Wicked Sexy Liar
Page 17

I want to feel that slide, the slow easing in.
I want to watch the relief take over every feature one by one.
I want her to see me.
A tiny flash of pain crosses over her face—a twitch of her forehead, a tight gasp—and I bend to kiss her, whispering, “Okay?”
“Yeah,” she says, nodding. Her fingers move up my neck into my hair as a sly smile takes over her lips. “I just never do this sort of thing.”
I laugh at this, but it melts into a groan as she turns into my neck, sucking, biting. When I’m deep in her I stay there and just push deeper, deeper, deeper, rubbing all over her until she’s scratching at my back, pushing against me, slicing these tight, sharp noises straight into my ear.
I knew she was close but I didn’t realize how fast it would be.
I pull back to look at her right when she breaks: her mouth falls open, her pussy goes tight, and shards of sound tear from her throat.
With my face pressed to her neck, something in me falls apart and I’m gripping her, fucking her, sucking at her skin and taking as much as I can get. Her orgasm goes on and on until she comes down, gasping for air and just watching me.
Watching me climb, watching me give in, watching me topple over and come with a rumbling groan.
Fuck, I can barely breathe. My arms are shaking and she’s so slippery I have to adjust my grip so that I don’t drop her. But her hands cup my face, her mouth searches for mine, and then we’re kissing.
We’re kissing and it’s better than anything and I’m still inside her.
Everything is soft, drenched in water and these unwound, relieved touches are making it hard for me to imagine ever turning off the shower. It’s such a simple thing—kissing after sex—but it’s not. If it were simple it would be routine. I wouldn’t roll off right after, take care of the condom before taking care of anything else. I wouldn’t be thinking how long until we can get up, or whether she wants to stay over or whether I should offer her something to eat.
But London isn’t done with me yet and I don’t want to pull out. Not yet. Not quite. I like the feel of her, all pliable in my arms. I like the way it feels to come down in her.
I like the way it feels like we just did something rare together.
She tilts my face in her hands, kissing my jaw, sucking water from my bottom lip. Her blue eyes are bright and glassy, so close to mine. “You okay?”
I nod, whispering, “I think you’re going to wreck me,” before going back in for more of her mouth, but she ducks to the side.
“You’re going to run out of hot water soon.” She stretches, shifting her hips back, and I slide out of her before carefully setting her back on her feet.
It’s been years since I felt the odd sense of ownership over a body, and the awareness jerks through me like a reflex. I run my hands down her sides to her hips. I smooth my palms over her ass when she bends to turn off the water. I let my hands slide back up her sides and to her breasts when she straightens with her back to me. Bending, I suck at her shoulder, biting, wanting to leave a mark that lets everyone else know that I was here. I like the way she fits against me, front or back, it doesn’t matter. We fit.
“Where are your towels?” London looks at me over her shoulder, and she tries to hide a shiver.
“Shit, sorry, hang on.” I climb out, wrapping the only towel on the rack around my hips before jogging to the linen closet to get her a fresh one.
She’s climbing out when I return and hand it to her. I watch her dry off from her feet up her body to her hair. I’m reeling from the sensation that she was my girlfriend only ten seconds ago.
“Believe it or not,” she says, “that was the first time I’ve showered with someone.”
I bring the towel up to my hair, rubbing it dry. “Really?”
She looks up and freezes before coughing out a laugh. “Oh my God, your face. You look so proud.”
“It’s not a huge mystery that guys like to be the first. Discovering America. Inventing shit. Showering with London.”
“That’s pretty sexist. Women also like—”
I interrupt her gently with one hand up. “Yeah, yeah. But maybe not in the pathological way guys do.” I stare at her until she meets my eyes. “Settle down, I’m just happy to be the first. I’m not planting a flag or anything.”
Finally, she gives me a smile. Her eyes soften, take in my whole face before she looks into my eyes again. Fuck me, her expression is so sweet, so . . . happy, and I take a step forward—
She blinks, gaze cooling, and there it is: she remembers that we’re naked under our towels and she’s not supposed to like a guy like me. “Can I borrow some clothes? I need to drive home and change for work but don’t want to put my sandy stuff back on.”
“Didn’t plan very well, did you?”
Her eyes narrow and she tries to look annoyed but totally fails. “I planned on showering at home.”
She follows me to the bedroom, watching as I pull a pair of basketball shorts and a T-shirt out of a drawer.
“Do you want . . . ?” I trail off, holding up a pair of boxers in the other hand.
“Nah.” Taking the shorts, she drops the towel and sits at the edge of my bed. Naked. And now I’m left thinking about how she’ll be wearing my shorts with nothing between her—
“You’re staring.”
I blink out of my trance and say the first thing that comes to mind: “You really never showered with a boyfriend? That just seems so . . . obvious.”
London shrugs, pulling the string at the waist tight. “I’ve only really had one boyfriend,” she says, and looks up as if she expects me to find this weird. For obvious reasons, I do not. I lift my brows to tell her she should finish answering the question. “We were together a really long time, but no . . . we didn’t shower together.”
“What a loser, then.”
“You have no idea.” She laughs, and disappears as she pulls the shirt over her head.
And, ah, I get it. “He cheated, didn’t he?”
When she reemerges from the shirt, she eyes me warily. “How did you know?”
“You have that All Men Are Assholes vibe.”
“It’s been my experience that most men are cheaters at some point.”
I feel my head jerk back slightly. “ ‘Most men’? That seems a little harsh.”
She shrugs. “I’m not really in a business where I meet a lot of sincere gentlemen.”
“Why do you work at a bar, then?” I pause when she doesn’t answer and then wince. “There’s no good way to say this, so here goes: You have a degree. You don’t need to sling drinks for a living.”
“It’s not as easy to find a job as you may be thinking, lawyer boy. Also, I like mixing drinks. The schedule is good. I surf during the day and do some freelance stuff in my free time. Bartending makes good money. Freelancing . . . does not. Not yet.”
“Freelance graphic design?”
“Yeah. Some drawing. Logos. Videos. Websites.” She grows tight; shoulder pulled in, palms pressed together, hands captured between her knees where she sits on my bed. Her body screams, Can I go now?
I recognize the posture. I’ve worn that posture. For some reason, it rankles me after what we just did, and makes me want to keep her here longer. Why is my instinct with her always to push, just a little?