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TWENTY-FIVE
Laia
I’m warm? and comfy. I sigh sleepily and snuggle deeper, my eyelids fluttering open enough to see that it’s still dark then closing again, completely content.
Until, one by one, thoughts sneak into my happy, snuggly, cozy brain. Memories of last night.
This isn’t my house. I swallow thickly.
Or my bed.
And this definitely isn’t my pillow.
Felix’s house.
Felix’s bed.
Which would mean. I crack my eyes open a slither and instantly wince.
When I finally got him up here last night only to realize there was just one room with a bed in it, the decision to sleep here with him was an easy one. He was pretty out of it from the pain meds. What if he took a bad turn in the night? The doctor said I was to keep an eye on him all night.
In hindsight, maybe I should have slept on the sofa.
I’m wrapped in him—I’m really, really wrapped in him. Seriously. I take a deep breath and try to untangle at least part of myself from his big body. My arm from beneath his neck seems like as good a place to start as any.
His sleep-heavy breathing stays even so I close my eyes and slide the other arm from where it’s draped across his chest.
I’ve got this. I puff out my cheeks in preparation for my next move. He’s still out cold, eyelashes fanned out, lips tipped ever so slightly up at the corners. Peaceful. Oblivious.
And that’s exactly the way he’s going to stay if I have anything to do with it.
Boldened by the success of removing the top half of my body from him, I shift to untangle my leg from around his hip. I should have known it wouldn’t be that easy, the universe just doesn’t like me that much.
With a deep rumble of a moan, his hand slips around my ass and he pulls me right back into place, fingers sinking into my butt cheek, his body wedged tightly between my legs.
I freeze.
The hand in question smooths down my thigh then hooks in behind my knee and drags me even tighter into him. All of him. Okay. I try to control the urge to roll my hips against the growing hardness nudging against the seam of my pajama shorts.
Nope, nope, nope.
I force myself to ignore the effects of this new position. It’s hopeless. A pant escapes. It feels too good. Too tempting. It’s been over a year. Over a year. I shake my head and go back to lifting the hand from behind my knee, watching his slumberous—and really quite content—face for signs of consciousness.
His sudden frown paralyzes me. His grip tightens and—holy shit—he settles himself even deeper between my legs with a slow but determined thrust. I stop breathing. His now fully erect cock is officially and entirely wedged between my legs. Thank God he’s wearing shorts because mine are putting up zero fight.
My lips part and my belly clenches. This was not the way I imagined this morning going.
Holding my breath, I try once again to sneak my leg free.
This can’t happen. Not like this. Not after what happened in his office. Who molests a sleeping man? If he wakes up now, he’ll think it’s another boob-flash moment.
I don’t get far in my leg retraction before he shifts again, and this time it’s worse. So much worse.
The grip on my knee tightens, his other hand slips under my waist, and before I have a chance to do anything other than let out a muffled squeak, his whole body rearranges itself, his face nuzzling—yes nuzzling—right. Between. My boobs.
Must not molest the sleeping man. Must. Not. Molest. The sleeping man.
For better or worse my body is humming like that’s exactly what it wants to do.
From this new position, his sigh heats the already hot skin of my left breast even through my tank.
I look down at his unruly black hair. It’s sticking up adorably. I curl my fingers against the urge to run them through the thick strands and I just … lie there, my whole body pulsing traitorously, my mind whirring from one outcome to the next. All of them X-rated. All of them surely illegal with a sleeping man.
Waking him would probably be the wise choice here.
He rocks into me, deliciously slowly. The friction—oh god the pressure. I bite back my moan.
Waking him is the only choice here.
“Felix,” I whisper, my voice strained as his hips just keep on moving in those really nice little circles. “Felix, you need to wake up,” I whisper again, a little louder, shaking his shoulder.
“Mmmmmcomfy.” His mumble vibrates against my skin, flushing me crimson from the ends of my hair to the tips of my toes.
I curse into the semi-darkness. “Felix.” My voice comes louder now.
He stirs but pulls me closer with another of those slow, perfectly angled thrusts.
“Felix,” I squeak. If he keeps this up, I cannot be held responsible for my actions. I shake his shoulder harder.
With a grunt, he finally lifts his head and opens his bleary eyes. His pupils expand then focus, sleep visibly clearing as consciousness returns.
His fingers flex on my leg and confusion settles over his sleep-ruffled face. “Laia?”
“Morning.” Head tipped forwards, I peer down into his face.
Eyes bluer than any summer sky blink up at me, his whole body stilling, locked in confusion. If I listened hard enough, I’d probably hear the cogs turning, his brain struggling to rearrange the happenings of last night that led him here, to this moment. Waking up in his own bed wrapped around a pulsing, trembling, barely breathing me.
His eyelids lower, his thick black lashes long enough they cast shadows over his cheeks as he turns his attention to the boob said cheek was just mooshed against.
I wait for him to move, to jerk back and roll away. Seconds pass. He doesn’t move, he just watches me, his forehead furrowed like he’s still trying to piece together the steps that could have led him here but coming up blank.
And I just hold still, petrified to break the loaded tension, the thick spell of whatever it is that’s happening. One thought beating out the rest. I want this. I want him.
Slowly—so slowly that at first, I don’t register what he’s doing, the hand still holding my leg hitched up around his side starts to move. Starts to smooth its way up my thigh. He scans my face, his throat contracting when his slightly calloused palm meets the scrunched-up material of my shorts. When I don’t flinch away or make him stop, he keeps going, keeps sliding his hand up until it comes to the skin of my waist.
Goosebumps flair, but I don’t look away or pull back. My thighs contract where they’re still wrapped around him. He’s hard—so, so hard—and still pressed against me. It’s dragging up feelings and wants and needs so intense, everything in me is softening, swelling, begging for this to happen, for me to get out of my own head for once and just let it happen.
His fingers skim the bottom curve of my breast through my tank, his eyes still pinning mine, probably still waiting for me to stop him. I don’t. Not even when his thumb finds my nipple and brushes over it then back, teasing it to an even tighter peak. Or when his stare finally releases mine and drops to watch as he slowly tugs the neck of my tank down, his knuckles brushing my skin until the thin cotton is stretched beneath my breast, the hard thudding of my heart pulsing in my throat.
His lips part. Mine press together, torn between just letting go—and the sudden, but acute awareness that I haven’t brushed my teeth. It’s stupid. But the thought stays put no matter how hard I try to convince myself to relax into this—to just let go.
Lips brush, his tongue swirls, and the wet, warm suck of his mouth on my nipple shoots a jolt of tingling, perfect, eye-rolling energy from my breast to my core. A direct line that jerks my body into his, forcing the rigid thickness of him to rub with more pressure against my sadly neglected sex. Even through our clothes, the sensation is enough to drag an embarrassingly needy moan from me.
And then his lips are at my neck, my jaw, my chin. But when his heavy-lidded stare finds mine the heat there cools instantly, his brows lifting in question. “Too much?”
Slipping my hand up the barely-there space between us, I cover my mouth, feeling like the biggest idiot that ever walked the planet to be stopping this over something so basic.
“I thought … shit, I’m—” His hands fall from me, his big body tensing to move.
“—No.” I shake my head and grab his shoulder before he can unwrap himself from me. “No. It’s not. I just—” I cover my eyes, then my mouth again before I speak, my cheeks far too hot to be attractive. “I just need a moment—and maybe a toothbrush?”
The tension releases the muscles of his face, his expression softening, mouth curling into a ridiculously amused smirk, before he sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and nods, laughter written in every crinkle around those eyes. “Top drawer, under the sink.” He rolls off of me and throws his arm over his face with a rough laugh, kicking the sheets from where they’re tangled around his legs.
I pause for a moment and just admire the hard lines of his body, the defined V of muscle that disappears into his athletic shorts. And the unmistakable hardness straining against the thick cotton.
“Laia?”
“Hmm?” I glance up to where he’s watching me from beneath his arm.
“Quit staring and brush.”
The good-humored tone to his voice pulls a grin to my lips and my butt off the bed.
His bathroom is the stuff dreams are made of. The dirty kind. The shower sex kind. Polished concrete floors. Oversized, deep gray wall tiles and a shower so big I’m pretty sure I could move my bed in there and still have room for a TV. I run my hand along the double sink with charcoal stone surrounds. Even the faucets are sexy—those modern, flat silver things. And the bath. Oh, my days, the bath. It’s huge. Massive. And made of black granite by the looks of it.
Catching a glimpse of my pink cheeks in the sink-to-ceiling mirror stops me short. Teeth. Toothbrush. I meet my stare in the mirror and swallow, glancing at the door then reaching for the drawer below the sink. Sure enough there’s a pack of new toothbrushes and a tube of toothpaste in there. Who stops potential morning sex to brush? Me, apparently. I get to work before my brain kicks in and convinces me that this isn’t a good idea.
There’s a knock at the door before I finish. “You decent?”
I pause, mid brush. Just freeze and stare stupidly at the door in the mirror. “Yep,” I call, my toothbrush still in my mouth, my heart thundering against my chest.
And then he’s there like some bed-headed sleep god. Shorts low on his hips, feet bare, scratching his chest as he moves to stand beside me and grabs the electric toothbrush from beside the sink. We watch each other in the mirror as we brush, butterflies fluttering, a grin stretching over my face in answer to the one he seems unable to stop from forming around his buzzing toothbrush. I lean forward to spit under the running water, wipe my mouth, then straighten. “How’s your head?”
“Good.” He smiles around his toothbrush again, brushes a little longer, then leans to spit and rinse too.
It’s so normal. But so undeniably not normal. Not normal at all.
I press my lips together to stop myself from giggling at the absurdness of it all when he straightens, his big, tanned arm brushing mine, his own bottom lip disappearing between his teeth as he watches me. “All clean.” The humor in his voice is still there, but so is something else. Doubt maybe? Wariness? Nerves?
I nod, not trusting my voice not to just pack up and leave if I try to talk, my tummy folding in on itself. The haziness of this morning disintegrating no matter how hard I try to keep it pulled up around me.
He holds my stare in the mirror, moves behind me and presses a kiss to where my shoulder meets my neck, his arms wrapping me from behind. “Nothing has to happen.”
“I know.” I turn in his hold and blink up at him, uber aware of his hands on me—of the fact that neither my body nor my mind are sliding into their usual panic mode over his closeness. “But I want it to.”
His eyes crinkle again, his tongue sliding over his lip before he dips his head and kisses me with a slow easiness that flattens out the folding in my tummy. “Okay.”
I nod, my fingers sinking into his hair, my lips barely leaving his. “Okay.”
Hands on my hips, he lifts me, guiding my legs around his waist and holding me under my ass, he walks us back out of the bathroom.
The sun’s almost up, the heavy floor-to-ceiling curtains backlit by a soft morning light, the white sheets of his bed still crumpled at the bottom of the mattress. He dumps me in the middle then climbs onto the bed, his fists planting on either side of my hips, his gaze roving my face as he moves up over my body.
I expect him to pounce, to sink into me and get right to it.
He doesn’t.
He just hovers there above me, chest rising and falling with his breaths. “I need to know what you’re thinking.”
I wet my lips, reasons, worries, wants, needs, all suddenly rattling around my head with that one question. “I’m scared.”
His mouth tugs down. So does mine. That wasn’t even nearly what I planned on saying.
“We don’t have to.”
I shake my head and run my hands up his muscle-roped forearms. “I’m not scared of the sex.” My lips press together while I try to find the words, the truth. “Okay, that’s a lie, I’m a little bit scared of the sex. But I’m more scared of what comes after. I can’t … I don’t know if I’ll … I don’t want to hurt you.”
His dimples flash beneath his stubble, his mouth turning up into a half-smile. “I’m tougher than I look.” He drops down onto his elbows and presses his lips to mine. Once, twice, then again, finally settling his big body against me, nudging my legs apart with his knees.
My eyelids flutter and my knees hitch up, my heels digging into his ass at the oh so casual maneuvering of his pelvis right back to where it was before.
And when he deepens the kiss, Jesus, it’s like somebody’s turned up the heat—back-lit my skin from the inside out. My mouth falls open, a little pant escaping and then my arms are around his neck, and my back is arching, my shoulders lifting off the bed so I can get closer—kiss him harder, deeper, my body moving of its own accord, one hundred percent driven by how mind-numbingly good he feels pushing against me.
His breaths come sharp, minty, and addicting, both hands sliding beneath my head to angle me better, to hold me still while his mouth debases mine in the most dirty-beautiful kiss I think has ever existed. His hips rock harder, rubbing, and grinding, and pushing his body against mine over and over and over, and oh my … there’s throbbing and pulsing and contracting of muscles I swear I forgot I had—internal, external, a building, aching, living undercurrent of pressure. “Holy fuck, don’tstopdoingthat.” I pant against his parted lips.
With a rough moan his hands move to my ass, tilting my hips up so his shallow thrusting can go deeper, his shorts and mine the only thing between us. It’s all-over stimulation, his face presses into my neck, every inch of his body dragging over mine, my clit, my pussy, my belly, my breasts. My breathing speeds and my body bows with every push and pull and slide of his skin. I dig my fingers into his hair and move with him, a keening, writhing, building climax blanketing out everything in a slow but so-intense-even-my-moan-is-too-enthralled-to-make-a-sound tidal wave that vibrates through every single muscle, every tendon, every brain cell, leaving me a trembling, panting puddle of something that used to be me.
He’s watching me when I finally manage to pry my eyelids open, his tongue peeking out from between smirking lips.
“Jesus.” My blush is instant, my nose wrinkling, face scrunching. “That was … you didn’t even take your clothes off … you didn’t even—”
“Don’t worry about it.” His laugh does delicious things to the shockingly hard parts of him still crushed to me as he brushes a curl from my face. “I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.” Planting my feet on the sides of his thighs, I attempt to push his shorts down his legs. “Take these off.”
“Laia, you don’t have to—”
“—I want to.” I cut him off and slip my hand between the elastic of his jersey shorts and his low, lower abs, my pulse thumping in my throat and in my ears and pretty much everywhere when crinkly hairs tickle my knuckles just before my fingers reach his silky, hot hardness. It’s not a lie. I really want to, more than I’ve ever wanted anything. I wrap my fingers around him and stroke from the base to the tip and back, then repeat, marveling at the lack of nerves I feel—the rightness of being here, now, with him like this.
His hips shift and that internal heat switch flips somewhere inside me again, pushing a drugging warmth up my neck.
His breath hitches and his mouth goes slack then clamps shut. “Fuck, Laia.” He pulls from my grip and sits back, kneeling, sexy as sin and twice as handsome between my thighs, the soft morning light casting warm shadows over his face and over the dips and ridges of his body.
His loaded stare trails over my rumpled clothes then up to my face and I see it then, something that was never there with Damon, even in the beginning—acceptance—of me, of who I am, of how I am right now.
Maybe he’s my prize from the universe for surviving the last few shitty years. Something I actually get to keep. For the first time since I met him, I let myself go there, let myself admit that I want more than just a way to distract myself from my past. I want him.
I don’t think, don’t dissect or second guess, I just hook my fingers into the waistband of my pajamas shorts and push them down my hips.
Without a word his hands cover mine, guiding my shorts the rest of the way down my thighs, lifting my legs so he can slip them over my feet then setting them back down on either side of his knees. His gaze drops then lifts to my face. And then he’s over me again. Kissing me again, that easiness still there in every lazy sweep of his tongue and graze of his lips, the warmth of his chest pressing into mine, the weight of him surrounding me in the best possible way.
I’m barely aware we’re moving until he’s already on his back, me on top of him, his hands smoothing up my spine beneath my tank then all the way back down over my hips and down my thighs in one long uninterrupted caress.
I pull back just enough to be able to focus on his face, his eyes, to read his expression.
He licks his lips and scans my face right back, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Your move.”
“You want me to…”
“Whatever you want.” His face sobers, those blue, blue eyes patient and willing and telling the utter truth. “I want you to do whatever you want.”
“To you.” I bite the corner of my lip to stop my face from splitting completely with my grin. “Whatever I want?” Nerves—the good kind—skirt down the back of my neck. Whatever I want. I kiss him deeply, finishing with a drawn-out suck of his bottom lip that makes him growl deep in the back of his throat and lift his head, trying to drag it out until I’m out of reach.
The brave, boldness only he seems to bring out in me, sparks to life. I sit up and pull my tank off, leaving me butt naked and straddling him. His stare darkens as he takes me in, his lips, still wet from my attention, parting, hands settling on my hips, not to guide or to control, just there, his thumbs rubbing my hip bones as he waits.
I rock onto him, just a tiny shift of my pelvis, then another, then another, setting off a slow spiral of heat up my spine, my hands pressed flat against the solid ridges of his abs. His mouth falls open, his fingers flex into my skin. So, I keep moving, keep teasing, keep dragging those graveled moans from him until it’s not enough, until I need him as naked as I am and moving inside me.
“I want you,” I breathe on a barely-there moan, lifting up to push at his shorts until he’s in my hand, hot and thick and so, so ready. “Tell me you have protection.” I glance up from where my fingers are wrapped around him, still lifted up onto my knees.
“I have protection.” His laugh is deep and dirty, he sits in one easy movement, his arms wrapping my waist, mouth taking mine in a kiss so hard, so filled with want, my head spins. I love everything about it, love the lack of finesse and control, the way he kicks his shorts the rest of the way off and pulls me back down, trapping his veeeeery naked cock between us before he reaches blindly for the nightstand, a lamp toppling, the drawer rattling.
He breaks the kiss to rip the foil wrapper open with his teeth, his chest heaving, his eyes on my face as he slips it from its packet. “You sure?”
I nod and shift back in his lap, watch as he rolls the condom down his length, abs pulled tight, lips parted, a breath caught in his throat. And then he stills, and I’m caught in his stare again, our ragged breaths loud in the silent room. He’s waiting for me to back down, to flinch back. I don’t—I won’t—not this time.
I lift up onto my knees again, my teeth sinking into my lip, my hands smoothing up over his sculpted shoulders, fingers digging into the hair at the nape of his neck as I position myself above him.
His head tips back, his eyes wide, one hand holding my hip, the other guiding himself into me.
I lower myself a fraction and the tip of him nudges me, slipping in, pushing past my body’s resistance, thick and round and, oh my god this is happening. Our mouths hover in a not-quite-kiss, our noses bumping, our pants colliding as I take him slowly, inch by inch until there’s no space left between us. I’m filled by him. Contracting around him. Trembling all over him. My thighs shake, everything pulsing a dizzying rhythm, my heart, my core, even the nerve endings behind my eyeballs.
“Fuck, Laia, you feel—”
I tilt my pelvis and whatever he’s saying disintegrates into a groan. I brush my fingers over his brows, down his cheeks then press my mouth to his and move in a slow, grinding circle that drags my clit over the base of his cock in a way that has me moaning against his lips and doing it again, and again, and again. Kissing him was already addictive but kissing like this—with him moving inside me is—I angle my head and suck his tongue, my hands still stroking his face, my body moving in sure thrusts and deeper grinds. It’s everything I’d forgotten I’d been missing.
His grip on my hips tightens, quickening my movements, driving in deeper, longer, harder, his lips on my jaw, his teeth on my neck, his mouth finding my nipples and sucking, lapping one then the other, guiding me back until my shoulders hit the bed and his big body moves over mine, thrusting into me with long deliberate strokes that arch my back and push me further down the bed.
There’s teeth and tongues, the scrape of his stubble punctuated with guttural growls of approval, of encouragement. Touching and pulling and moaning. I can’t get close enough, can’t take enough of him. With every instroke he fills me more, pushing me higher, closer to the overwhelming edge. My head spins, my muscles shake, but he keeps on going, keeps thrusting, keeps driving into me until on a garbled moan of who-the-hell-cares-what I implode and explode, my body freezing, my back arched, my core contracting so tightly around his thickness, a hiss rips from lips pressed to my jaw and he follows me right over with one more full-body thrust.
I’m snapped back to reality far too quickly. One second, he’s relaxed, the heaving of his chest slowing against mine, eyes heavy lidded, mouth curved into possibly his sexiest smirk to date, the next, he’s on his back beside me, the muscles in his neck corded, his eyes squeezed shut. Pain. He’s in pain.
“Your head.” I sit up, the sunlight filtering through the curtains dimly lighting the tightness to his face when he turns it to me. “I didn’t think.” I brush his hair from his face. How could I not think? “The doctor said to take it easy.” My throat tightens.
“I’m ok.” He tries to sit up, but his eyes squeeze shut. “Ahh, Fuck.”
“I’m taking you back to the hospital.” I start to clamber off the bed.
My arm is grabbed before I get far. “Laia, relax. The pain meds have just worn off. I should have set an alarm to take them an hour ago.”
I narrow my eyes, half off the bed, one foot on the floor the other tucked under myself, my teeth raking over my kiss-swollen bottom lip.
His gaze strays down. Mine follow.
I’m still naked. Very naked.
My cheeks flush and I grab the top sheet to pull it around me then hurry into the bathroom to get a glass of water, glancing at my reflection in the mirror as I fill the glass. My hair is a riot. My cheeks are even pinker than before. And my lips are definitely swollen. What the hell did I think I was doing?
By the time I’ve made it back, the duvet is up around his waist.
“Here.” I hand him the water then shake two pills from the bottle on the nightstand into my hand and hold them out to him. “If you’re not any better in twenty minutes, we’re going.” I perch on the side of the bed and adjust the sheet around me, scanning his face for signs he’s playing down the pain.
“Deal.” He sighs heavily and lays back into the pillows, his eyelids drifting closed.
“Shouldn’t we … talk about—” I clear my throat and shake my head. “Never mind, I should probably…” I glance over my shoulder, to the bedroom door.
“Laia.”
I look back and he shifts over to make room for me, holding the covers up, opening one eye. “Come back to bed.”
Nothing sounds better right now than curling up with him for another hour, but what if I’ve damaged him? What if I damage him more?
I glance down to where he’s still holding the covers open for me. Everything is on show. Eve-ry-thing.
He’s hard. Again. I force my attention up and focus on his face. His eyes have clouded. Busted.
“Fine. One more hour.” Face flushed, I crawl into his arms, turning so my back is to his chest, almost purring when his big arms slide around my waist and he squeezes me to him, one hand settling on my ribs, just below my breast, the other on my hip, his body and everything attached to it pressed into my back.
There’s no way I’m getting back to sleep like this.
“Felix?” I whisper, after laying still for what feels like an eternity.
“Laia.” There’s a gruffness to his voice that makes it clear he’s about as far away from sleepy as I am. Lips press against the side of my neck, he tugs the sheet I’m still wrapped in away to smooth his hand from my ribs up to my breast, rolling my puckered nipple against his palm.
“How’s your head?” My voice is no more than a breath.
He chuckles into my neck, the puff of warm air lifting tiny hairs all over my body. “All better.” He presses his pelvis into me and his hardness slides between my thighs from behind, parting the lips of my sex until the head of his erection nudges my clit.
“You’re wet.” His growl is rough and graveled when he thrusts again.
“We shouldn’t,” I murmur on a pant, “what if your head explodes? What if you get brain damage?”
He laughs, the same ridiculously sexy laugh from before and thrusts again, his hands enveloping my breasts, molding and squeezing and teasing my nipples between his fingers and thumbs until I’m pushing into his hands.
“You don’t play fair.” I arch back onto him, all sensible thoughts fleeing my mind.
His cock slides easily over me. I am wet. So wet. It should mortify me. It does the opposite.
“Fuck.” His growl is low and dirty in my ear, lifting goose pimples over every inch of me.
I slip my hand between my legs to push the tip of him tighter against me, then rock against him, every slow thrust of his hips coaxing a fresh spike of need through me.
“Fuck, Laia,” he moans against the skin of my neck, his movements growing faster until the heat of a new climax starts to unfold inside me. The constant rub of him, right there but not inside teasing out the best kind of frustration. My heartbeat picks up, loud in my ears. I pulse and contract, blood bubbling in my veins. Everything in me focused on the feeling, the slide of him over me until it’s too much. I let go. My orgasm comes at me. Dazzles me. Sparkles me. Melts me. My moan is embarrassingly long and drawn out. My hips tilt back, and I push back onto him, the shift in angle letting him slide in completely. Stretching me, filling me, shifting everything into high definition. I clench and pant and grind back harder, taking him as deep as he’ll go until his hands find my hips and he thrusts in hard, dragging me back to meet him again and again until his whole body tenses behind me and he lets go with a growled-out moan.
We tense at the same time.
That should not have happened.
