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“Another surprise—I would have pegged you as a bed-maker.”
He strolls past to stand in front of me, blocking my view with his broad chest. I glance up to his face just as he reaches to skim his fingers up my arms. He caresses my forearms, biceps, shoulders, and then higher until he’s cradled my head so I can’t turn away. His fingers wind through my hair, and I’m reminded of how sticky and sweaty we both are. When I mention it, he doesn’t care.
“It’s fitting. I’ll burn the sheets,” he promises before tugging my head back and giving himself better access to my soft lips. I smile as he bends low and hovers his mouth over mine. My breath catches in my throat. Outside, he kissed me passionately, forcefully, but it’s clear that in here, he’s not going to take anything I’m not willing to give. I reach up and wrap my hands around his forearms before tipping my head back just another inch. It’s a silent plea, a kiss me, you fool.
He smiles and bends low, skimming his lips gently across mine. My eyes flutter closed and I let out a low moan as our lips slide open. Our tongues touch and desire builds low between my legs. He moves to grasp my waist and then he starts to work my t-shirt up. It’s gone, slipping down to the floor behind me. My sports bra is next, and then his big, masculine hand drags up from my navel to skim along the bottom of my ribcage, up to the underside of my left breast. His touch is sweet as he caresses my skin. He takes turns holding each breast in his palm, kneading the soft flesh. When I’m close to melting on the spot, he finally, finally skims his palm across my nipple. A thousand shockwaves move through me and I moan for more. He obliges, dipping down and replacing his hand with his mouth. His tongue is rough yet tender, a reminder of what he did to me back in that hotel room in Vegas.
Just when I think I can’t take another second, his fingers skim down, dragging along the top of my shorts. He dips down beneath the elastic band, sliding lower until his fingers brush across my center. My head tips back on a moan. It’s a slow give and take. His finger pads tease me with gentle kisses until I’m so hungry for more that I reach down and hold his hand still, willing him to touch where I need it most.
What are we doing? Why am I letting this happen? The rational part of my brain vies for the controls to my body, but the mutiny doesn’t last long.
When he brushes across my tight bundle of nerves, I lose my footing. If he keeps it up, I won’t be able to stand at all. I blink my eyes open to find him staring down at me with undisguised emotion—in fact, he’s looking at me as if I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and it’s too much. I clamp my eyes shut again and swear to keep them closed until it’s over, until I can regain some semblance of my sanity.
“Brooke,” he groans as his finger dips into me.
I squeeze his shoulders in response, showing him how much I like his touch, the feel of him inside me. His mouth lifts back up to my neck and he presses a kiss there, whispering something against my skin. I ask him to repeat it, but he ignores me and backs us up to the bed instead. I know where we’re headed. In a few minutes, we’ll both be stripped down, our workout clothes tossed to the floor and forgotten. He’ll guide me backward until my bare thighs hit his cool sheets, the sheets that smell like his spiced cologne, the sheets he sleeps on every night. This is his private sanctuary, the place where he rests after a long day, and probably the last place we’ll ever see each other. He’s wrapping me up in his bed and covering me with his body.
“I accused you of wanting to fight, of liking it,” he whispers. “I guess I like it too.”
…
I’m grateful that James doesn’t ask me to stay the night. It’s 12:45 AM when I summon an Uber, and I have just enough time to rinse off in his shower before it arrives. He hands me a set of clean clothes when I step out and wrap a towel around myself. They’re his clothes: a white Caltech t-shirt I haven’t seen before and some workout shorts that hang loose around my hips. I make an empty promise about mailing them back, but I know I won’t. Unlike the bike, these clothes are a gift I won’t be returning. They’re a little piece of him I’m going to keep no matter what.
