Moonshot
Page 19
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He had stepped in, reaching for her, his touch too rough, his control shot, and had a moment of worry, hearing the slam of the door, feeling the tremor of her body—that he was forcing himself on her.
Then her arms had wrapped greedily around his neck, her mouth opening for his, her body soft against his … and it was official.
He was screwed.
41
I suddenly got it. I understood why women cheated on husbands, why teenagers screwed in the backseats of dirty cars, why naïve girls let men like Chase Stern into their hotel rooms late at night. Our mouths met, our kiss fed, and I couldn’t stop. I wanted to touch him everywhere, pull him closer, inhale his scent and never stop breathing. His hands slid to my waist and lifted, my feet coming off the floor, and my legs were suddenly around him, my mouth frantic, his kiss deep, my fingers digging into his scalp, pulling his hair, wanting a hundred more moments and terrified that he would stop.
My butt hit the desk, my legs around him, his hands yanking up my jersey, the brush of fingertips against my sides surprising, my mouth gasping off his as he pulled back, his hands lifting the jersey higher, mine quick to grab it and hold it down. “Wait,” I panted, his hands stopping, his head lifting until our eyes met. “Wait,” I repeated, both of us breathing hard, his hands trembling as he released my shirt. “Leave the shirt on.”
“Okay.” He swallowed, putting his hands flat on the desk, one on either side of me, the motion lowering his head next to mine. “Is this okay?”
I rewrapped my legs, bare skin against the smooth fabric of his pants, and pulled him closer to the desk. “Yes,” I whispered.
He ran his lips slowly down my neck, nuzzling the skin, pushing aside my hair with his nose, his hands still flat against the desk. His mouth opened, and I shivered, the scrape of teeth against my shoulder, then the hot, wet flick of his tongue. “Is this okay?” he repeated.
“No.” I said, bolder, my hands running up his sides, coming across the front of his shirt, my fingers pulling at the top buttons of it. “I need more.”
He growled, the sound low in his throat, and I felt the twitch of his thumb against the outside of my left thigh. He shifted, keeping one hand flat, and lifted the other, sliding it softly up my thigh, his fingers spreading across the skin, his head dropping to watch its journey, my breath losing a beat when his fingers hit the edge of my jersey, gently tracing the fabric before slipping underneath it.
I could feel every single finger and its movement, the anticipation heightening the arousal, my heart hitching as he whispered my name, his kiss suddenly soft as it landed on my collarbone, then the hollow of my neck, then my jaw. I tried to prepare for it, tried to stay still, tried to contain the sound in my throat, but I whimpered, unable to hold it back, his fingers now moving along the edge of my panties, the gentle scrape of his nails, and then he gripped them, pulling slightly on the cotton, the boyshorts cutting in between my legs and my arousal turned the corner of insanity.
I had never known this. The pulsing need, the urge to grind against something, anything, my legs trembling, body crying, every thought reduced to the primal instinct of wanting more. Everything. Anything. I sat on that desk before him and opened my mouth and begged, the word please slipping out, over and over, my hips twitching against the desktop, needing more friction, my hands clawing at his shirt, pulling at the fabric, reaching for the belt, my actions instinctual, the consequences be damned.
He twisted his hand, pulling the panties tighter, the cut of them in between my legs almost bringing me off the desk. I closed my eyes, and dropped my head, completely at his mercy.
“Good lord, Ty.” He groaned the words, and his other hand was suddenly there, tight and rough in its grip of my opposite thigh. “Look at me,” he rasped out. “If you want more, I need you to look at me.”
I opened drugged eyes, his face coming into focus, his eyes tight on mine.
“There, Ty. Look at me.”
I tried. But then his clench on my thigh was gone, and he ran his fingers across the tight stretch of my panties, a brush that did something inside of me, something that broke down any last stronghold, something that made my legs collapse, my thighs fully spreading for him, my chin trembling. His fingers brushed back, then took on a new life, slipping down, between my legs, pushing and rolling across the soaked fabric, my head falling back again, eye contact difficult as I tensed beneath his touch.
“That…” One of my hands was suddenly on his shoulder, my nails digging into his shirt, holding on for dear life. “Don’t stop.”
“Look at me, Ty. Stay with me, baby.”
“I—” I whimpered out the word, not sure where it was going, his eyes reading me well, one of his fingers pushing past cotton and dipping inside of me.
Holy shit. If I thought that … whatever that had been, was amazing, his bare finger, pushing inside of me, bending inside of me … it was, in an instant, the sweetest, purest pleasure I had ever known. I cried out his name, twisting before him, my hands clinging to him, crazy sounds of nonsense pouring out of me, everything in me focusing on the maddeningly perfect touch of his.
I broke under his hands. I might’ve cried. I definitely swore. In those moments, his eyes on mine, his touch pushing inside, I climbed into heaven and fell back down a different woman.
42
He couldn’t. Never again, not with anyone else. Nothing would ever, after that moment, compare. Not with her cry, not with her reaction, not with her kiss. A woman shouldn’t be created in such heartbreakingly beautiful combinations. A woman shouldn’t, in fifteen minutes, have the ability to ruin him for life.
43
When I woke up, the room was dark. I rolled over and reached for him, my hands finding nothing, the bed empty. I sat up far enough to see the clock. 1:02. When I’d fallen asleep, I had been on my side, he on his, my body under the blankets because he’d said he couldn’t take the temptation, his body on top, six feet of gorgeous stretched out, his shoes kicked off.
“Tell me about Ty Rollins,” he said, his gaze on me, his hand gentle as it tucked a bit of hair behind my ear.
“Not much to tell. My mom died when I was seven. I joined Dad on the road. Been a clubhouse brat ever since.” I smiled, and his eyes softened, dropping to my mouth.
“Tell me about your mom.”
My smile faltered. “I don’t remember a lot.”
Then her arms had wrapped greedily around his neck, her mouth opening for his, her body soft against his … and it was official.
He was screwed.
41
I suddenly got it. I understood why women cheated on husbands, why teenagers screwed in the backseats of dirty cars, why naïve girls let men like Chase Stern into their hotel rooms late at night. Our mouths met, our kiss fed, and I couldn’t stop. I wanted to touch him everywhere, pull him closer, inhale his scent and never stop breathing. His hands slid to my waist and lifted, my feet coming off the floor, and my legs were suddenly around him, my mouth frantic, his kiss deep, my fingers digging into his scalp, pulling his hair, wanting a hundred more moments and terrified that he would stop.
My butt hit the desk, my legs around him, his hands yanking up my jersey, the brush of fingertips against my sides surprising, my mouth gasping off his as he pulled back, his hands lifting the jersey higher, mine quick to grab it and hold it down. “Wait,” I panted, his hands stopping, his head lifting until our eyes met. “Wait,” I repeated, both of us breathing hard, his hands trembling as he released my shirt. “Leave the shirt on.”
“Okay.” He swallowed, putting his hands flat on the desk, one on either side of me, the motion lowering his head next to mine. “Is this okay?”
I rewrapped my legs, bare skin against the smooth fabric of his pants, and pulled him closer to the desk. “Yes,” I whispered.
He ran his lips slowly down my neck, nuzzling the skin, pushing aside my hair with his nose, his hands still flat against the desk. His mouth opened, and I shivered, the scrape of teeth against my shoulder, then the hot, wet flick of his tongue. “Is this okay?” he repeated.
“No.” I said, bolder, my hands running up his sides, coming across the front of his shirt, my fingers pulling at the top buttons of it. “I need more.”
He growled, the sound low in his throat, and I felt the twitch of his thumb against the outside of my left thigh. He shifted, keeping one hand flat, and lifted the other, sliding it softly up my thigh, his fingers spreading across the skin, his head dropping to watch its journey, my breath losing a beat when his fingers hit the edge of my jersey, gently tracing the fabric before slipping underneath it.
I could feel every single finger and its movement, the anticipation heightening the arousal, my heart hitching as he whispered my name, his kiss suddenly soft as it landed on my collarbone, then the hollow of my neck, then my jaw. I tried to prepare for it, tried to stay still, tried to contain the sound in my throat, but I whimpered, unable to hold it back, his fingers now moving along the edge of my panties, the gentle scrape of his nails, and then he gripped them, pulling slightly on the cotton, the boyshorts cutting in between my legs and my arousal turned the corner of insanity.
I had never known this. The pulsing need, the urge to grind against something, anything, my legs trembling, body crying, every thought reduced to the primal instinct of wanting more. Everything. Anything. I sat on that desk before him and opened my mouth and begged, the word please slipping out, over and over, my hips twitching against the desktop, needing more friction, my hands clawing at his shirt, pulling at the fabric, reaching for the belt, my actions instinctual, the consequences be damned.
He twisted his hand, pulling the panties tighter, the cut of them in between my legs almost bringing me off the desk. I closed my eyes, and dropped my head, completely at his mercy.
“Good lord, Ty.” He groaned the words, and his other hand was suddenly there, tight and rough in its grip of my opposite thigh. “Look at me,” he rasped out. “If you want more, I need you to look at me.”
I opened drugged eyes, his face coming into focus, his eyes tight on mine.
“There, Ty. Look at me.”
I tried. But then his clench on my thigh was gone, and he ran his fingers across the tight stretch of my panties, a brush that did something inside of me, something that broke down any last stronghold, something that made my legs collapse, my thighs fully spreading for him, my chin trembling. His fingers brushed back, then took on a new life, slipping down, between my legs, pushing and rolling across the soaked fabric, my head falling back again, eye contact difficult as I tensed beneath his touch.
“That…” One of my hands was suddenly on his shoulder, my nails digging into his shirt, holding on for dear life. “Don’t stop.”
“Look at me, Ty. Stay with me, baby.”
“I—” I whimpered out the word, not sure where it was going, his eyes reading me well, one of his fingers pushing past cotton and dipping inside of me.
Holy shit. If I thought that … whatever that had been, was amazing, his bare finger, pushing inside of me, bending inside of me … it was, in an instant, the sweetest, purest pleasure I had ever known. I cried out his name, twisting before him, my hands clinging to him, crazy sounds of nonsense pouring out of me, everything in me focusing on the maddeningly perfect touch of his.
I broke under his hands. I might’ve cried. I definitely swore. In those moments, his eyes on mine, his touch pushing inside, I climbed into heaven and fell back down a different woman.
42
He couldn’t. Never again, not with anyone else. Nothing would ever, after that moment, compare. Not with her cry, not with her reaction, not with her kiss. A woman shouldn’t be created in such heartbreakingly beautiful combinations. A woman shouldn’t, in fifteen minutes, have the ability to ruin him for life.
43
When I woke up, the room was dark. I rolled over and reached for him, my hands finding nothing, the bed empty. I sat up far enough to see the clock. 1:02. When I’d fallen asleep, I had been on my side, he on his, my body under the blankets because he’d said he couldn’t take the temptation, his body on top, six feet of gorgeous stretched out, his shoes kicked off.
“Tell me about Ty Rollins,” he said, his gaze on me, his hand gentle as it tucked a bit of hair behind my ear.
“Not much to tell. My mom died when I was seven. I joined Dad on the road. Been a clubhouse brat ever since.” I smiled, and his eyes softened, dropping to my mouth.
“Tell me about your mom.”
My smile faltered. “I don’t remember a lot.”
