More Than This
Page 55

   “God, Kayla. You are so damn beautiful.” With a crooked smile, he asks, “Is this what you bought that—”
   I nod. I bought it at the mall with Julie.
   “It’s about fucking time I got to see it.”
   I laugh as he rips off his T-shirt and pants, leaving on his boxers. Then his body hovers over mine, and I can feel skin on skin, a guttural moan escaping me before I can stop it. He’s kissing my neck, his hands all over the place like he can’t get enough.
   He leans back, his weight on his elbows. Our parts are joined together, my lace panties and his boxers the only barrier. He looks up at me. “As much as I love what you’re wearing, and that you’re wearing it for me, I’d prefer that you didn’t have anything on.” I nod.
   Slowly and effortlessly, he unclips my bra and removes the straps from my shoulders, kissing my skin. Once it’s off, he hovers his body lower, kissing my bare stomach and curling his fingers around the band of my panties. He has to be able to tell how turned on I am and how badly I need him.
   Slowly—so slowly—he pulls down my panties until they’re on the floor. He sits on his heels and looks at me, his eyes roaming all over my body. He comes back up and lies on his side facing me. I’m on my back, head turned to face him. He moves hair out of my face then rests his hand on my stomach.
   “Shit, Kayla. I’m going to regret this,” he breathes.
   “Regret what?” I ask. He starts to move his hand lower and lower.
   So close.
   “I want to kiss you so bad.” He looks at my lips and licks his before returning his gaze to my eyes.
   “So why don’t you?”
   “Because if I kiss you, I’ll want to taste you. And if I taste you, I’ll need to fuck you. And when I fuck you, it means you’re mine. When I make you mine, I want it to be in our bed—not a hotel room . . . Is that okay?”
   I’m so turned on, an uncontrollable cry escapes me. Before I know it, his boxers are off and he’s flipped me on top of him. I’m straddling him, my wet heat on his hard dick. He’s moving us so we’re grinding, but he’s not inside. It’s so intense, I think I’m crying from the pleasure of it.
   “God, Kayla. I just want to feel you,” he whispers. He reaches one hand for the back of my neck, the other holding my ass. It feels so fucking good, I don’t know if I’m making any noise in reality, or if the screams are just in my head.
   He leans his head forward and takes my nipple in his mouth. He sucks and licks, then he’s pushing up, and I’m moving back and forth, my wetness sleeked over both our parts. His grip, squeezing my ass, hurts in all the good ways.
   I don’t know if my eyes are closed or if the world has just stopped existing.
   The buildup is so powerful, but I’m trying to hold off because I want to feel like this for the rest of my frickin’ life. His mouth moves from my breasts to my neck. I lower myself onto him, and he’s thrusting up and hitting a spot I didn’t know can be hit. Now I know I’m actually saying all the sounds that were in my head, because my throat is scratchy.
   “Fuck, Kayla. I’m so fucking close.” He starts moving faster on me, and that’s all it takes.
   “Oh, fuck!” I scream, while he moans the manliest sound I’ve ever heard. At some point, he has enough respect for the other hotel guests to grab the back of my head and plaster my face into his neck to catch most of my scream. I ride every wave, panting “Holy fuck” the entire time.
   Ho. Lee. Shit.
   I feel sorry for all the girls in the world who’ll never get to experience a Jake Andrews at least once in their lifetime.
   When it’s over, he starts to chuckle. I sit up and cock my head at him questioningly.
   “You are so fucking loud, Kayla. Jesus, we need to work on that.”
 
 
FORTY-FIVE
MIKAYLA
   I look at Jake with my nose scrunched, a disgusted look on my face.
   “It’s not at all what the rap videos make it seem like.” He’s laughing to himself.
   We’re having dinner at the hotel restaurant the next day, and we somehow—I don’t know how—got to talking about strip clubs.
   “So you guys weren’t sitting in red-leather booths with stunna shades, making it rain money?”
   He laughs out loud, causing other diners to stare at him. “No, Kayla, it most definitely was not like that. More like sticky pleather chairs, making it rain germs.” He shivers.
   The waitress comes over for our drink order, never once looking at me. Her eyes are glued to Jake.
   “I’ll have a beer,” Jake says calmly. “What about you, baby? Champagne with ice?”
   I nod and smile.
   “Make it two of each—we’re on our honeymoon,” he tells the waitress, who then looks at me like she just realized I’m sitting here.
   Slutbag.
   After more than a couple of beverages each, we head back to our room.
   “Oh my God,” I say, “That old dude is my lit professor, and that girl is in my class.” I watch the couple make their way over to us, fondling each other, not a care in the world.
   Jake laughs, and as they come closer he decides to be a smart-ass and stand right in their way, so they have no choice but to stop and look. When they see us, it’s awkward as hell.
   “Hi, Professor Greene,” I say quietly, looking down. I try to smile but can’t follow through. Jake is an asshole.
   “Oh!” The professor sounds surprised. He lets go of the student and straightens up, running a hand through his hair. “Hi, Ms. Jones.” He looks at me then Jake. His eyes widen slightly. “I didn’t know that Jake Andrews is your boyfriend.”
   “Oh, he’s not.”
   Jake tenses next to me then walks away, heading toward our room.
   The professor tries to make conversation while the student tries to hide behind him. As quickly as possible, we say our good-byes, and I walk back to the room.
   When I open the door, he’s coming out of the bathroom. “I’m going to take the floor, so you want to pick what pillows and blankets you want?” he says to the room. He won’t look at me.
   “What?”
   “I said—”
   “I know what you said, Jake. But we have a king-sized bed here, and it’s not like we haven’t slept in the same bed before. Did I do something?”
   “Whatever, Micky. Just choose so I can get some sleep. I’m tired as fuck.”
   Micky? “What happened? You never call me Micky.”