Chelsea cries out, back arching, and I have to fucking remind myself to go easy. Short, shallow thrusts make her keen, and then she’s pushing back against me—wanting it harder. Deeper. My hand skims the smooth expanse of her back, tracing her spine down to her ass. I knead the flesh with rough hands, gripping, so I can move her forward and back along my cock. And the view—fuck—it’s beautiful. Watching my full length disappear into her tight heat, over and over, seeing the fine sheen that covers her skin, hearing her groan my name as her hair sways with every vigorous movement.
I’m close now—so close. The only thing holding me back is the need to watch her go first. I guide her down onto her stomach and cover her with my body, my chest and stomach against her back, my pelvis on her ass, thigh along thigh—not an inch of space between us. I kiss and suck on the silken skin of her neck as our bodies slide, warm and damp with sweat. My hips pump into her deep and fast. I wedge my hand beneath her, finding that magical, hard nub between her swollen lips, rubbing it with my fingers, giving it the friction it needs to make her scream. Chelsea’s hands fist the sheets above her head and her muscles clamp down on me as she comes.
“Jake!”
I think it’s her voice that pushes me over. With my mouth against her ear, I grunt and growl, thrusting forward one last time, as my vision goes white and the purest pleasure surges from my gut, spreading out to my fingers and the tips of my toes. Robbing me of the will to move, to think, to do anything but keep this gorgeous woman under me.
I pant against her neck and, after a moment roll to the side off her back so she can breathe again. Without a word, I pull her against my chest, holding on tight, my face buried in her hair. Chelsea’s heavy breaths eventually slow and just before I fall asleep, I feel her delicate lips press a chaste kiss to each of my knuckles. Then she tucks my hands beneath hers and drifts off.
• • •
My eyes open at five a.m. on the button—even though it’s only been two hours since they closed the last time. I stare at the fiery gold of Chelsea’s hair, still in my face, her warm body still encased in my arms. Carefully, I pull away and am able to disentangle myself without waking her. Like always, I head to the bathroom, to take a piss, brush my teeth. I stretch, crack my neck, feeling only slightly stiff.
I avoid my reflection in the mirror as I splash my face with cold water and slick back the unruly black hair. Then I pad silently to the closet for a T-shirt and sweatpants, giving Chelsea’s angelic sleeping features only a quick glance. I head to the kitchen and turn on the small flat-screen television, keeping the volume low, as I wait for the coffee to brew. When it’s done, I step out onto the balcony, watching the streetlights fade and the pink-gray sky of dawn turn to blue.
And I tell myself to breathe. Slow and steady. In and out. There’s a sick, churning feeling in my gut—and I tell myself to ignore it.
I step back inside the kitchen to find Chelsea leaning against the wall, squinting, looking adorable in my gray button-down, which almost reaches her knees. “You’re not a sleeping-in-when-you-get-the-chance kind of guy, are you?” she asks with a yawn.
“Ah, no,” I tell her with a straight face and a shaking head. Then I start the speech—and the words taste bitter. Wrong.
“I’m going for a run. There’s coffee in the pot and—”
“Coffee?” Chelsea cuts me off. “No way—I’m going back to sleep.” She steps closer to me, running her palm along my abs. “But . . . if you want some company in the shower when you get back from your run . . . I’ll definitely wake up for that.”
She stretches up on her tiptoes, kissing me quickly. And I imagine her in the shower, wet everywhere, her luscious tits slick with soapy suds. It does seem like a good idea.
She turns to walk back to the bedroom. But my voice stops her.
“Chelsea . . .”
Because direct is always easier. And I don’t do complicated. Honesty is . . . shit, I don’t remember the rest.
“Yeah?”
I look at her face, so open and giving and real. Her lips, so close to smiling. And I remember words whispered in the dark.
“. . . and I trust you, Jake.”
“I won’t hurt you.”
And all I can say is, “I had an amazing time last night.”
The smile comes to fruition. “So did I.”
• • •
The run is punishing. I sprint farther, push harder. Sweat pours down my forehead, my chest throbs, and my legs burn like my muscles are on fire as I try to figure out a way for the chaos that is Chelsea and her gaggle of kids to fit into my organized life. I have goals, priorities. I didn’t get where I am today by getting distracted by a piece of ass—no matter how spectacular the ass may be.
I walk through my apartment door an hour and a half later, still breathing heavily. Van Morrison’s “Into the Mystic” is playing from the speakers. I grab a bottle of water from the fridge, chugging it, as Chelsea stands at my stove—looking more delectable than she has the right to—cooking. Still in the gray shirt, she rocks her hips in time to the music—then she uses the spatula as a microphone.
“I . . . want to rock your gypsy soul . . .”
And I have to laugh. That kind of fuck-hot, sexy-cute—it’s lethal.
“I thought you were going back to sleep.”
Chelsea glances back over her shoulder at me. “So did I. Apparently Ronan has ruined me forever—couldn’t fall back asleep. Then I decided to cook breakfast . . . except you don’t have any food. Judging by your refrigerator and your cabinets you exist on eggs, pasta, and the occasional beer alone.”
I’m close now—so close. The only thing holding me back is the need to watch her go first. I guide her down onto her stomach and cover her with my body, my chest and stomach against her back, my pelvis on her ass, thigh along thigh—not an inch of space between us. I kiss and suck on the silken skin of her neck as our bodies slide, warm and damp with sweat. My hips pump into her deep and fast. I wedge my hand beneath her, finding that magical, hard nub between her swollen lips, rubbing it with my fingers, giving it the friction it needs to make her scream. Chelsea’s hands fist the sheets above her head and her muscles clamp down on me as she comes.
“Jake!”
I think it’s her voice that pushes me over. With my mouth against her ear, I grunt and growl, thrusting forward one last time, as my vision goes white and the purest pleasure surges from my gut, spreading out to my fingers and the tips of my toes. Robbing me of the will to move, to think, to do anything but keep this gorgeous woman under me.
I pant against her neck and, after a moment roll to the side off her back so she can breathe again. Without a word, I pull her against my chest, holding on tight, my face buried in her hair. Chelsea’s heavy breaths eventually slow and just before I fall asleep, I feel her delicate lips press a chaste kiss to each of my knuckles. Then she tucks my hands beneath hers and drifts off.
• • •
My eyes open at five a.m. on the button—even though it’s only been two hours since they closed the last time. I stare at the fiery gold of Chelsea’s hair, still in my face, her warm body still encased in my arms. Carefully, I pull away and am able to disentangle myself without waking her. Like always, I head to the bathroom, to take a piss, brush my teeth. I stretch, crack my neck, feeling only slightly stiff.
I avoid my reflection in the mirror as I splash my face with cold water and slick back the unruly black hair. Then I pad silently to the closet for a T-shirt and sweatpants, giving Chelsea’s angelic sleeping features only a quick glance. I head to the kitchen and turn on the small flat-screen television, keeping the volume low, as I wait for the coffee to brew. When it’s done, I step out onto the balcony, watching the streetlights fade and the pink-gray sky of dawn turn to blue.
And I tell myself to breathe. Slow and steady. In and out. There’s a sick, churning feeling in my gut—and I tell myself to ignore it.
I step back inside the kitchen to find Chelsea leaning against the wall, squinting, looking adorable in my gray button-down, which almost reaches her knees. “You’re not a sleeping-in-when-you-get-the-chance kind of guy, are you?” she asks with a yawn.
“Ah, no,” I tell her with a straight face and a shaking head. Then I start the speech—and the words taste bitter. Wrong.
“I’m going for a run. There’s coffee in the pot and—”
“Coffee?” Chelsea cuts me off. “No way—I’m going back to sleep.” She steps closer to me, running her palm along my abs. “But . . . if you want some company in the shower when you get back from your run . . . I’ll definitely wake up for that.”
She stretches up on her tiptoes, kissing me quickly. And I imagine her in the shower, wet everywhere, her luscious tits slick with soapy suds. It does seem like a good idea.
She turns to walk back to the bedroom. But my voice stops her.
“Chelsea . . .”
Because direct is always easier. And I don’t do complicated. Honesty is . . . shit, I don’t remember the rest.
“Yeah?”
I look at her face, so open and giving and real. Her lips, so close to smiling. And I remember words whispered in the dark.
“. . . and I trust you, Jake.”
“I won’t hurt you.”
And all I can say is, “I had an amazing time last night.”
The smile comes to fruition. “So did I.”
• • •
The run is punishing. I sprint farther, push harder. Sweat pours down my forehead, my chest throbs, and my legs burn like my muscles are on fire as I try to figure out a way for the chaos that is Chelsea and her gaggle of kids to fit into my organized life. I have goals, priorities. I didn’t get where I am today by getting distracted by a piece of ass—no matter how spectacular the ass may be.
I walk through my apartment door an hour and a half later, still breathing heavily. Van Morrison’s “Into the Mystic” is playing from the speakers. I grab a bottle of water from the fridge, chugging it, as Chelsea stands at my stove—looking more delectable than she has the right to—cooking. Still in the gray shirt, she rocks her hips in time to the music—then she uses the spatula as a microphone.
“I . . . want to rock your gypsy soul . . .”
And I have to laugh. That kind of fuck-hot, sexy-cute—it’s lethal.
“I thought you were going back to sleep.”
Chelsea glances back over her shoulder at me. “So did I. Apparently Ronan has ruined me forever—couldn’t fall back asleep. Then I decided to cook breakfast . . . except you don’t have any food. Judging by your refrigerator and your cabinets you exist on eggs, pasta, and the occasional beer alone.”
