Page 79 of Level Up for Love

It’s hard to remain still when he lowers his head and brushes his lips against me. It’s nearly impossible when he flattens his tongue against my clit. I don’t know how I manage it. I hardly know how we got here. I can barely remember my name.

His, though—I repeat it like a chant in my head, the only thing keeping me grounded to this moment.

I shiver with the effort of balancing on the desk, poised on the edge in more ways than one. I roll my hips forward, desperate for the swirl of his tongue. He breathes a laugh against me, and the rush of that cool air against a spot so sensitive lights up my nerves. He glides two fingers down my center and sinks them slowly inside. I hitch in two stuttering breaths before I gasp out, “Wesley.”

“There’s a good girl,” he says, and then his mouth is moving against me again, his tongue a torturously slow circle that leads in only one direction.

I used to hate how Wesley would wind me up, how he would goad me in the way only he could until I lost my temper, or my patience, or my control. I used to hate how no one could press my buttons like him, how no one else was capable of bringing my emotions so immediately to the surface. Sometimes it felt like he was specially designed to pick me apart and unravel me.

Now—with his forearm a heavy bar across my waist, pressing me down even as my hips lift upward, keeping me secured and controlled while he sets the pace—I realize that I was right. I wonder whether I knew it all along. As my heels dig into his shoulders and I feel the pressure build in my core, he makes a low sound in his throat, sensing how close I am.

Fuck me, but he was made for this.

I suck in a gasp, and then I’m lost.

Sometimes, it feels like being caught in a tidal wave or seizing a moment—but this time, it feels like letting go. I let him guide me through every whimpering pulse as bliss and heat suffuse my limbs, until I’m lying limp on my own desk. I shudder instinctively as Wesley passes his tongue in one more slow, simmering circle before he rests his head against my thigh. His eyes burn as he looks up at me, and for once, I admit he’s allowed the self-satisfied smirk that curls at his lips.

But I don’t want to just sit in this moment, don’t want to wait for that wonderful ache to fade away. Instead, I push myself up onto my hands.

“Go get it,” I say.

It takes a few heartbeats—I can still feel my pulse thudding in my ears, my chest, my core—for his heavy gaze to clear, for the haze to fade away. Wesley stands, and then, very casually, he dips his hand into the back pocket of his jeans and pulls out his wallet. He thumbs through its sleeves and draws out that familiar square of foil.

I am trying my very hardest not to grin; I don’t want to give him the satisfaction. “The whole time?”

“The whole time.”

I splay my hand against his chest and push him solidly back before shouldering past him on unsteady legs into the living room. “You are not fucking me on the desk.”

Behind me, I hear his quick steps and his laugh. “Haven’t I already?”

Damn him.

I’m swiftly learning that the most effective way to shut Wesley up is to occupy his mouth with other activities. As soon as we get close to the couch, I lace my fingers behind his neck and pull his lips back down to mine. He hums a note of amusement into my mouth as I skate my palms down the front of his shirt until my fingers find the button of his jeans again. I make quick work of the zipper, then I’m palming him over the fabric of his black briefs. I slip my hand beneath his waistband and fold my fingers around him, thrilled to hear his laugh cut off as his breath hitches.

“Fuck, Reagan.”

I can’t help but shiver to hear him utter my name like that, half groaned like I dragged it out of his throat myself.

With my lips pressed to his collarbone, I murmur, “Sit down.”

One of his eyelids flutters open. “Excuse me?”

“Sit down, Wesley.”

As I pull my head back to get a better look at his face, I see the spark of rebellion in his eyes. Not ten minutes ago, he had me splayed out before him, hanging on his every whispered word and firm direction. He’s debating now whether he’s going to pass over that control.

His forehead creases as he deliberately detaches himself from me. But then, slowly, he lowers himself onto the couch.

I nod to his pants, his shirt. “Take it off. All of it.”

His eyes don’t leave my face as he reaches to pull his crewneck over his head. After he eases out of his jeans and briefs, he goes rigid, as if ready to spring.

I give myself a moment to admire him—his messy hair falling over his eyes, his broad shoulders, the curls of light hair trailing down his chest, the corded muscle that I know from experience takes years of training and discipline to earn, the stiff curve of his erection. Despite the way he lounges against the couch—one arm draped across its back, a leg stretched out lazily before him—lines of tension stand out along his skin.

He dips his eyes down and paints my own body with his gaze. Slowly, I slink out of my skirt and draw my tight tank over my shoulders, letting it all fall to the floor. He strokes himself as he watches me, and I have to swallow back the way this makes my mouth flood.

Striding forward to stand between his legs, I drag my nails through his hair before curling my hand around the base of his neck. I use this grip to anchor myself as I straddle him, my knees pressing into the cushions on either side of his thighs. After I smooth the condom over him, I run my hand up his length again and hold him positioned right at my entrance. My face hovers just above his; I can feel each of his panting breaths against my neck.