Текст книги "Seth"

Автор книги: Jo Raven

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

Chapter Twelve

Manon

My name. He called my name as he came.

I’m still shaken by the force of his orgasm, the feel of his thick cock jerking in my hand, shooting all that cum on him, painting his chest white. So powerful. So intense.

Never seen or felt anything like it. I’m still holding his cock in my hand, and it’s softening. I move my hand up and down once more and he shivers and stifles a moan.

Sensitive now it’s done. Hot and wet and still half-hard.

“Damn,” he whispers, and I smile down at him where he’s stretched out on the bed. “That was…”

“Good?” I guess. He’s a boneless sprawl on the covers, his expression dazed.

“Damn good,” he clarifies, and grins at me.

It’s beautiful. He’s beautiful, and that grin is like the sun coming up over the clouds.

“Do you want to taste him?” I hear Cassie’s voice in my head. “Touch him everywhere?”

God help me, I do.

But I still want to be with Fred. What does that say about me? Am I turning into Cassie? Is it possible that my body wants one man and my mind another? What am I supposed to do?

I release Seth’s cock from my hand, scooting back, a tremor going through me. Crap. I kissed Seth—again—and I masturbated in front of him. And then I asked to touch him and get him off, too.

What the hell am I doing?

My vision blurs. I climb off the bed, straightening my clothes, trying to keep from looking at Seth’s long, strong form on the bed, the evidence of his pleasure all over his chest, his eyes half-lidded.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper as he sits up, opening his mouth to say something.

“Are you?”

“This was a bad idea.” I retreat away from him, unable to tell what he’s thinking. His face is blank. “I shouldn’t have done this.”

He reaches for his discarded T-shirt, wipes down his chest, and my eyes are helplessly drawn back to his firm pecs, his rippling abs, the dark ink covering them.

I should turn around, walk out. Why aren’t I doing it already?

He throws the T-shirt aside and gets to his feet. Slowly. I’d have thought it for my benefit hadn’t I known of his bad knee—but jeez, from the muscles rolling in his powerful thighs to his bulging biceps as he pushes himself off the bed, all the while completely naked and unselfconscious, giving me another good look of his crotch, his half-hard cock and heavy sack…

Too hot. I’d fan myself, but by then he’s standing right in front of me, gloriously naked where I’m still fully dressed.

Dressed but bared under his dark gaze.

“You liked it,” he says, thick lashes lowered, almost brushing those broad cheekbones. “Admit it.”

The words won’t come. I should deny it. Lie about it.

I can’t.

“Think that I haven’t even put my hands on you yet. Haven’t put my mouth on your skin, on your tits, between your legs. Haven’t fucked you yet. Imagine how fucking good that would feel, how hard you’d come. If you’d let me show you how a boyfriend should treat you.”

I gasp, heat pooling between my legs. How is he doing this? I might come just from listening to him, picturing what he might do.

If I let him. If I stay.

“Manon…” He reaches for me, and I take another step back. Can’t think with him so close. Always a losing battle.

“I really should be going,” I say.

His beautiful mouth tightens. “You still want him, huh? This Fred.”

I nod. My eyes sting.

“Then go. Don’t let me keep you.”

My feet won’t move.

“You said it,” he says. “It was a bad idea.”

And hearing him repeat my words shouldn’t hurt. What’s wrong with me? What do I really want?

“I’m sorry,” I say again, turn and leave his bedroom, leave his apartment, not sure why I feel like crying.

***

“Is he really your boyfriend?”

Seth’s voice echoes in my head. Saturday afternoon and I’m still in bed, curled under the covers, my ereader on, although I can’t focus on the words. Can’t even remember anything I’ve read so far, so I turn it off and sigh.

I should be thinking of my fascinating new classes, the start of my new life. Of the job I landed at a gym not far from Damage Control, teaching belly dancing and Pilates.

Instead, I think about boys. Two specific boys, and what I’m going to do about them.

I’ve been meaning to call Fred, call until he picks up and we can talk. I need to hear his voice, be reassured about what—who—I want, and why. I mean, we share so much. What other guy can I talk about ballet with? And classical music?

We spent hours debating whether Marius Petipa’s classical ballet choreographies are better than his contemporary’s Sergei Diaghilev’s. Whether Tchaikovsky’s music was a better fit than Stravinsky’s. About Fred’s preference for contemporary dance, and what kind of music he’d use for the piece I was working on.

Over our long talks, it was as if we were setting the foundations for something. An implicit promise. He’d compose the music. I’d make the choreography. He’d play. I’d dance.

Unless it was all in my mind. And besides, I’ve broken my half of the promise, haven’t I? Didn’t fight to stay in the dance school – which makes me wonder if the dream of becoming a ballet dancer was really mine, or my mom’s. Wouldn’t I have fought more if I really wanted it?

In any case, would good conversation be enough reason to be with someone? Really be with someone, sleep with him, date him?

God, I need to see Fred.

And yet I don’t call him. My phone is right here, on the nightstand, within reach, and I make no move to reach for it.

I close my eyes and remember Seth. The way his dark eyes crinkle at the corner when he grins, his naked, powerful body, his ink. How sexy he looks with his hair falling over his eyes, how vulnerable he looks when that shadow passes over his expression.

How kind he is. How he gives me exactly what I need when I need it: acting gentle when I feel fragile. Overpowering me when I’m not sure how to ask for his touch. Stepping back when I’m confused.

But he’s been clear about this strange thing going on between us: he’s helping me win over Fred.

He’d obviously like to do more with me, and his suggestions make me curl up tighter, the blood burning in my veins. The thought of him going down on me makes me moan. The thought of his big cock filling me make me squirm.

If I let him show me, like he says, what it’d feel like—what then? What will he do afterward? Will he walk away? Is that all he wants?

And what do I want from him?

I lift my fingers to my mouth, recalling how he kissed me both times—like a man starving for this kiss—and I know my heart is tangled up. Can’t mistake the way my chest tightens when I think he’s sad, the way it flutters when he looks happy.

The way it threatens to burst when his eyes darken with desire.

No, no way. I’m not falling for Seth. I can’t be. That would be stupid—letting my heart dictate what I’ll do, change my plans of being with Fred.

As if love can be planned…

Shit. I bury my face in the pillow and tell my brain to shut up. Plans change, anyway. Everything changes. Right when you start feeling happy, safe in your decisions, a wave comes in and turns everything upside down.

Like with ballet.

Like when Mom left us.

Like when Dad decided to move to another city. Every time I found people I cared about, life delivered a perfect roundhouse kick and sent me spinning.

I screw my eyes shut, punch my pillow. This isn’t helping. I don’t care about Seth. Truth is, I don’t know how I feel about him.

Or Fred, for that matter. Not anymore.

All I want is to lie low and let life roll over me for a while, close over my head like the sea, and pretend I know nothing about the mess in my head—and in my heart.

Pretend everything’s crystal clear.

***

My phone ringing wakes me up much later. I recognize the ring tone immediately, even though I can’t have heard it more than once in this past month.

The opening notes of Debussy’s “Clair de Lune”, performed by Luka Sulic of 2Cellos.

It’s the one I’ve set for Fred.

Couldn’t I have picked a sadder piece? Yawning, still half-asleep, I make a grab for my phone.

“Yeah?”

“Madeline. Are you okay? I was calling you earlier, too.”

Figures the one time he decides to finally call me I’d be in such deep sleep I missed it.

“I’m fine.” I twist around so I’m lying on my back, staring up at the ceiling. It’s a light blue, like the morning sky. “Fell asleep while reading in my bed, that’s all. What’s up?”

“Nothing much. In my room, too, finishing up an essay. Haven’t heard from you in a while. Wanted to check up on you.”

“That’s sweet of you.”

I can imagine him so clearly in his dorm room—where I’ve been exactly once and for five minutes—sitting at his small desk with his laptop on, his glasses slipping down his nose, his fair hair sticking up. Maybe he’ll be dressed in old sweats and a T-shirt, like Seth was.

I try the image out in my mind. Try to picture him standing before me, pressing his body to mine, like Seth did. Pressing me up against the wall and kissing me. Reaching into his pants and—

“Maybe we could go for a walk along the lake?” he’s saying. “The weather’s nice. We should take advantage…”

His voice fades into a buzz.

Nothing. The image of him naked or touching himself is doing nothing for me. How’s that possible? Would it have excited me a week ago?

Did I ever think about this before meeting Seth? Did I ever realize what Cassie was talking about when she asked her questions? How it feels to crave a man, to desire him. To get flushed and sweaty just thinking about him.

Then again, I haven’t even kissed Fred yet, not properly. Can’t even tell you how he smells, how his body feels under his clothes.

“Madeline? Are you still there?”

“Yeah.” I sit up, hug my knees with one arm. “I’m here.”

“You sure?” He laughs. “What’s on your mind? It’s as if you’re somewhere far away.”

Yeah, maybe I am.

“I think…” I say, a thousand random thoughts whirling around in my head, “I think I’m going to get a tattoo.”

“What?” Stunned silence follows, then he says, “Tell me you’re joking.”

“And if I’m not?”

More silence.

Then, “What’s happening to you?”

“I might also get a piercing or two. Would you like to see them?”

“Madeline.” A choked sound. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what? What if I decide to pierce my nipples? Do you think that’d be hot?”

“Jesus.”

I’m pushing him. Kind of like when Seth pushed me, made me react. Made me think, and realize things.

“Do you want me, Fred?” I need to know this. “Do you desire me? Do you need me?”

“I really like you.”

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

“We have time. We can figure this out.”

Christ. I bite on my lip so hard I think I taste blood. “What has you so confused, Fred?”

Looks like I’m not the only one who’s feeling torn here.

“I’m not confused.” He spits the word out like something rotten. “I’m not an asshole. I can take my time with a girl before I have sex with her. Maybe that’s confusing you.”

“What are you saying? That knowing that you want me makes you an asshole? I don’t get you.”

“No! Dammit, Madeline, that’s not what I meant.”

“Do you want me or not? Do you get excited when you think of me? Of seeing me, touching me, kissing me?”

“Of course I do. This whole conversation is absurd. Look, we can talk another time.”

Really? I’m close to cursing him, or howling my frustration into the phone, when he hangs up.

What in the world?

I throw the covers off me and grab my clothes from the chair by the bed. Suddenly I know what I must do: I have to see Fred. Have to test this in person. My imagination is unreliable. My memory, too. I bet he isn’t too skinny or too fair, or too anything just because I keep comparing him to Seth.

A bad habit. I should stop.

Have to stare into Fred’s eyes, put my hands on his body, find out if I want him, if I’m still attracted to him.

If he wants me.

If we fit together, if we’re destined to be, or if it all was a distorted image of me and him together—a fake impression that’s stuck in my mind.

***

Fred’s not in his dorm room. His roommate, who’s apparently the same Brandon he’s been rehearsing with, opens the door for me, introduces himself and tells me Fred hasn’t been in all day.

“You’re mistaken,” I say, trying to see past him. “He called me from here half an hour ago.”

“He’s not here, sweetheart.” He steps aside, makes a sweeping gesture with his arm. “Feel free to check if you like. Make sure to look under the bed and inside the closet, too.”

He’s making fun of me, but I don’t care. I brush past him and enter Fred’s room. It’s exactly as I remember it. The narrow bed, the window with the gray curtains, the small desk with his laptop resting on it.

Fred is nowhere to be seen.

“See?” Brandon is lounging against the doorjamb, arms folded over his chest. Dressed in faded jeans and a button-down blue shirt, with his crazy afro hair and cinnamon skin, he looks every part the musician he is. Same thin shoulders like Fred. Same bright gaze. Same long, thin hands.

I shake my head to stop myself from getting caught in that crazy loop again. “Any idea where he might be, then?”

“Probably at Mondays.” At my wide stare, he laughs and says, “the bar? Off State Street. That’s where he usually hangs out.”

He does? He has a place where he usually hangs out?

Do I even know Fred at all?

“Thanks,” I say, giving Fred’s room one last glance, hoping that somehow he’ll appear from behind the curtain and say “surprise” and we all laugh together.

Because it does seem like a big joke.

But he doesn’t, and I turn to go.

“You’re Madeline, right?”

I stop and look at him. “You know me?”

“Not really. He’s talked about you. Only good things, I promise.”

“Like?” I ask. I can’t help it. I’m so curious to know what he’s been saying to his friends about me.

“You’re a ballerina. A classy, sweet, nice girl.” Brandon lifts a dark brow at me. “Not what you expected to hear?”

“Yeah,” I stammer. “I mean, not really. That all he said?”

“What else?”

The tips of my ears are burning. “Nothing.”

What else did I expect? That he’d tell everyone he thinks I’m hot, I guess. That he’s with me. Something like that.

“You’re exactly as I pictured you,” he says. “I can imagine you dancing on stage, pirouetting on your tiptoes.”

“Um, thanks?” I manage a weak smile, because he obviously doesn’t know I’ll never be a ballerina, and besides, this mess isn’t his fault. “I think I’ll swing by Mondays, see if I can find Fred. Need to talk to him.”

“Uh, sure.” He winces. “Listen, why don’t you call him first or something? Before you swing by.”

“Why?”

The alarm bells in my head start ringing before he even opens his mouth to reply, and through them I faintly hear the words.

“He had a fight with his girlfriend this morning. He might need some space.”

Girlfriend.

The word settles at the bottom of my mind like a rock.

Muttering something – goodbye, I guess – I stumble out of the room. I can’t remember getting out of the dorms and into my car, but here I am, and I know exactly where I’m heading.

***

I park as close to Mondays as possible. The day has been sunny, but the sun is dipping now behind the buildings and it’s turning chilly. In my favorite fifties dress and vintage pumps, I shiver as I trot down the sidewalk, and it’s not just the cold. I feel as if I’ve landed in a spy movie.

It’s nauseating, spying on the guy you thought you wanted to be with. Only… When I reach the bar and walk inside, when I see them standing together—Fred and the strawberry blonde whose style eerily recalls my own, a veritable pin-up girl in her red dress, a match for my blue one—I don’t feel as devastated as I thought I would.

Weird.

I stay long enough to make sure I’m not making anything up, that they aren’t just friends meeting for a drink.

Hey, it looks like he isn’t confused about her at all. He doesn’t need time to figure things out. Doesn’t want to take things slowly. No, Fred’s all over the blonde Marilyn there. He’s sucking on her mouth like a vacuum cleaner. His hands are on her ass.

Yeah, he looks like a guy who knows exactly what he wants.

I back away before they notice me and return to my car. Feels like I’m walking through a thickening fog, battling against rising water.

I’ve been living a lie for months now. Waiting for him to make up his mind, to make the final move. Thinking I was the problem—my inexperience, my insecurity. Thinking he wanted me but was being nice.

What the hell just happened? Why would he insist he wants me if he doesn’t? What’s the matter with this guy?

My feelings are a whirlwind as I climb into my car and turn on the engine. I’m upset. Betrayed. Angry. Hurt.

But I also feel strangely relieved. Like I thought I was going crazy, that I was imagining something was off, that I was acting like a bitch, like a slut, like a crazy person, when he was stringing me along and seeing someone else.

I’m not crazy.

I still hurt, though. And I’m really pissed. How could he do this to me? Let me believe I wasn’t good enough.

Hot tears are rolling down my cheeks. I lick my lips and I taste their saltiness. Screw you, Fred, with your artistic ways and gentle manners. Screw your lies and your games. I want…

Christ, what do I want?

“If you’d let me, I’d show you how a boyfriend should treat you.” That’s what Seth said to me just yesterday. Seth with his dark eyes and even darker shadows, with his powerful body and sexy ways.

I’m turning the car about and driving toward him before I even know what I’m doing. I just know he’s the only one who can keep me from sinking to the bottom tonight.

Chapter Thirteen

Seth

Jesse’s here.

I thought I’d escaped interrogation for the weekend. Needed a reprieve after Manon left yesterday. After I realized she still wants the douche who isn’t sure if he wants to be her boyfriend or her brother, and that I’ve been pushing her for nothing. The only thing I succeeded in doing was to scare her and push her away.

Yeah, I needed some downtime to lick my wounds and discreetly beat my head against the fucking wall.

Somehow, with the sinkhole my life has become and the news of my mom returning from the grave, you’d think driving Manon away would be the least of my worries.

Well, it fucking ain’t. It’s killing me. It’s a fucking huge hole in my chest that won’t let me eat or sleep or think straight. Between beating myself up and remembering how she felt, how she looked, how she sounded, well… It’s a miracle I’m still sane.

Now if only Jesse would just fucking go… He’s been sitting here for well over an hour, trying to get me to go out with him for a bite and to talk, and neither is on today’s list. Especially not the talking part.

At least he’s brought me my walking stick.

“Come on, man.” He gives me his best puppy-eyes impression. “You can talk to me. You’re the only one who believed me back when everyone thought I’d cheated on Amber. You stood by me. Let me do the same for you.”

“I appreciate it, bro,” I tell him and mean it. “There’s nothing to talk about, though.”

“Don’t lie to me, Seth. Rafe said your mom’s back and asking you to pay her bail. Said you refused. Said your leg was broken—your other leg, dammit, the good leg—years ago, and you won’t tell him anything about it. And you lost your job because of the beating—a beating you took because of me! Fucking hell.”

Jesus. “This isn’t on you, J. None of it is.”

“So you say. I know you wouldn’t have been in bed with a broken leg for two months if you hadn’t been there with me.”

Fuck. Guess I’m not the only one beating myself up.

“I’m the one who took you out for drinks that fucking night,” I remind him. “If anything, I’m the reason all of it happened.”

But at least for Jesse it ended well. His girl found him, they talked, realized they were good and got their happy ending.

Unlike me.

Yeah, okay, stop whining, Seffers. Just fucking stop.

“How come you haven’t found a job yet?” Jesse goes on, oblivious. “Anything I can do? I could ask around.”

“That’d be great,” I mutter, wondering why my eyes feel hot. I’m really off my game these days. “Thanks, buddy.”

“Sure. And at least let me get some food into you,” Jesse mutters. “You look like roadkill.”

Yeah, I really have to look like shit for Jesse to insist so much.

“Nah, I’m good. Really. I ate late.” As lies go, it’s not a big one, and yet I feel bad for lying to Jesse, of all people. He doesn’t lie, ever. It’s a matter of principle with him. “I think I’ll turn in early tonight.”

He finally takes the hint and gets up. “Okay, sure thing. I’ll leave you to it. Just…” He rubs at the crease between his brows. “I’m here, buddy, you know that, right? For anything you need. Anything that’s been bothering you. Fuck, I won’t judge. You’re my best friend. Let me help in any way I can.”

“Gotcha, man. Thanks.”

Jeez, my eyes do that burning thing again. Need to get them looked at.

But he’s wrong. He can’t help me. He’ll turn his back when he finds out the truth, like everyone who ever did. He thinks he knows me, but he doesn’t.

See, he was saved, and when you’ve been saved, you think you can save everyone else, too. God, I wish that were true.

We do our fist-bumping, back-thumping thing, and he’s on his way, leaving me alone again in my apartment.

The apartment I can’t afford. The roof I thought was solid until the world started caving in once more.

When the doorbell rings, I open the door automatically, prepared to tell Jesse to go to hell, if that’s the only way to get rid of him tonight.

Should’ve known by now life likes to spring surprises on me just to see me jump out of my fucking skin.

“Manon?” I whisper, my voice choked. What the fuck?

“Does your offer still stand?” she asks, and that’s when I notice her eyes are red-rimmed and wet.

Oh shit.

I don’t ask what offer she’s talking about. It doesn’t matter. Whatever she needs, I’ll fucking give to her.

I haul her inside, pull her into my arms and let her cry.

***

Somehow we end up on the sofa, curled up together, my arms full of sobbing girl and my T-shirt wet with tears and snot. She’s clinging to me as if she’s drowning, and I won’t let her. I know what it’s like to hit rock-bottom, and nobody should have to do it alone.

I rock her a little, kiss her hair.

Fuck, I told myself I wouldn’t do this again, I wouldn’t set myself up for another soul-crushing disappointment by letting her inside.

Yet here I am. Stupid or not, there’s no other place in the world I’d rather be right now and that, right there, tells you all you need to know about how I feel.

How I fucking ache for this girl.

“What’s wrong?” I ask her quietly, rocking her in my arms. “How can I help?”

“Hold me,” she whispers, and I tighten my grip on her, as if she’s made of mist and will vanish the moment I let go.

“I’ve got you. Everything’s okay.”

“I want you to show me.”

“Show you?” What the hell is she talking about?

“You said you would.” She’s a soft, warm weight on my legs, on my chest. Her hair has come loose and is spilling like silk over my arms. “Christ, it’s as if I’m just not good enough. For anyone.”

“What the hell are you saying?” I pull her to me, a fierce embrace. She’s mine, and someone hurt her. I’ll kill the motherfucker. “Who told you such things?”

“Nobody did. But I know it.” Her voice cracks. “Mom left when I was little, didn’t take me with her, and Dad wasn’t there often. Said it was his job to travel, playing in concerts, but… I know, all right? When I’m not enough.”

“Shh, don’t say such things.” My heart is pounding. I know too fucking well what she’s talking about. “That doesn’t mean you’re not good enough.”

“And then the dance school cut me loose, and then Fred just…” She shivers.

“He’s a douchebag,” I growl. I don’t know what he did to her this time, what little assholery he cooked up to make her think so low of herself, but now I know what she’s been asking me ever since she came inside. “And I will show you. I’ll show you what you deserve. What a man should do for you. Because you’re so fucking beautiful, Manon, and you deserve the best. Give me one week to show you everything.”

Even if it breaks me to pieces when you’re feeling better and leave again.

***

I wake up some time in the early hours, stretched out on the sofa, a girl half-sprawled over me, smelling of sugar and vanilla, the bare skin of her shoulder soft under my hand.

It all comes back to me, bit by bit. Her appearance at my door last night, her tears, her request.

Manon.

Done it again, Seffers, boy.

She feels nothing for you. She’ll take what you give her and move on.

And so the fuck what? Not like I expected more. Not from a girl like her. I bet she’ll soon get over this Freddy and find someone real good for her—someone rich and safe and sane, in full contrast to me. Someone who isn’t me—a bum just off the street, with Native blood, tats and an attitude.

Someone without a criminal record. With a job. With knowledge of all the things she likes—ballet, music, art.

All I have are my sketches, and why would she care about those?

The gray dawn light coming in from the window outlines her form in silver. The soft roundness of her cheeks, her small chin, the wide arcs of her dark brows, her long lashes casting long shadows. A dark valley runs down between her tits, their softness ready to spill from her cleavage.

Fuck, I’m hard between our bodies, my dick a steel rod trying to push out of my sweats. She’s so sexy.

I’d draw her. I’d take photos of her. Sculpt her, paint her—hold her, kiss her, touch her until I’ve mapped every inch of her smooth skin.

Shifting helplessly against her, I hiss out in pleasure. My dick throbs, pressed between her belly and mine. I want her so much it hurts. I stroke my hand down her arm, and she buries her face in my shoulder and tightens her hold on me. Her dress hikes higher as she moves her leg over mine, rubbing against me.

Rubbing against my cock and balls, sending bolts of crazy need deep into me.

Shit. I throw my head back, press my lips together and struggle to keep back a moan, to keep from rutting against her until I come.

Christ.

Then again… I lift my head, look down at her. I’m her boyfriend now, right? Her pretend boyfriend, whatever. I’m down with that. The one who’s gonna show her what it’s really like, having a boyfriend who cares about her, about her pleasure, about her body, about her everything.

Which includes sex. Definitely includes sex, and waking her up with pleasure is part and parcel of it.

Right? I never had a real girlfriend, either. Prison and homelessness don’t exactly lend themselves to relationships. I’m not boyfriend material, despite my claims, but I’d do anything to try it with her.

Hey, I know how it should be. What couples do. I’ve watched the people around me. And I’ve read tons of romance novels while recovering from my injuries. Tons. Swear to God.

That should help, right?

As for sex… I’ve had my fair share of that, so at least there I’m on solid ground.

Still my heart hammers fit to burst through my ribcage as I stroke her hair back from her face and tangle my legs with her, so I can roll over her on the couch. She wakes up, then, face scrunching up as I lay her on her back.

She’s still wearing those old-fashioned black pumps, and I caress the length of her legs upward, from her slim ankles, past her knees, under the flared skirt of her dress to reach her panties.

“Seth?” Her voice is smoky with sleep, her eyes heavy-lidded, her mouth slack. She’s goddamn perfect, and the hot wave of desire that rolls through me threatens to take me under. “What are you doing?”

“Showing you.” I tug on the lacy material with more gentleness than I thought possible, the way my body is arching toward her, impatient to find her. Giving her a chance to stop this before it starts. “If you still want me to.”

Say yes. Fuck, please say yes.

“Kiss me,” she says instead, and I take that as a yes anyway as I stretch on top of her, pressing between her legs, moaning when her lips part under mine and her tongue meets mine boldly.

Fuck. Oh God. No girl has even turned me on as much as this one. Every part of my body clenches with need. I brace my hands on either side of her face and lick her mouth, her sweet taste setting my blood on fire. Her hands slide under my T-shirt, over my abs, up to my pecs, and her legs fall open, her hips rise to meet mine.

Okay, I won’t fucking last, not like this. Can’t help moving, dragging my hard-on along her seam, and despite the barrier of our clothes, sparks of pleasure fly up my spine.

I break the kiss and arch back, press down on my dick with the heel of my hand to ease the pressure.

“You okay?” she whispers, eyes wide and dark.

“Yeah. Too close.” I grin up at her. “Want you too much. See what you do to me?”

Her gaze dips down to my hard-on, and her eyes widen even more.

Yeah, baby. All for you.

As if my thoughts call to her, she slips her hands over my sweats to cup me through the cloth.

My brain short-circuits and I jerk, heat pooling inside me, spreading like liquid fire. “Wait. Dammit, wait.”

I grip her hand, move it away, struggle to catch my breath and stop the orgasm building behind my balls, inside my dick, rising like a storm about to hit.

About to turn me inside out.

Her hand twitches in mine. Her eyes flare with darkness. “Seth…”

“I’m gonna undress you now,” I whisper, focusing on her, lifting her captured arm and pressing it down by her head. “Take off your pretty shoes, your pretty dress, your pretty bra and panties. Then I will look at you until I can remember every inch of you when I’m alone at night, every curve and every freckle and mole. And then I will kiss you, lick you and touch you everywhere, until you remember me every time you close your eyes and shiver.”

She does shiver, then, her nipples peeking through her bra and dress, her hand curling into a fist, tensing in my grip. She sits up a little, leaning back against the cushions.

Without another word, I release her wrist and reach for the small buttons running down the front of her dress. I pop them one by one, tearing two off with my clumsy, big fingers. Damn tiny buttons. Growling, I shove the material apart and…

Fuck, she’s perfect. The lacy black bra cups her tits, pushing them up, toward me, teasing me. Tempting me.

Can hardly believe I’m allowed to fucking touch this time, whatever the price. I run my thumbs over the plump flesh, so satiny soft, and then down, over the scratchy lace, tracing the peaks of her nipples—hard and straining under my touch.