Текст книги "Four Years Later"
Автор книги: Monica Murphy
Соавторы: Monica Murphy
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 17 страниц)
“So you don’t want him hanging out here anymore.” Wade doesn’t phrase it as a question. In fact, he sounds pretty pissed.
Great.
“I never said that. It’s just … I’m trying to clean up my image.” The guilt of messing around with Chelsea while high still hangs over my head. “After all the trouble I’ve been in lately, I don’t want to have that kind of thing around here anymore. I need to watch out.”
“Come on, Owen. This has everything to do with that little tutor of yours, right? At least, that’s what Des said,” Wade accuses.
Fucking Des. He needs to keep his big mouth shut. “Fine, so it has something to do with Chelsea. But she’s not the only reason I don’t want Des around here as much anymore.” How can I explain this without sounding like a complete whiny little prick? “My mom … you know she’s always coming around. Wanting to smoke a bowl with me or whatever. If I kick the habit, then I’m eliminating half the reason she wants to see me.”
And that hurts. Knowing that Mom has only a couple of reasons in the first place to want to see me, and both of them suck.
“What’s the other reason why she wants to see you?”
“Money. She always needs a handout. She can’t save up even a dollar. If she has change in her pocket, she rushes out and spends it.” I haven’t heard from her in a while. Last time I told her not to contact me for two weeks, and so far she’s holding to it.
But those two weeks are up soon and I don’t doubt for a second she’ll be back in a hot minute, sniffing around and looking for another payout.
“You know if you get rid of the weed, she’ll just ask for more money so she can get it somewhere else,” Wade points out.
I’ve already thought of that. I’ve thought of everything. “That’s fine, then at least it’s not on my hands.”
“Not completely.”
Hell. Wade is right. I hate this. Hate what my mom’s become, what she forces me to do. I’m mean to her and I despise it, but she’s always mean to me first. She gives me no choice. This is our fucked-up relationship, and I’m jealous as hell of Fable. At least she doesn’t have to deal with Mom. She was strong enough to cut the ties and walk away.
Why can’t I do that? Why do I always feel so damn guilty when she looks at me, begging me for money, for drugs, for a light for her fucking cigarette, for Christ’s sake?
Why does she have to be so fucked up? Why can’t I have a normal mom like everyone else? I can’t fucking stand her. And it hurts me to even think that, let alone say it out loud.
“Let Des know I’m not mad at him. Just tell him … I need him to stay back, only for a little while. I gotta try and get rid of my mom,” I say, feeling like an asshole.
“I’ll let him know. I just gotta tell you that if you’re going to try and cut him out of our lives, it would piss me off. I like Des. He’s one of my best friends, too, you know,” Wade says.
“I get it, man. I like Des, too.” Despite the fact that he’s a drug dealer. But who am I to judge, with my white-trash mama and crazy-ass life?
There’s a knock at the door and I leap from the couch to answer it. I find Chelsea standing on my doorstep, cute as hell wearing the 49ers sweatshirt I bought her and black yoga pants, her hair in a high ponytail. She’s clutching a giant brown bag in one hand, a tiny smile teasing the corners of her mouth.
“Hi,” she says softly, her eyes warm, everything about her … beautiful.
Shit. I am so gone over her. I wonder if she feels the same.
“Hey.” I take her free hand and drag her inside, slamming and locking the door behind her. “You look good.”
“I’m dressed like a bum,” she says, rolling her eyes.
“Way to knock the sweatshirt I gave you.” I bring her hand up to my mouth and kiss her knuckles, enjoying the way her eyelids flutter the slightest bit when my mouth touches her skin. “And way to show you’re out to impress me tonight.”
“Owen.” She flicks her head toward where Wade’s sitting on the couch.
I keep forgetting she’s not 100 percent comfortable with us being together in front of someone else. I could care less what Wade says, but that’s because I’ve known him forever.
But my poor, nervous Chelsea hardly knows Wade at all. So I guess I can’t blame her.
“It’s just Wade, Chels.” I drop a kiss to her lips, then take the bag from her hand, surprised it’s so heavy. “What did you bring for dinner?” Whatever it is, it smells damn good. My stomach is growing more demanding by the second.
“Indian food.” She looks pleased with herself. I think she has me all figured out meal-wise. That my diet consists of pizza and fast food and … pizza. Beer and soda and beer and … that’s about it. “I hope you like this place. I’ve only tried them once.”
“I’ve never had Indian food,” I admit as I carry the bag over to the dining table.
“Really?” She sounds incredulous as she walks into the kitchen. “Well, I brought a huge variety of dishes, so hopefully you’ll like something.” She’s grabbing plates and utensils as though she lives here, and I like seeing her move about my house so comfortably. She fits in. I want her here.
I like having her with me.
“Wade, you can join us if you want. Do you like Indian food?” she calls from the kitchen as she pushes up her sleeves, turns on the faucet, and washes her hands.
“I’ve never had it either,” he answers.
“We have so much. You need to come over here and try it. I think you’ll like it.” She shuts off the faucet, dries her hands, then grabs another plate before she brings everything to the table and starts setting it out.
I can’t take my eyes off her. She’s a completely different girl from the one I met only weeks ago. The first version of Chelsea had been shy, quiet, unsure of herself. This version is still a little shy, a little unsure, but there’s something different about her now.
A confidence. It’s in the way she moves, the way she talks, how she looks at me. I can feel it, see it, hear it, and I realize my sweet little Chelsea Rose has blossomed.
And I can’t help but think I’ve been a huge influence in this change.
CHAPTER 17
Chelsea
“God, that was torture,” Owen murmurs the minute his bedroom door shuts behind him. He pulls me into his arms, pressing me against the door as he leans in and kisses me.
I melt into him, curling my arms around his neck, burying my hands in his hair. His mouth on mine, firm yet soft, hot and damp, his tongue sliding against mine—relief mixed with desire floods me at the connection. I’ve waited for this, wanted it all night.
We spent hours out on that couch with Wade sitting right by us, watching some movie I really didn’t pay much attention to. I couldn’t. Owen kept touching me. Innocent little touches that should have meant nothing but instead meant everything.
Fingers on the back of my arm, his warm breath stirring my hair every time he spoke, he sat so close to me. The rumble of his laugh vibrating through me, making me shiver. His whispered words in my ear, griping about Wade being clueless, his lips brushing against my skin and sending a tremble throughout my body that I felt down to the very depths of my soul.
Dramatic. Silly. I know it, but I don’t care. I’m in the throes of an Owen obsession and I’ve never been happier.
Though I’m scared, too. I’m just … me. And he’s so … him. Easy to smile, easy to laugh, easy to show me exactly how he feels. Like now, being wrapped up in his arms, his big, capable hands sliding down my sides, I can feel him. Every hard inch of him pressing into me, and I’m scared and exhilarated and overwhelmed and ready.
So ready.
“I can’t believe Wade didn’t catch on I wanted to be alone with you,” Owen murmurs against my neck, pressing tiny kisses there. “Thank God that shitty movie’s over so we could bail.”
His hands feel so good on my skin. He’s slipped them beneath my sweatshirt, beneath the thin T-shirt I’m wearing under it, and his fingers dig into the pliant flesh at my waist. He’s drawing little circles with his thumbs as he slowly kisses his way up the length of my neck. I close my eyes, my arms tight around him, my fingers tugging his hair as I lose myself so completely in his embrace.
“Fuck, Chelsea, you smell so good,” he whispers just before he settles his mouth on mine. I open to him easily, gasping in surprise when he pushes me away so he can tear off my sweatshirt. He tosses it on the floor, irritation flashing in his eyes as he reaches for me again. “Who’s the jackass who bought you that bulky thing anyway?”
Laughing, I shake my head. “I don’t know. Some hot guy I just met who’s the best kisser on campus?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Only on campus?”
“The entire town?” When he doesn’t say anything I laugh even more. “The whole state of California?”
“Better.” He kisses me again, soft and slow and so deliciously wonderful I swear my knees are buckling. Thank God he’s holding me against the door. “Though I don’t like the thought of you assessing my kissing skills in comparison to the other guys you’ve been with.”
I say nothing. I can feel my cheeks flush, though, as he rears back slightly to study me. “The list of guys I’ve been with is embarrassingly small,” I admit.
Both eyebrows are up now. “I know you’re inexperienced, but …”
“Even with kissing,” I finish for him, feeling inept. Totally out of my league, which is a feeling I absolutely do not like. He knows this.
The giant grin on his face tells me he sort of doesn’t care.
“Is it wrong to admit I like that I’m a lot of your firsts?” He wraps his hands around the backs of my thighs and lifts so I have no choice but to let him carry me to his bed. He deposits me there, dropping me in the middle of the bed so I land with a plop, and I glance around, grimacing when I see the bed is a mess. The comforter’s on the floor at the foot of the bed and there is no flat sheet, no blankets.
“Don’t you ever make your bed?” I ask, bracing my hands behind me on the mattress.
He shrugs, then tugs off his shirt with one hand, yanking it over his head and tossing it on the floor. “Why bother? We’re just going to mess it up anyway.”
His words are full of wicked promise and anticipation skates through me, heady and strong. My nipples are hard beneath my bra and I press my thighs together to stave off the ache that throbs there. I let my gaze roam over the acre of bare skin on display just for me.
I’m dying for him to get closer so I can touch him.
“You know I promised you something the last time we were together,” he says as he joins me on the bed, the mattress creaking from his weight as he crawls toward me.
“You did?” I scoot back as he comes forward, until my back is against a pile of pillows. He has a predatory gleam in his brilliant green eyes that both scares and thrills me.
“Yeah.” He’s over me, his knees on either side of my hips, straddling me. I stare up at him and curl my fingers around the waistband of his jeans, my knuckles grazing hot, bare skin. His eyelids flicker the slightest bit, his only outward reaction to my touching him. “I said next time I would make you come with my mouth.”
I immediately let go of him, my cheeks so hot they feel like they could burst into flame. Closing my eyes, I hear him chuckle, feel him move over me, his spicy fall-like scent washing over me as I inhale deep.
“Don’t be shy, Chels,” he whispers against my lips right before he kisses me. “You know you want it.”
He’s right. I do. Oh God, I so do. I want everything Owen is willing to give me. There is so much I don’t know, so much he could show me. When I’m with him I feel greedy. Insatiable. Completely and totally out of control.
And I like it.
“I want this to be good for you. I want to make sure you’re ready,” he says, his voice soft and solemn. My heart lodges in my chest and I’m at a loss as to how to respond.
But he kisses me before I can say anything, do anything, and it’s as if his tongue knows just what to do to shut my brain down. It goes blank, until all I can focus on is his tongue swirling around mine, his gentle hands skimming over my skin, encouraging me to remove my shirt, which I do as if in a daze, opening my eyes so I can watch him. He’s touching my chest, his mouth at my collarbone, his fingers drifting over the tops of my breasts. He’s so patient, which shocks me. He’s usually impatient and impulsive with everything else in his life, it seems, but not with me.
Never with me.
“I love touching you,” he whispers as his fingers go for the front clasp of my bra. It unsnaps easily, the cups loosening, and then he’s pushing them out of the way, his fingers, his palms brushing against my sensitive skin, and I shiver. “Your skin is so soft.” He tugs the straps down my arms, pulls the bra off me, and then he’s kissing my skin, his lips wrapping around my nipple and drawing it deep into his mouth. A jolt of electricity pulses between my legs and I smooth my hand over his hair, whimper when he sucks my flesh harder.
I love how he seems to savor me.
His impatience finally comes over him and he’s pulling off my pants, taking my panties along with them. I kick them off, trying to fight off the embarrassment of being naked in front of him. I’ve done this before. He’s seen me like this before, but not with the lights on. And that lamp sitting on his bedside table is distracting me.
“I’m not turning it off,” he whispers, reading my mind as he kicks off his own jeans and underwear. I try not to stare but I can’t help it. He’s just so beautifully formed, so perfectly male. “I want to see you.”
Before I can protest, he’s kissing me again, his mouth working its magic, his hand trailing down my stomach until it’s between my legs, testing me. Arousing me. He moans against my lips, a sound of utter male satisfaction, and then he’s gone. Kissing his way down my shivering body, his lips hot against my skin.
“Cold?” he asks, right before he drops a kiss just below my belly button.
“Nervous,” I admit, tilting my head down so I can look at him.
He’s watching me, his hair a mess from my hands, his lips quirked in the cutest little smile. “I’m nervous, too,” he murmurs, holding out a shaky hand. “See what you do to me?”
I stare at him, dumbstruck. How do I answer him? I can’t. I’m too overcome with emotion, foreign, powerful emotion that I could affect him this way. That I can feel his shaking fingers grip my hips and know that I did that to him. His hands slide down, along the tops of my thighs, farther down to part them, and I lean my head back, closing my eyes as I let myself be overcome by sensation.
His hair brushes against the inside of my thighs and then his lips are there, pressing soft, sweet, open-mouthed kisses. He grips my knees, keeping me spread wide open for him, and I can feel his breath against my slick flesh, then his lips …
Oh, God. A shuddery moan escapes me when he licks me there, his tongue doing a thorough search of my folds. He caresses my thighs with his fingertips, his mouth busy, his tongue circling in the most precise spot possible. All I can do is lie there and take it, my hands clutching the sheets beneath me as I lift my hips, wanting more but not quite knowing how to show it, let alone say it.
Owen seems to sense my struggle and he rests a hand low on my belly, stilling me as his tongue continues its thorough search. I’m writhing beneath his lips, my legs popping up of their own volition, my feet planted on the mattress. A ragged sound escapes as he slips a finger deep inside me and he sucks my clit into his mouth.
And that’s all it takes. I’m already so keyed up, so turned on, I explode with a little cry, my entire body trembling as my orgasm rushes through me, leaving me breathless, boneless, mindless with pleasure. It’s as if my entire system shuts down and he just killed me with his lips and tongue and fingers.
I’m lying in the middle of Owen’s bed, just as I envisioned the first time I went into his room. Naked and pale against the dark red sheets, sweaty and gasping for air, my arms and legs still trembling from the orgasm he gave me. My heart is racing so fast, I swear I’m going to have a coronary.
I’ve never felt better in all my life.
He’s moving up the length of my body, his mouth brushing against my skin until his cheek is pressed to mine, his mouth at my ear, his hot breath making me shiver. “Did you like that?”
His deep voice is full of promise. Full of everything I could ever want and everything I never knew I needed.
My own voice has left me completely, so all I can do is nod. He kisses my ear, my cheek, until finally his mouth is on mine. His tongue meets mine and I can taste myself, but it doesn’t bother me. Somehow, it kick-starts my arousal and I wrap my arms around his neck, my hands in his hair. Loving how he feels, naked and pressed tight against me, the heavy weight of his erection against my belly.
It’s going to happen tonight. I know it is. I’m definitely giving up my virginity to Owen and though I’m nervous, I’m also excited.
“I thought you were going to rip my head off,” he says after he pulls away from my lips. “Your thighs were clamped so tight around my head.”
He just loves to embarrass me, doesn’t he? I had no idea I’d even done that—that’s how mindless he makes me. “Owen, stop.” I let my arms fall from his neck, turning my face to the side.
Owen grips my chin with his fingers and makes me face him again. I stick my tongue out at him. “It was hot, Chels. I had no idea your thighs were so strong.” Grinning, he reaches down and grabs one of my thighs and hikes it so my leg is draped around his hip, the heel of my foot pressing into his backside. He rocks into me, his grin fading, replaced with a look of pure, unfiltered pleasure. “Okay, yeah, this is perfect.”
I don’t want to close my eyes. I want to watch him. Watch all the emotions cross his expressive face, the way his lids fall at half-mast, his lips parted, his cheeks ruddy. His chest is gleaming with a light sheen of sweat and I rear up on my elbows, then press my mouth to the center of his chest so I can lick the spot just above his heart, in between his pecs.
“Jesus, Chelsea.” He closes his eyes, his hand coming up to clasp the back of my head, and he just holds me there for a long, panted-breath second. “Can you feel what you do to me?”
I can. It’s amazing, how little old me can make him react so strongly, feel so much. It’s a powerful, heady feeling, one I don’t ever want to let go of. I kiss his chest again, lick his skin, groan when he tightens his grip in my hair and pulls me away from him.
Blinking my eyes open, I stare up at him, see the greedy gleam in his eyes. He looks like he wants to devour me.
And I desperately want to be devoured.
“I need a condom,” he says through gritted teeth just before he releases me.
Then he’s gone, rising from the bed and padding over to his dresser, completely comfortable in his nudity. I stare at him unabashedly, drinking in the perfect lines of his broad, muscled back, his firm backside, his thick thighs. A little sigh escapes me as he pulls open a drawer and goes in search of condoms.
I am so lucky. He’s so thoughtful, sweet, and funny. He writes me poems. Dirty ones, but I don’t care. They’re beautiful. He’s beautiful. Not perfect, but he’s mine.
And I am his.
He approaches the bed, what looks to be about ten condom packets clutched in his fist, and he drops them all on the bedside table, with the exception of one.
That one is in his hand and he’s tearing it open, taking the ring and placing it at the tip of his erection.
I watch him, my eyes wide, my mouth dry. He’s standing on the side of the bed, right in front of me, about to roll the condom on when he realizes I’m staring. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
I nod wordlessly.
His mouth quirks into a smile and he slips the condom on, then he’s on me, pressing me into the mattress, pressing his mouth to my mouth, his tongue tangling with my tongue. His hands are everywhere and so are mine, and soft little sighs escape me, just as low, deep groans leave him.
I’m scared but I’m not. Owen has been so patient with me, I know he won’t be too rough or quick. He wants me to feel good. He’s told me that time and time again. It’s why he wouldn’t let me touch him when we first went into his room. He’d wanted the moment to be all about me and my orgasm and how good he could make me feel.
He wanted me ready, he said. He wanted this to be easier for me.
What he wants … he wants for me.
I spread my legs for him and he nudges his hips between them, the head of his erection brushing against my center. I’m slick down there from his earlier attention and I close my eyes, almost embarrassed by my own body.
“Damn, Chels, you’re fucking soaked for me,” he murmurs, his fingers sliding along my folds, teasing me before he inserts one long, perfect finger deep inside.
All my embarrassment disappears with his words. I spread my legs wider and hook one leg over his hip again, just like he’d positioned me a few minutes ago. I’m completely open to him and he moans against my neck, thrusting his erection against me slowly. It all feels so good, so wondrously right, and then he’s right there. Nudging against me, the very tip of him entering my body for the first time.
I stiffen up all over, feeling like I’m going to shatter.
“Baby.” He runs his hand over my hair, then cups my chin, tilting my face up. I open my eyes and stare at him, my heart racing for a different reason now. Fear of the unknown has left me quivering. “Don’t be scared. Relax.”
Nodding, I close my eyes tight, breathing slowly through my mouth. He drops tiny kisses along my neck, his lips light, his touch fleeting, just as I like it. His big hands are on my breasts, his thumbs tracing my nipples, his hips moving against mine languidly, and I lose myself. Let my mind float. Let my thoughts be free.
And then he’s entering me. Slow, so slow. Just a nudge, a gentle push, the head of his erection broaching my body, and I let my thighs fall open. A willing captive to his body as he pins me in place.
“Put your other leg around me,” he commands, and I do so, a thrill moving down my spine at the dark tone of his voice. “Relax, baby, this might hurt.”
He presses forward, inch by thick inch, impaling me with his length. A gasp escapes me at the sharp pinch of pain and I close my eyes and tense my body, my muscles shaking I’m so rigid.
“Relax, Chels. I’m gonna make this so good for you—it’s gonna be unbelievable,” he whispers close to my ear. “Fuck, you feel amazing. Hot and tight. Just let it happen, baby. Trust me.”
I trust him. I do. A ragged breath escapes me and I force my body to slowly relax. His hips rock, his erection pushes forward, and then he’s inside me, thick and hot and throbbing. Filling me to bursting.
We move together, our bodies united, our limbs entwined, our mouths fused. He’s kissing me, moving inside of me, pulling almost all the way out before he pushes back inside, and I open my eyes to find him watching me, his gaze so brilliantly green I’m momentarily dazzled.
“You’re beautiful. You know that?” he asks, pressing his forehead to mine.
“You make me feel beautiful,” I admit, because it’s true. No one has ever treated me like Owen has. I feel safe with him. I trust him. He makes me laugh. He makes me want.
I think I’m falling in love with him.
Owen
I’ve had sex. Lots and lots of it. I would be embarrassed to tell Chelsea I was only fourteen my first time. Hell, Fable would die if she knew this, especially since it happened when I was under her watch. Mom was long gone, Fable was with Drew, and I snuck off with Wade to meet up with two girls from our history class. Girls we knew liked to smoke and party.
Girls we fucked in a bathroom at a public park not too far down the street from Wade’s house.
Not a proud moment. None of my sexual encounters would be what I’d classify as proud moments. What can I say? I was young and dumb and horny. Only thinking with the thing between my legs, versus the thing that I’m supposed to be using when I’m thinking.
Never, ever did I allow my heart into the equation. Another embarrassing admission: I never felt anything for those girls. The majority of them are nameless. Faceless. They could have been anyone. It’s not like I’ve been with hundreds of girls but for a while, there was an endless stream of them. All of them interchangeable, not a one of them special.
Until I met Chelsea.
We’re wrapped all around each other and I feel like my body is permanently fused with hers. Her hair is spread out all over my pillow; her scent is embedded in my skin. I can still taste her on my tongue, still hear the little whimpers and whispers of my name when I made her come with my lips and fingers.
She was being quiet so Wade wouldn’t hear us. She worried about that. She worries about everything. Her image. What she’s doing, how helpless she feels when she doesn’t understand what to do. Sex leaves her feeling helpless. She doesn’t have to say it.
I can tell.
But I’m here to catch her. Here to teach her whatever she wants to learn. It all just comes naturally because after all, sex is an instinctive act. The most basic act two human beings can commit. And I can see that happening within her. Her hips are lifting, her legs wrapped tight around me. My cock feels like it’s going to burst, and it takes everything within me not to just heave two sharp thrusts inside her tight little body and come.
I take it slow, though. I promised I would. I’m patient, infinitely patient with Chels.
Because she’s worth it.
She’s clutching my shoulders, her nails digging into my skin, and I welcome the bite of pain. I was so damn afraid I’d hurt her when I first entered her body and I’m pretty sure I did, though I definitely don’t think she’s hurting now. Whatever pain she can inflict on me I welcome, because then we’re equal.
And I like being equal with her. With Chelsea. I like opening my eyes and watching her, learning a rhythm with her, our bodies in sync, my hands mapping her skin, learning just how to touch her to drive her wild.
She’s mine. She might not know it yet, but I can’t stand the thought of letting her go. The nameless, faceless girls—they’re things of my past. Banished forever. I don’t want to be with anyone else.
I just want to be with her.
“Owen.” Her soft, breathless voice sends a shiver down my spine, and I drop a kiss on her forehead before swooping down and kissing her lips. She can barely keep up, her mouth slack from her out-of-control breathing; her breasts are crushed against my chest and her hands slide down my back, until they settle on my ass and she’s pressing me deeper. “You feel so good.”
Fuck, so do you, I want to scream at her. Too good. Too fucking good. She’s too good for me. She’s definitely worth it, but I’m not worthy. How did I end up with this girl, anyway? One minute I don’t want to be near her because she’s trying to force me to do something I most definitely don’t want to do, and the next I’m chasing after her like a dog in desperate need of attention. I wanted her attention. All of it. All the time.
I still do.
“You close?” I ask, my voice rough, my entire body wanting to be rough. I need to ease her into this so I don’t hurt her, but I’m desperate to unleash everything I have on her. Fuck her hard. Drive her out of her mind. Make her as addicted to me as I am to her.
She offers this tiny little nod and squeezes her eyes shut, as if she’s focusing every bit of concentration within her to make herself come. Her teeth sink into her poor, ravaged lower lip and I bend down, suck her lip between mine and give it a gentle pull. Lick it. Savor her taste, the whisper of breath that gusts across my mouth. I swallow it, wishing I could swallow her.
I’m a man possessed—overwhelmed and confused and full of joy and scared out of my ever-lovin’ mind. What’s happening between us, I’ve never experienced before. I think I know what Chelsea’s feeling and it’s scary as fuck.
But at least we’re doing it together.
Hesitating, I remain still and inhale sharply, goose bumps washing over my skin. A sure sign I’m about ready to blow, though she’s not ready yet. I can tell she’s not. The familiar tingling has formed at the base of my spine, insistent as all fuck, and my balls literally ache.
“Don’t stop,” she urges. The sound of her voice kills me and I drop my forehead to hers once more, trying to gain some control.
“I gotta stop,” I tell her. “If I don’t, I’m going to come. And you’re not ready.”
“I’m ready.” She runs her fingers through my hair, and I really fucking love it when she does that. Her touch feels so good. I want to lean into her hand every time, like I’m a cat or something. “Do what you want, Owen. You won’t hurt me. I’m not made of glass.”
She’s giving me permission to use her. And I don’t really want to, because she’s different. What we share together is so different from what I’ve done with other girls. “But …”
“I already came.” She streaks her fingers down my cheek as shock courses through me over what she said. Look at my tentative Chelsea, saying I made her come.
“I want you to come again,” I tell her just before I crush my mouth to hers. I increase my pace, using her because she gave me permission, but I’m also going to make sure she gets off, too.
Reaching between our bodies, I brush my fingers against her clit. She hisses against my lips and I continue stroking her, keeping time with my thrusts, keeping time with my breaths. With hers. She shudders and moans, licks my lips with her tongue as if she can’t get enough, and then she’s thrusting her head back against the pillow. Her perfect neck is arched, her pink lips parted, but no sound is coming out beyond her sexy little pants of air.
I push harder, wanting her to reach for it. Needing her to reach for it. Because then it’s too late. I’ve found it, my need consumes me as I push inside her once, hard, my orgasm taking over, washing over my skin, my thoughts, my brain, my everything. Fuck, I’m done.
Spent.
She’s shuddering all around me, too, her body clenching around my cock, milking every last drop out of me until I can do nothing but collapse on top of her, exhausted. I think I shouted her name out loud but I can’t be sure. Wade probably heard if I did.
