Page 26 of The Irresistible Distraction

Even though it seems ridiculous now that I’ve already had an orgasm, I trudge forward. “Can you not ask me whether I’ve come?”

“You’ve been with guys who have to ask?”

“I’m not usually so easy⁠—”

“That’s not a nice word, sweetheart. The implications of that word have never been kind to women.” His voice is deep and authoritative, and I find myself wondering what his day job is. “Trust me when I say I can just about guarantee I’ve been the promiscuous one, indulging both too freely and too often in the sex. If we must throw around labels.”

“So you won’t ask?”

His fingers come back to me, two fingers skillfully spreading me open while a third begins to trail up and down my slit. “If a woman doesn’t come, it’s never her fault.”

I shake my head, because the words are hard to hear.

“Try to take my word for it, then.” His voice is borderline harsh, and he lowers his head to my shoulder in what I can tell is a visible effort to control his emotions; I feel his eyelashes as he closes his eyes and thrusts against my backside, the layers a painful barrier. When he finally speaks again, his voice is both serious and measured. “I will wear a condom. I will do my best to fuck your brains out until you can’t worry or overthink, and I promise to never ask if you’re close to coming. Deal?”

I nod, but he waits until I say, “Deal.”

Then and only then does he flip me over, laying me gently on the ground, undressing me slowly, his fingers and lips tasting, licking and suckling at new parts of my body as they’re uncovered.

We reach for the buttons of his shirt at the same time, and even against the darkened sky, I can see the breathtaking beauty that is his smile.

“Am I too eager?” My voice is shaky, half ashamed.

“There’s no such thing.”

When he’s finally free of his shirt, he twists it, placing one end in each of my hands, guiding me to stretch my arms over my head. “You’re my overthinker,” he tells me, as if it’s not the curse of my life. “And it might not work, but I thought that having this in your hands might give you something to focus on.”

He divests himself of his pants and boxers while I wrap my fingers around the T-shirt, oddly grateful that this gives me an anchor, something to hold on to so I don’t have to worry about the details. I feel infinitely more exposed this way, but it gives me something tactile to distract myself with as he takes his cock out, expertly sheaths it with a condom, his gaze never wavering from mine.

“Does it help?” he asks, his hand gently touching the shirt as he levers his body over mine.

I nod, maintaining eye contact as his thighs push against mine, coaxing my legs apart before he reaches down, fingers parting me easily. He dips his head, and it’s as he rests there, not quite entering me, but aligned and almost pressing against my center, that I realize how vast the difference between our experience levels is. With every other partner I’ve had—all two of them, yes—it would have been almost over by now. They would have chased their own pleasure, never bothering to tease out mine. But Clark seems wholly focused on me. He hovers above me, thrusting his hips lightly—still not entering, still teasing. Only when he groans above me do I recognize that he is torturing both of us, that it is a wicked torment that I’ve no desire to escape from. He leans down to kiss me tenderly, his tongue entering slowly, as I try to tilt my hips up, hoping to inspire a different invasion.

“Please.”

He chuckles against my mouth as he finally gives in, entering in a smooth thrust that steals my breath away. He holds still within me, letting me get used to intimacy, his flesh pulsing within mine. It takes a moment of adjustment, but I eventually catch my breath only to lose it as he rolls his hips in a forward motion, thrusting slowly, far too gently. It is as I am throbbing with need, my body nothing more than pulsing heat that I realize: This is a man who loves sex the way he loves conversations. He’s a man who revels in the process, as opposed to the conclusion.

The only problem with that?

All I want is to chase that next high.

My breathing is increasingly labored, and I’m almost certain I sob at one point as I grip and twist the shirt, which does nothing to ease the want. There are fireworks in the background, starting in earnest now, in a way that feels almost too well timed. Someone’s idea of a joke, I think, before one of his hands comes to my leg, bending my knee slightly. The new position allows him to reach deeper, angling my body as he plunges into me, and then it doesn’t matter what’s happening in the rest of the world. The pomp and circumstance that is our annual fireworks display fades as I scream my release. As if from a great distance, I hear a ripping sound as Clark groans, grunting roughly as he thrusts more erratically, chasing his own release as his head lowers and he groans into my neck. It’s only after my heart has slowed to a normal beat that I realize, I’ve just ripped Clark’s shirt.

“That was—” he starts to say.

“Spectacular,” I finish, too wrung out to hide the absolute truth from him.

I doze a little, content to let him trace paths down my back as the fireworks continue. We have a perfect view here, on the grassy hill outside the observatory. Our own private show.

I laugh at the timing of it, at how light I feel, free of all my normal roles and responsibilities.

8

LOOKING, RIGHT NOW, AT HISTORY

Afterward, he is in no hurry to leave. Instead, he curls my body against his, both of us now resting against the trunk of a tree I will never again be able to look at without blushing. When our breathing has evened out, when my eyes are already fluttering closed, he asks whether I would prefer to rest or talk.

And I am so tired that there should be a correct answer here.