Page 101 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
When his mouth finds me, the sensation is so sharp and unexpected my knees almost give out. “Yes,” I moan. “Harder. Right there, ohgoddd.”
Heat floods my body in a dizzy rush. His lips close around me, hot and wet. The scrape of his tongue sends a pulse of pleasure straight through my spine. Every nerve feels lit from the inside, so sensitive I can hardly stand still. My hands find his hair, twisting in the strands, holding on like he might vanish if I let go.
He moves with a slow, consuming purpose. Every stroke is unhurried but devastating. His tongue teases, then presses, falling into perfect rhythm with the slow circles of his fingers. My breath becomes ragged. Each touch opened me in ways I did not know I could be opened. My thighs tremble around his shoulders. He holds me steady, murmuring something I can’t quite hear.
The words leave my mouth like a chant. “Oh my God, yes. Fuck me with your mouth, Huxley. Don’t stop, please don’t stop.”
It builds within me, a wave gathering force. I feel like I might break apart if I try to hold it in. My hips shift without my permission, chasing the exact angle he’s found. I need it. I can’t stop. His grip tightens around my thigh, keeping me exactly where he wants me. The sounds he makes against me are low and hungry, curling deep in my belly. I bite down on a gasp and fail. The sound spills out anyway.
When release finally tears through me, it’s raw and consuming. My whole body jerks against his mouth. Every muscle tightens. Pleasure rips through me in waves that feel endless.
“Fuck, Hunter! Yes. Oh, fuck, yes, yes.” My voice is loud and unrestrained. Heat rises in my cheeks even as I surrender to it. He doesn’t pull away. He stays with me, steady and unrelenting, riding out each aftershock until I’m shivering from the intensity.
By the time I slump forward, I’m spent and shaking. My chest rises and falls in quick bursts. My hands slide from his hair to his shoulders, clinging without thought. He eases back just enough to look up at me. His lips are glistening. His eyes are dark and intense. The way he looks at me makes it clear he’s not just touching my body. He’s memorizing me. Every part of me.
When my breathing finally slows, I reach for him, wanting to return the favor. But he gently catches my hands.
“Not tonight,” he says quietly. “Tonight is just for you.”
“But you...” I gesture vaguely at the obvious evidence of his arousal.
“I’m fine.”
I study his face, seeing the tension there, the careful control. “You’re holding back.”
He doesn’t deny it. “I know you’re scared.”
I nod, because I am. Terrified of what this means, of how it changes everything.
“I’m scared too,” he admits.
The silence that follows is heavy but full of meaning. We’re both acknowledging something we can’t take back, something that makes this fake relationship feel a lot more real than either of us expected.
Before I can make the mistake of asking for more, asking for promises he can’t make, I gather what’s left of my dignity and head toward my room.
“Goodnight, Hux.”
“Goodnight, Monroe.”
I close my bedroom door behind me and lean against it, my whole body still shaking from what we shared. From what we almost shared.
Three months, I remind myself.This ends in three months.
But as I lie in bed, replaying every touch, every word, every look, I can’t shake the feeling that three months will not be nearly enough.
Chapter23
Hunter
Iwake up to a generic hotel ceiling and the sound of someone knocking on my door. For a second, I think it’s housekeeping, but then I remember I put the Do Not Disturb sign up last night.
The knocking stops for a second, and I close my eyes, drifting. Juliet is supposed to be flying in this morning with Ivy and the rest of the off-ice support team. I arrived with the team last night so that I could get a solid night’s rest before we play against Boston, one of the toughest teams in the country. Thoughts of Juliet filled my dreams, and I slept fitfully at best.
It’s been two weeks since I had to sleep in a hotel room, and the ache of loneliness is hitting me hard. Usually, I don’t give a fuck if I’m on the road. But knowing the Juliet is at my house, probably wearing those silky little sleep shorts and no fucking bra… sitting on the couch, watching foreign detective dramas. Not missing me at all while I fucking wallow in my hotel room.
Fuck, I hate this. Do I evenlikeJuliet? I’m not supposed to. But she’s the first thing in my head when I wake and the last thing when I finally pass out. Why can’t I just be a normal fucking human?
“Mr. Huxley? Room service!” a voice calls. The person outside starts banging on the door again, growing impatient. I drag myself out of bed, still half-asleep, and open the door to find a guy in a hotel uniform holding a breakfast tray. “Room service for Mr. Huxley?”
