Page 66 of The Rebel (Looking to Score 1)
“Good God, Eden.”
He gathers my hair in his fist, holding my blond waves at the nape of my neck as I take an inch of him, then another, until my lips are wrapped tight around him. He shudders, and I glide my lips up to his velvety tip, then down again, working him over with my tongue all the while. Then his breath hitches and he pulls back, his ash-colored eyes flickering with something close to primal.
“So good, sweetheart. But I need all of you.”
I can’t argue with that.
Weaving his fingers through mine, he pulls me back onto the couch and into a deep, hungry kiss. It’s not long till his mouth wanders down my neck, sucking and nipping at my collarbone and earning him a breathy moan in response. Soon, we’re shedding what’s left of our clothes, and I’m climbing over him, my knees pressed on either side of his thick thighs.
“Condom?” he asks.
I meet his eyes. “Do we need it? I’m on birth control, and . . .”
“Your call. I’m good if you are.”
His words are strained, barely above a whisper, and I kiss his mouth and shake my head. We don’t need anything else between us.
I’m wet for him already, but he dips a finger inside, testing my heat and groaning at what he finds.
“So perfect.”
A shaky moan pushes past my lips as he lifts me over him, positioning me just right. I plant my palms against his firm pecs, steadying myself the best that I can. But when he guides me down onto him, sinking all the way into me, steady is the last word I’d use to describe what I’m feeling.
Good God, this man fits inside me so perfectly, like his body was made to fit into mine, two interlocking puzzle pieces finally coming together. My heart beats an uneven rhythm as I ride him, grinding my hips against his until I feel a wild heat building between my legs.
“Holt,” I say on a gasp. “I’m close.”
His fingers sink into the small of my back, pressing me tight against the curve of his length. “Me too, baby,” he says softly. “Come for me.”
I kiss him then, and with one last tilt of his hips, pleasure rolls through me in hot, wild waves. He’s only moments behind me, releasing into me as he groans my name. It’s sweet and glorious on his lips.
Eden. Like the most perfect prayer.
26
* * *
HOLT
Things between Eden and me are effortless—like running downhill. It’s just easy.
Over the past few weeks, we’ve gone on dates, hung out together at her place and at mine. Cooked. Watched movies. Talked. I’ve rubbed her feet while she worked on her laptop. And we’ve had a lot of sex . . . definitely no complaints there.
But I’ve noticed something else. I’m starting to feel things I have no right to.
Eden isn’t my girlfriend. We aren’t dating. So, why do I have a whole bunch of ideas that seem way too domestic and couple-y for what we’re doing? Things like nights spent in bed, talking and cuddling and making love as many times as we can before my body gives out on me. Going to movies and walking on the beach.
The only time I listen to my loud, angry music anymore is when I’m working out, since I no longer need an angsty soundtrack to my life. On one hand, everything has changed, but on the other, nothing has, because we haven’t actually spoken about our relationship yet.
It’s something I intend to change, but I don’t want to spook Eden.
I know she’s only months off of a bad and very public breakup, and she’s given me no indication that she’s in the market for another serious relationship. She sleeps over at my place and lets me hold her. She cooks for me and texts me during the day, but that doesn’t mean she’s ready to be someone’s girlfriend again.
“Do you want to swing by the store on the way home?” Eden asks, interrupting my thoughts. “I’d like to get the ingredients for a recipe I saw online.”
Home. I love that she refers to wherever we’re staying together as home.
I nod. “Sure.”
We went for coffee this morning after sleeping in. Well, I got coffee. Eden got some fancy latte thing that I can’t even begin to pronounce. We’ve spent the last few weekends like this, doing mundane things together, but I’m happy, happier than I’ve ever been.
After the grocery store, she says she has library books to return, so we swing by there and are now back at her place. I unload the grocery bags while Eden locates the recipe on her phone.
“Does this look good to you?” she asks.
It’s something called shakshuka. I have no idea what that means. We picked up eggs, goat cheese, tomato sauce, and a crusty loaf of bread. At the time, I didn’t see how they could all be combined into one recipe together. To be honest, I still don’t.
