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At the last possible second, his tongue slides out of me, and I cry aloud in protest, deprived of the cliff I’d been so close to. But then his tongue flattens to a blade, laps over my clit, a strong, steady stroke that has me panting again right away, my whole body arched and trembling.
He licks me over and over and over until I’m right up at the edge again moments later, and I come with a cry so loud I’m surprised the neighbors don’t pound on the walls to complain.
But then I come back to myself, still trembling, as a warm, smooth body climbs up mine to draw me into his arms, and I remember—I’m not at my apartment, with its dingy, paper-thin walls and my threadbare sheets.
I open my eyes to find Lark gazing down at me, his arms around my waist to cradle me against his naked chest.
Actually, his naked everything. I can feel the hard press of his cock pressed up against my stomach, and it sends a fresh pulse of desire through me, my nerves already on fire from his tongue.
“That’s definitely one way to wake up in the morning,” I murmur, tilting my face toward his to let him kiss me gently.
When we part, he’s grinning, and I can taste myself on his mouth. It doesn’t do anything to help calm my racing pulse or the spiking heat in my veins. “Happy to oblige.” He tucks my head beneath his chin and sighs, his breath stirring my hair. “If I had it my way, you’d wake up like that every morning, Cassidy.”
I tense. Wrapped up like I am against him, of course he notices.
“Stop overthinking,” he murmurs. His lips brush my temple, the edge of my cheek.
I want to listen to him. I want to do just that, to forget about my own concerns and let this moment last a little bit longer.
And, yeah, I want him to fuck me again. I’m still sore from last night, but the ache between my legs is sweet, a muscle-deep sensation that leaves me wanting more. I swear if I clench, I can still feel the outline of his cock inside me. Not to mention his actual cock pressed against my stomach, hard and wanting.
But… “This was a mistake,” I breathe. The words slip out before I can stop them.
Lark pulls back, his eyes unreadable when they catch mine. “What, exactly?”
“Me. Being here. Us.” I shake my head, squeezing my eyes shut so I don’t have to watch the hurt that blossoms on his face. “I shouldn’t have come. Last night was…” Incredible. “Not a good idea.”
“Why do you feel like you have to keep pushing me away?” he says. His hand traces the edge of my jawline. Tucks under my chin and tweaks until I open my eyes. He’s staring at me still with that inscrutable look, like he’s seeing straight through all the walls I keep attempting to throw up and into something vital at my core. “Let me in, Cass. That’s all I’m asking.”
“You want me to let you in?” My voice cracks. “What about you, Lark?”
He draws back, his forehead furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, if you want me to open up, maybe you need to do the same.” I slide away from him, across the bed. My whole body aches at the separation. But my mind knows it’s the right move. “What really happened with you and Sheryl?” I ask.
And I can see it in his face. The moment his gaze goes from open and curious, to slamming shut. It’s like a wall has come down between us.
And he calls me closed off.
“That’s not relevant to us,” Lark replies.
“It’s relevant to me. I want to know the whole story before anything else happens here.” I gesture in the air between us.
His expression darkens. “You don’t know what you’re asking me to do.”
“I’m asking you to be honest. Is that so hard?”
In response, he pushes the covers back and rolls out of the bed. I try not to watch him go, but it’s a struggle. The man seriously has a perfect ass. Not to mention abs, thighs, cock… I squeeze my eyes shut while he starts tugging on clothing, just to keep myself focused. “I’ve told you, time and again, that Sheryl and I are done. I don’t know why you refuse to believe me, but there’s nothing there anymore. It’s in the past. And I don’t linger in the past, okay? I live in the now, Cass. That’s what I’m focusing on. Here and now.”
“There’s living in the past, and then there’s being willing to talk about it,” I protest, levering myself up onto one elbow. “All I’m asking is for the story, not for you to relive it.”
“Yeah, well, for me it’s the same thing, all right? I can’t talk about it.”
