A Real Goode Time Page 16

  She didn’t look away, and I chewed on the inside of my cheek before mentally saying fuck it.

  Grabbed a handful of T-shirt at the back of my neck, I ripped the shirt off over my head, and tossed it aside. Oddly, coincidentally, totally accidentally, it landed on Torie’s jeans. I was hesitant about dropping my jeans in front of her while sporting an enormous erection I could not even begin to hope to control. But it was that or sleep in jeans, and that was a hard pass.

  I slid the button free, lowered the zipper, and stepped out of the jeans. And…my cock sprang out into the opening, pressing with a thick bulge against the confines of my underwear. I heard a sound from Torie, I wasn’t sure exactly what, though. A gulp? A snort of laughter? A soft, quickly suppressed sound. I glanced at her, and she wasn’t even pretending not to stare.

  “You sure you’re okay?” she asked, her eyes wide and her voice tight, muffled because she had the blanket up over her mouth and nose, hiding her face except for her eyes. “That’s…um…that looks problematic for you.”

  “Yeah, it kind of is.” My mouth ran off with my sense again. “You offering to help?”

  She ducked all the way under the blanket. “Nope,” came the muffled reply.

  I hissed in frustration. “This is stupid. I’ll be back. I just…I need a minute.” I headed for the bathroom, wincing as walking set the damned engorged problem to swaying.

  “Where ya goin’?” she drawled. “Taking care of things?”

  I glanced at her over my shoulder. “No. The opposite.”

  “What’s the opposite of jerking off?”

  “Thinking about old nuns and dead puppies.”

  “Oh.”

  “Why, you wanna watch again?” I smirked.

  She had just come out from under the covers again. “Nope.”

  I hesitated in the doorway of the bathroom, and then turned to face her. “You gonna take care of issues yourself?”

  She lowered the blanket a touch, and narrowed her eyes at me. “Nope.” Should I reveal my little secret? Her eyes met mine and they narrowed even further. Blush reddened her cheeks to flaming pink. “I saw you this morning. You’re a good dancer.” The blanket was still at her eyes. They twinkled, mischief sparkling in them.

  “Am not. I just move my hips a little.”

  “You wiggle your butt. It’s…I was gonna say cute but that’s not really the right word.”

  “And what is the right word?”

  “Sexy,” she whispered. “Like the rest of you.”

  “Whisper at me like that while you’re half-dressed in the bed, and I’m already fighting this little issue, and we’re gonna have an issue.”

  “What issue?”

  “Where I do something I never do—break a promise.”

  “What promise?” That whisper, low, sultry, seductive without trying.

  “That I wouldn’t touch you unless you made it clear you wanted me to.”

  “What’s wrong with the way I whisper?”

  I swallowed hard. Clutched the doorpost until it creaked—she’d tugged the blanket down to her throat, and her smile was…hesitant yet bold, seductive yet shy. Complicated. Intriguing.

  “Nothing wrong with it.” I let out a breath. “It’s just…one more thing to make it superhard for me to resist you.”

  “Resist me?”

  “Been down this conversation with you, Torie.” I had turn around, away from those eyes, those lips. That throat, the delicate butterfly rhythm of her pulse. “You know I want you like crazy. I know you don’t want to start nothin’. And I don’t have the ability to go partway with you.”

  “It’s dumb to have this conversation from across the room,” she whispered. “Just come get in bed.”

  Get in bed…with her?

  God, that was a terrible idea…but a great idea.

  I got in bed.

  Stiffly—no pun intended. I lay down, arrow straight, arms at my sides, like a corpse. I stared at the ceiling.

  Torie rolled to face me, on her side. She poked the side of my bicep. “Hey.”

  I sighed and tugged the blanket up to hide my erection. I couldn’t see any of her but her face and throat and a hand. Yet, the erection remained, like I’d taken Viagra. The erection wouldn’t go away.

  I rolled over to face her. “Hey.”

  Inches separated us.

  The blanket was molded to the curve of her hip. It was tempting to rest my hand there.

  “I’m having trouble resisting you, too,” she whispered. And damn that whisper. It did me in.

  “I thought you didn’t want to start anything.”

  “I don’t. But you make it fucking impossible. You’re too…good. Too hot, too sexy. Too capable. Too nice, too funny. Too easy to be with. And I…I’ve never felt this way about anyone, and it scares me. And I have to go Alaska, and you have your life in New Haven.”

  “And you don’t do hookups.”

  She laughed, a sharp bark. “No, it’s safe to say I do not do hookups.”

  That was an oddly sharp reaction. Was she hiding something, perhaps?

  There was silence, then. I had no idea what to say, what to do. Touch her? She was acting like…like she’d changed her mind about me, about us. Or…that wasn’t exactly right. It’s not that she’d changed her mind about us or me, but about what there could be between us, and what that was.

  She’d just said she was having trouble resisting me, and god knew I was finding it fucking impossible to do the same.

  So, fuck it.

  A gentle approach, just to see what she did. If she showed even the least sign of resistance, I’d back off again.

  I slid toward her, only an inch or two. But it was enough to close the distance between us, to make the space and the moment go from close, but still mostly platonic, to definitely, unmistakably intimate.

  I reached out, slowly, telegraphing my movement, and rested my hand on the swell of her hip.

  A moment fraught with boiling sexual tension followed.

  She said nothing, and neither did I. But our eyes, and the unexpressed feelings boiling between us…it said everything.

  She wanted more. To be touched. To touch me.

  But there was still the reticence, the fear, and the worry. The “but what if” lingering within her.

  I was about to remove my hand when she hissed, a catlike sound. “Fuck it,” she murmured.

  Her palm touched my cheek, scratching and smoothing and caressing my stubble. And then her lips touched mine. Soft at first. Gently questing. Testing. Tasting.

  She broke away—mere centimeters—her beautiful pale brown eyes searching my face.

  “Oh thank fuck,” I breathed.

  And then I kissed her.

  Torie

  Lordy, but the man was a good kisser.

  He legitimately took my breath away, stole it, demanded it, devoured it. His tongue was all over my mouth, searching and delving, and his lips were soft, pliant, and strong. His hand cupped the side of my face, and he brought me closer to him. His stubble was scratchy against my upper lip, tickling, sort of rough, but in a delicious, intoxicating kind of way.

  I was under the covers, he on top of them. He’d tugged the blanket up to hide his hard-on, and I found myself wishing he hadn’t. I wanted to see it.

  To touch it. To hold it.

  To wrap my lips around it. To feel him surge, throb, and explode.

  I’d done that once, with Max, and I’d enjoyed his reactions. That had also been the last time I’d seen him, over a month ago. And that, coincidentally, had been the last time someone other than me had given me an orgasm.

  And I wanted one, from Rhys. Because it just wasn’t the same taking care of yourself.

  But Rhys had said he couldn’t stop partway.

  Oh god, my brain. Why wouldn’t my brain stop?

  He was still kissing me, and I was delirious from it. Completely breathless. He pulled me toward him, rolled to his back, and I went with it. I slid over
top of him and straddled him. God, he was big. Lean, hard. So strong, so powerfully built, like a wolf. His hand brushed my cheek and cupped my jaw, still kissing me, still devouring me like he’d never kissed anyone before, and would die immediately if we stopped kissing. His other hand grazed over my back. My T-shirt had hiked up which meant, considering I was wearing a teeny little string thong, my ass was bare. And his hands were headed that way.

  Yes, oh yes. Please, please put your hands on my ass. I wanted his touch in the worst way. Ever since I’d seen those big strong hands wrapped around the steering wheel the first moment we met, I’d wanted him touch me. Then I’d seen those hands covered in grease, and the need to have his hands on me had only gotten stronger.

  His palms slid down my spine, teasing each knob of vertebrae, dancing, scratching, smoothing. My ability to remain focused on the kiss caught a hitch as his hands neared my tailbone.

  And then, god, oh glory; he was cradling my ass in his hands like it was the Holy Grail. He growled, a wolfish noise low in his throat—raw male appreciation. My body showed its appreciation for his touch by flexing my hips into his.

  Holy shit, oh my god, dear lord, was that his cock?

  I’d seen it, sure, but only from a distance, and wrapped in his fist.

  I’d known it was big, but…

  I shivered, breaking the kiss, touching my forehead to his.

  “Okay?” he whispered.

  I nodded. I pulled back enough to be able to look him in the eye again. But I had no clue what to say.

  I needn’t have worried. My body did the talking.

  My hips flexed, and when he kneaded my ass again, I whimpered. My mouth dropped to his and my lips slashed across his, but I need to sate a curiosity: what would his stubble taste like, what would it feel like as I kissed it? So, I set about finding out. I kissed his upper lip, his cheek where the stubble ran in a curved line down to his lip and up to his temple. I kissed his jaw, where his ear met his jawline. His breath caught and his hands clawed into my ass, and he held on tight—he liked me kissing his face. So I kept going. Down the sharp hard edge of his jawline. He tilted his head, and I kissed the tender, almost delicate spot under his jawline, where I tasted the bumBUHbum of his pulse. He hissed, and I needed to taste more, to elicit more hisses and more reactions.

  What would he do if I kissed him…there? Right under his chin.

  He groaned softly, and that was a sound which shot straight to my core.

  The groan made me throb and pulsate, and it created liquid heat between my thighs.

  I was dripping with arousal.

  I kissed his throat, and his grip on my buttocks became almost painful—he seemed to realize that, and immediately relinquished his death grip, and began gently stroking my butt. I liked that, a lot.

  I meowed as he petted me, and he laughed, lifting my shirt and caressing my bare back. I arched my back and pressed my core into him. I felt something the size of my wrist pressed against me. I also felt the little dot of wetness on his underwear that told me exactly how he was feeling about this.

  This was so hot I could barely think.

  Then we were rolling over, and I was under him, and I just belonged here, beneath his broad shoulders, pinned beautifully against the bed by his bulk, his hard abs and round shoulders and lean hips my entire world. Then Rhys returned to the glorious torture of a thousand kisses. Everywhere I’d kissed him, he kissed me.

  And then he delved lower, to the circle of my shirt’s neck. He tugged it lower. And god, the stupid thing was in the way. I ripped it off, or meant to, but I accidentally whacked him on the chin.

  “Graceful I am not,” I murmured, now tangled half in my shirt and half out.

  He laughed, and rescued me from my shirt by pulling it off and tossing it aside. And now I was all but naked under him, the only article of clothing left was a miniscule scrap of blue fabric covering the slit of my sex. Rhys lifted up on an elbow and gazed down at me, his eyes raking over me, absorbing and soaking up every line and curve of my body.

  “Fuckin’ beautiful,” he breathed, awed. “You are so perfect.”

  My heart melted and began hammering at the same time. “I’m not.”

  “You are to me,” he said. “And that’s what counts.”

  I laughed at that, but then all laughter ceased as he dipped down to resume his kissing exploration of me; my throat, breastbone, left shoulder, then the right. Finally to the space between my breasts.

  Yes, there. Please.

  I wanted his mouth there, in the worst way.

  I cupped my breasts and offered them to him.

  He started to laugh, but it turned into a growl. “Know how bad I’ve wanted to get my mouth on these beauties?”

  “Show me,” I breathed, need racing through me and erasing all sense, all control. I was lost to this, to him. This was all I wanted.

  He showed me.

  God, did he show me. His mouth was ravenous, and if I’d thought he kissed the shit out of my mouth, what he did to my tits was…pure worship. He kissed them all over, licked, suckled, caressed. One in both hands, taking it from me, laving his tongue over it, suckling the nipple into his mouth and flicking it with his tongue until I was whimpering, and aching and trembling.

  “God, Rhys,” I whispered. “I don’t know what the hell you’re doing, but it feels so good I could almost come just from that.”

  “Yeah?” he breathed, barely pausing to remove his mouth from my breast. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

  I mean, I’d known I had sensitive breasts, but this was ridiculous.

  The more he played with and kissed and worshipped my breasts, the more worked up I got. I was shaking, trembling, clutching the back of his head with my right hand, his shoulder with my left, hips flexing, and I knew, I knew if I even touched my clit, I’d explode.

  And I needed to explode.

  This morning had been…a precursor. Sometimes, my orgasms didn’t feel quite…finished. Like, I’d come, but not all the way. So I’d have to wait awhile, and then try again. Sometimes, it took three attempts to get an orgasm that felt like it was the whole thing, all the way, and when that last one finally hit me, ohhh shit—it’d blow through me like an atom bomb and leave me limp and senseless for a good ten minutes.

  If he made me come right now, it’d be that kind of an O.

  I was a little scared of it.

  Oh god, my stupid brain. Taking over.

  I pushed the orgasm away, along with my need, because I was afraid of how needy and desperate I was.

  His mouth seizing my left breast took over my consciousness, and I whimpered again, because Miss Righty was way more sensitive than Miss Lefty. Like, tons more. So sensitive, in fact, that even an accidental touch would make me wince, and this kind of erogenous sexual touching was nearly too much.

  Nearly.

  Just too much to be exactly enough.

  The whimper became a whine, and then a gasp, and he was following my sounds, doing whatever drew the most desperate sound, and now he was sliding his body lower on the bed, keeping his mouth on my right breast and one hand on my left, tweaking and toying with my nipple, and his right hand was sliding teasingly over my stomach, over my hipbone.

  Yes, touch me.

  Make me come.

  Ohh shit, oh god, he was running a finger under the string around my hip, telling me what he was doing, letting me push his hand away.

  God, it felt good, doing this with Rhys. Right, and good, and perfect, and everything I’d imagined it would be and more.

  I didn’t want it to stop.

  That triggered a niggling thought in the back of my head, but his finger was following the string of my thong over my navel, stopping, and going back, to my hipbone. Under again, and this time his fingertip slid along the outer skin of my labia, and I shook like a leaf at that touch, my hips pushing upward. Needing more, asking for more.

  Ohh god. He drew his finger over the seam, then. Teasing. I gasped, and
he dragged his finger down the seam parting the lips. I sang a note of pleading, hips lifting.

  He was leaning into me, on his side, while I was on my back. And my hands decided to acquire a mind of their own, and I reached for him.

  I did it on purpose. I’m not going to hide behind “oh, I was so lost in need I didn’t know what I was doing.” I knew what I wanted: to feel him in my hand.

  To know if the improbable girth I’d felt would be as fat and hard in my fist as it felt against my core and belly.

  He was wearing tight black briefs. And god, they were brief. I felt his belly, the planes and bulges of his abs. The elastic band of his underwear, at his hipbone. As he’d done, I teased a finger under the elastic and ran it over toward the middle. And met…him. Springy and warm and soft, yet firm. I tugged down, and took his cock into my fist.

  And yeah, oh yeah, it was everything I’d felt and more. So…fucking…thick. Long, too. God, what a dick. I caressed it, marveling.

  He groaned. “Ohh Jesus, Torie. You can’t do that too much,” he breathed against my breast. “Been so worked up for so long I’ll go in a second if you don’t stop.”

  “Don’t wanna,” I gasped. “Love how you feel.”

  He flexed his hips. “Gonna pop off like I’m fuckin’ fourteen again.”

  “Don’t care.” I grabbed his wrist and guided his hand closer to my core. “More of this, please.”

  He rumbled a laugh and delved his finger into me.

  I reached up, clasped the back of his head and drew him down to my breasts. “More of this, too.”

  He laughed, but it was a wild, nervous, tense laugh, because I was caressing him, and I felt him flex his abs, pull his belly in as I slid my fist around him, up the glorious length of him, fingers barely able to circle the huge thickness of his shaft. I focused on feeling him in my hand—both hands, and still there was so much cock left to caress. Ridges of veins, closely trimmed thatch of dark hair, the grooved ring around the top where my fingers fit perfectly. I rubbed my thumb over the tiny hole in the top, exploring the broad roundness of the head. Smearing his seeping pre-cum along the head.

  He groaned, his hips flexed.

  With his fingers inside me, his lips on my nipples, I was his for the taking.