Page 78 of Level Up for Love

I don’t even know what I’m asking for—for him to make up his mind about what comes next, or to let me go. I tell myself it’s the angle of my jaw that has my voice sounding so breathless.

Wesley’s lips curl into a slow, satisfied smile before he finally—finally—lowers his mouth to mine.

For the first time, there’s no frantic rush between us—no race to give in to what our bodies crave before our brains catch up. There’s no taste of alcohol in the back of my throat to fuzz away the details, no pitch-black closet to hide in, no excuses or exceptions. This time, I don’t mask my want, and Wesley kisses me with slow deliberation, like he’s reminding me he chose this—I chose this. His tongue slides along mine as he gasps into my mouth, and his teeth catch onto my lower lip and bite down. I don’t bother to swallow down the moan that hums in the base of my throat.

With careful consideration, Wesley nudges my keyboard and one of my monitors to the far side of my L-shaped desk—he recognizes how good my equipment is and wouldn’t dare risk my wrath by damaging it. He doesn’t give my D&D notebook the same gentle treatment, though, tossing it impatiently to the floor.

I break away long enough to pant, “What are you—”

“Shhh.” His hands drag down my sides and settle around the curves of my hips. His fingers knead at my thighs before his grip tightens, and with one seemingly effortless move, Wesley lifts me up and shoves until the backs of my knees hook against the edge of the desk. I’m not used to being handled like this—especially not in my own home—but something about the confident assurance in Wesley’s every move sends a spike of fierce desire radiating through my chest.

He doesn’t let us disconnect for a single moment; as I wind my arms around his neck, he tugs me forcefully forward until our chests are flush. Lowering his head, he brushes his lips up the line of my shoulder, along the curve of my neck. He casts a distracted glance at where my computer monitor glows with orange-and-red light; I see sparks of it reflected in his half-lidded eyes. “You’re brilliant, you know?” He exhales a sharp laugh from his nose, and the rush of air down my neck leaves goosebumps in its wake. “Who am I kidding? Of course you know.”

I can’t help it; as I fist my hand in his hair and draw his head back down, I let out a low, satisfied laugh against the corner of his mouth. “I know,” I murmur. “But I like hearing it from you.”

Wesley knots my skirt in his hand and tugs it up past my knees, up my thighs. When he pulls me tight to him again, I part my legs on either side of his hips, and there is suddenly very little fabric between us. I can feel how hard he is through his jeans, and I don’t waste any time in reaching for the dull silver button at his waistband. But in an instant, his hands are circling my wrists, pinning them against his stomach.

Wesley lets out a low chuckle against the side of my neck. “Impatient, aren’t you?”

“Please, Wes, take them off.” I refuse to feel shy about the needy bite to my tone.

“Later,” he promises. “But if I’ve waited this long,” he adds darkly, his voice rough, “you can wait a little longer. I’ve thought too much about this.”

I’m about to ask him what he means by this when I feel his hand glide up the inside of my thigh.

I suck in a breath to try to trap the whine that climbs out from my throat. But Wesley muffles it himself with another achingly deep kiss, his lips tracing a burning trail from my mouth down my jawline. His fingertips feel molten against the soft skin between my thighs, and I go still as they brush against the edge of my panties.

“For so long, I wondered,” he murmurs against my neck, teeth scraping the sensitive skin under my ear. “I wondered if it was just me.”

His fingers trace over me again, pressing hard against the thin fabric of my underwear. He hooks it to the side with his thumb and dips his middle finger under the lace. What he finds as he presses his fingers to my skin has him humming a low, pleased note into my collarbone, and that sound lets me know just how obvious my desire is to him.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, tracing lines of wet heat between my thighs. I can’t help but shudder under his touch, and I draw my lip into my mouth to try to still the way it trembles. “How long have you wanted this, too?” he whispers into the shell of my ear.

I shakily hook my arm behind his neck and tug his mouth back down to mine, if for no other reason than to kiss that smug smirk right off his lips. But he only laughs into my mouth and slowly, slowly sinks two fingers inside of me. I’d thought to smother his laugh, to tangle his tongue with mine, but as his thumb circles me at the same moment that his fingers curl inward—the whimper torn from my mouth is involuntary. Instinctual. I buck against the heel of his hand.

His voice is an exhale against my hair. “Tell me, then. Tell me if you want me to stop.”

Like everything with Wesley, it sounds like a challenge.

And it’s one I’m losing—badly. Wesley’s fingers press in and out with the same patience and precision that I’ve seen him bring to every game, every competition. With each of my outbursts, each stuttering roll of my hips, he keeps that same unending rhythm, meeting the chaos of my impatience with deliberate control. He sighs raggedly into my hair, and I can feel his cock straining against my thigh through the stiff denim of his jeans.

Any more of this, and I’ll come apart completely.

I twist my head to the side, and my mouth is so dry from panting I have to swallow twice before I can speak. “Do you have a condom?”

I feel Wesley nod; his lips are still moving against the skin between my shoulder and my neck. “Do you want me to stop? Do you want me to go get it?”

“You were always too arrogant,” I say, but it sounds much less biting than I want it to. My voice is taut, strained with the effort of keeping myself from falling over the edge.

His voice is thick and syrupy. “I’ll take that as a no.”

And yet he stops anyway.

He withdraws his hand, straightens, and takes a full step back. The air is cool on my heated bare skin, and I feel chilled by the loss of him.

But then he sinks to his knees on my hardwood floor, and moisture floods my mouth.

Wesley presses a kiss to the inside of my knee, the top of my thigh. He runs one hand along the swell of my hip and splays his palm against my lower back, pulling me forward until I sit on the very edge of the desk. With his other hand, he tugs my underwear off and drops it to the side. “You’re so pretty like this,” he murmurs, looking up at me through those unfairly long eyelashes. “Stay right there for me, won’t you?”