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“Okay,” I say, because I have every intention of being naked too, of feeling him against all of me.
His hands slide beneath my oversized sweatshirt, and the slight pressure of them against my flesh sends a rush of sensation through me—almost too strong—and then he’s lifting it over my head, leaving me in the bootie shorts. He makes a sound like a hiss when he sees my bra—black silk with mesh cutouts.
“Did you wear that for me too?”
“Arrogant much?” I ask. “I wore it for me.” I like wearing pretty lingerie. It’s like a secret between myself and the world—yes, I may look like a hot mess mom. Yes, I am a hot mess mom, but on my terms.
“I’m glad,” he says, and for a second I’m thrown—he’s glad I did it for myself or he’s just glad I wore it? But then I don’t care anymore because his mouth has lowered to the mesh cutouts, and I can feel his tongue slide over my nipple. I’m grateful for that mesh, because if I felt him against my bare nipple, I’d probably do something ridiculous like squeal.
I start attacking his belt. That’s the best word for it. It needs to come off—now—and I will be its executioner. He watches me do it without helping, his eyes hooded, an aggravating smirk on his face as if he’s accusing me of not even being able to belt properly. Finally, I get the buckle loosened, and seconds later his pants and boxer briefs are pushed down.
My hand finds his cock, sweeping up and down it, because I need to touch it to believe this is actually happening—also because it turns out his BDE has plenty to back it up, not that I’d expected otherwise.
“Fuck, Ruthie,” he says, “you can’t touch me right now. Give me a minute.”
A rush of power leaves me almost giddy. My touch makes Shane Royce feel like he’s going to lose it? Well, hallelujah. I guess something would have to do the trick.
I release him, and I don’t have time to make a smart remark before he leans in again to kiss me, his hand finding my hair and fisting in it the way he did in the living room. The nerve endings light up, and I feel like the Christmas tree I only took down last week. The man has mad skills, too, because with his other hand he manages to unclasp my bra on the first go—something that takes more effort for me, and I do it every day.
His mouth moves to my jaw to the place at my neck that’s a hotline to the rest of my body, and then down to my breasts, my hand finding the back of his hair as he kisses them and then runs his tongue over my nipple before capturing it in his mouth. Something flashes in his eyes and he pushes me back onto the bed and tugs me to the edge, his hands already working on my shorts and panties. They’re form-fitting, but they don’t hold out for more than half a second against Shane Royce, who’s spent the last two months haunting the gym.
Seconds later, I’m splayed open for him at the bottom of the mattress. He stands between my legs and looks down at me for a long moment—his gaze intense, varying between green and blue and brown now that he doesn’t have a tie to tell them which color to favor. His chest is defined and covered in a sprinkling of dark hair, and he looks nothing like the boy in my memory. We’re reflected in the large vanity mirror behind us, so I can see his bare muscular ass, the long muscled slope of his back.
A laugh escapes me, because I am absolutely the kind of person who laughs at moments like this—when I’m so keyed up and full of wanting, it has to escape some way.
“What’s so funny?” he asks, his hands blazing twin paths up and down my thighs. I have a pulse of self-consciousness, because I don’t think I’ve shaved for a few days—I honestly don’t remember—but he doesn’t seem to give a shit or even notice.
“It’s just—there’s a big vanity mirror behind us. It seems appropriate because of your nickname.”
He glances back, just for a moment, and then smiles at me—it’s a sinful smile, and I feel it right between my legs, even before he gets down on his knees. “Then you’ll be able to watch me two ways when I have my head buried between your legs,” he says, pulling my legs even farther apart, baring me to him.
I feel another pulse of self-consciousness, but it’s obliterated when he breathes out a swear and starts kissing a blazing path up my thigh and to my center. He glances up at me, that stupid, adorable crown still on his head, and says, “You’re so wet for me, Ruthie.” He looks like he’s announcing he just built the Empire State Building himself, by hand, and I feel a swell of annoyance.
“Why do you assume it’s for you? Maybe I’m just insatiable.”
He growls and sucks in my clit, making my hips buck up. As he pulls them to his face, feasting on me, I pluck the crown off his head. Even though I love Pretty Pretty Princess as much as the next girl, I want to weave my hand in his short hair, to pull it. Then I put the crown on my own head because I feel like the queen of the universe. “I’m your queen,” I say, earning another growl that vibrates through me and gives me the first quakes of my orgasm. I spiral further when I look in the mirror and see him on his knees, his back bare, his face at my core. Shane must feel it coming, because he curls one finger inside me, two, finding the bundle of nerves and igniting them while he sucks my clit—and I’m gone. I’m toast. I’m a puddle. In this one, brief moment, I’m his.
“The condoms,” he says, his voice rough. “Where?”
Taking off the crown and setting it on my bedside table, I wave to the top drawer of my dresser, beneath the mirror. I don’t even think about all of my pairs of old and period underwear until after he’s stepped over and opened the drawer. But he clearly doesn’t care. He’s a man on a mission, swiping through until he finds the row of condoms. It takes him only half a second to roll one on, although watching him do it, his reflection in the mirror offering a second show, will be burned into my brain forever. He’s so impossibly beautiful, and in this moment, I don’t hold it against him. I’m glad for it.
He returns to me, still a puddle, my legs hanging over the side of the bed, because I’ve decided I’m not ready to move yet, particularly if he’s coming over here to give me that cock.
“I need to be inside of you,” he says, stroking his big hands down my legs. I wrap them around his waist, because I need him too, even if I can’t bring myself to say it. “I’ve never needed anything as much.”
He stares me in the eyes as he says it, and I feel an uncomfortable twist of emotion—of wanting to believe him but knowing he can lie when it suits him. He must be lying now.
“So do it,” I say, lifting my hips up, because I may have just come, but I know he can give me another. And maybe more.
He reaches down to position himself, an almost pained look on his face, then slowly slides in—giving me time to adjust to the very welcome invasion. I know I can take it—my body gave birth to a baby and is therefore capable of anything—but I still feel an almost painful but very pleasurable stretch, leading to a sensation of complete fullness and the desperate need for friction.
He swears loudly, leaning his head back as if he’s worshipping at my altar, my hips lifted to him, his hard cock seated inside me, and this, too, is a moment I’ll remember forever.
I don’t like the way I’m memorizing these moments—I want to live them—so I push into his thrust, pulling another swear from him. “Don’t be gentle with me, Vain.”
“I hadn’t planned on it,” he says, pulling out and using my thighs for leverage as he thrusts back in again. “Touch yourself, Ruthie. Touch yourself while I fuck you.”
Because his hands are busy, and he can’t reach my clit. Probably also because he wants to watch. So I do, and the look on his face, worshipful, is as intoxicating as what he’s doing to me. Then he leans over me and takes my nipple in his mouth, sucking while he continues to move inside of me, my legs pulling him closer because they don’t seem to want to let him go. One of my hands finds his muscular ass, the other his hair, holding him in place because I feel greedy, and the way he’s sucking my nipple is sending more pleasure spiraling to where I need it. I’m starting to clench around him already, as if every part of me wants him closer. He shifts to the other nipple, pausing to place a kiss between my breasts. A muffled cry escapes me—muffled because he presses his palm over my mouth. He knows Izzy is down the hall.
