. It makes me feel special, chosen, to touch him like this. To have him all to myself.
We breathe into each other, Weston taking his time to kiss me thoroughly and completely, until I feel loose in his arms, limbs warm and limber, my thoughts scattering completely. The only thing I can think about is the press of his hips to mine, the promise of the bulge under his sweatpants.
His fingers toy with the hem of my nightgown. I slide my fingers under the waistband of his sweatpants. He pulls down the collar of my pajamas and runs his searing tongue over my nipple, eliciting another dark noise from me.
“Elsie,” he growls, his voice rumbling against the sensitive skin on my chest, his facial hair a rough contrast to his impossibly soft lips. “I’m going to fuck you now.”
I’m nodding before he finishes the sentence, my head knocking back against the wall as I do. He gathers me up in his arms, walks me backward to his bed. I fall back onto it, breathing hard, waiting for the weight of him on me, craving it like I’ve never craved anything in my life.
But it doesn’t come.
I swallow and prop myself up on my elbows, worried that I might find him realizing this is a mistake, pulling back, putting on more clothes and asking me to leave his room.
Blood rushes to my head when I realize what he’s actually doing.
Sinking down onto his knees, Weston grabs the back so my knees and pulls me, so my ass is flush with the edge of thebed. Like a man possessed, he kisses the insides of my ankles, my calves, his hair falling over his forehead, his eyes practically black and shining in the dim light coming in through the balcony doors.
“Weston,” I croak, heart beating in my throat when I realize what he’s planning. His fingers press on the insides of my thighs, desperate and seeking, little noises coming from his throat that sound like barely-maintained restraint. “Are you?—”
But the words die in my throat when he hooks his thumbs in my panties, drawing them down my hips. The cool air against my throbbing, needy pussy makes me gasp, but it doesn’t stay cool for long, because Weston follows with a swipe of his thumb through me.
“You’re wet for me,” he says, simply, eyes flicking up to mine. The atmosphere in the room is thick, hanging between us, then he tears his eyes away from my eyes and squeezes my thighs again, his gaze dropping to the core of me. “And so, fucking pretty.”
I shiver at the rush of pleasure that rolls through me at the compliment, and his mouth follows closely after. I contort like I’m possessed, my back arching up off the bed, and I gasp—my body has never done something like that before. Like I was out of control.
It’s not that Jonathan was bad at sex—I’d come most of the time. But he didn’t really like oral, and I was fine with that. The entire thing felt embarrassing, especially when he played it up as a big gift for my birthday or something.
But Weston acts not only like this is completely normal, but like it’s the only thing he’s been able to think about. His tongue is unbelievably strong, lapping at me, consistent and thorough. He alternates between providing just the right amount of pressure at the right pace, until I feel the edge of my orgasm on the horizon, and lazily exploring me, kissing the insides of mythighs, tucking his hands under my ass, and holding me to him so I can’t squirm away.
I’ve never felt anything like it in my life. It’s more than just his skill—it’s the insatiable way he moves, the noises he makes, like this is just as good for him as it is for me.
And it’s really, really fucking good for me.
Weston edges me for what feels like hours, bringing me to the very brink of collapse, then pulling back, and cycling through that until my entire body is shaking and I’m practically sobbing, begging him for release.
“Please,” I croak, gripping at the sheets, at his hair. When I try to touch myself, he bats my hand away, grinning wickedly up at me from his place between my legs. “Weston—please.”
And when he finally follows through, sliding two expert fingers inside me like he did in that elevator, I orgasm so hard and for so long I’m sure I’m never coming back down to earth again.
When I start to blink awake the next morning, surrounded in the cedary scent of Weston Wolfe, it takes me a moment to emerge from my dream and remember where I am. And who I’m with. And what exactly we did last night.
Weston is asleep on his stomach, his face buried in the pillow, several streaks of silver running along the crown of his head. It makes my stomach swoop, this private little peak into his life and his insecurities. And it also reminds me that I had my fingers in that head of hair last night.
“Oh, God,” I whisper, sitting up, heart racing, realizing that when he was finished with me, I’d snuggled right into the bed and fallen straight asleep.
He ate me out for what felt like hours, and the second he was done, I passed right out.
“What’s wrong?” Weston’s voice is tired, a little muffled, and I glance over at him, watching as he lifts his head, looking around the room like he might be able to find what’s bothering me.
“I—I?—”
What is wrong with me?
