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Yeah, somewhere between there and now, he’s put together that I’m not the girl you take home.
Well. It was good while it lasted.
Real fucking good.
This is why I don’t do relationships, family meet and greets, and promises of forever. I fuck them up. But I'm going to miss Chance, and not only the mind-blowing sex.
I’m going to miss snuggling up on the couch while we both stare at our laptops, him working and me studying, simply existing together. I’m going to miss the way his whole face lights up and his shoulders relax when he sees me, like I make him happy. I’m going to miss the way he acts shocked when I say something scandalous but then grins and compliments the way my brain works. I’m going to miss...
Chance Harrington.
I cut my eyes the other way, staring out the window. On the way here, the stars twinkling had seemed like little sparklers cheering us on for a great night. Now, they feel like the last tiny flame of burned-out sparklers—pretty and flashy, but only for a short time, and then you’re left holding ashes and hot, pointy sticks.
When Chance pulls up to the curb in front of my building, I say, “I’m sorry.”
He holds up a hand, nearly putting his palm in my face. “Don’t say a fucking word.”
Well, I tried.
I knew this thing had an expiration date. I’m not Chance’s type, and to be honest, he’s not mine. But for a minute, I thought maybe there was a chance.
When he opens my door and helps me out, I expect him to ditch me there on the sidewalk and peel away to leave me faster. But Chance is more of a gentleman than that, so he walks stiffly to the building, holds the door open for me, and follows me inside.
I fumble with my door key, and he takes it from me, probably thinking I’m dragging this on in desperation because he unlocks the door easily. “I understand—” I start to say, again thinking this is goodbye.
He shoves me inside and slams the door behind us. He doesn’t even look at me when he growls, “Get that damn dress off or I’m gonna rip it off.” He makes a fist a few times, his knuckles creaking with the repeated movement.
“What?” I blurt in utter confusion.
Chance moves closer, getting right in my face, nose-to-nose. For the first time since we left, I can see how clear and bright his eyes are, the little streaks of pale blue stark against the deeper blue. “Dress. Off. You. Table. Right fucking now, Samantha.”
Okaaay. I understand caveman talk, but even knowing what he wants me to do... why?
As I shimmy my dress down, I ask, “Are we having mad sex? I know you’re mad at me. I’m sorry.”
He stops me from climbing on the table—I’m nothing if not obedient despite every evidence to the contrary—by grabbing my ankle. I look back at him in surprise.
“I’m fucking furious. At myfamily. Not at you. You don’t have anything to apologize for. I’m the one apologizing for making you go through that. Now lie down so I can write my ‘I’m sorrys’ on your tits, your pussy, and maybe that ass.”
My head is spinning with everything he said, trying to process. Not mad at me—that’s the important one. And so... “Yes, sir!” I declare, ripping off my bra and lying back on my teeny-tiny dining table.
As Chance yanks my panties down my legs, I wish I had the space and money for a bigger table, one we could both climb up on to fuck wildly on its vast surface. As it is, this cheap-ass breakfast table that barely seats two is all I have room for.
Chance leans over me, cupping my jaw firmly, but his kiss is gentle. I keep my eyes open for a second after his close, watching him, waiting for the trick.
But one doesn’t come.
As we kiss, his shirt brushes over my nipples, causing them to pearl up. Wanting more, I arch my chest into his and reach down to grab at his waist, but he pulls back, taking my hands and placing them to the tabletop. “Don’t move. Let me.”
Palms pressing to the surface, I try my best to be a receiving partner, but it’s hard. I want to run my fingers through his hair, I want to guide him to my nipples and lower, I want... whatever he’s doing right now.
He’s pressing soft, fluttery kisses down my neck, and every once in a while, he takes a little nip of the skin that surprises me each time. At my collarbone, he drags his tongue into the hollow and places a kiss at my shoulder before repeating the move on the other side. More kisses down my sternum and to my belly button, and my hips buck, begging him to keep going until he reaches my clit. But he doesn’t.
His hands cup my breasts, weighing their fullness, and I moan as they ache for his touch. Slipping his thumbs over my already stiff nipples, he watches how they react for him, going diamond hard. Only then does he take one into his mouth. His teeth are sharp as they bite down, but fuck, does it feel good. I arch again, not able to stop it, and thankfully, he doesn’t punish me for it. No, he keeps going—sucking, nibbling, and licking both nipples until I think I might come from that alone. That’d definitely be a first. But every time he draws deeply, a thread to my core pulls tighter and tighter.
Moaning, I splay my hands on the table, the cool surface keeping me grounded because I’m in real danger of simply shooting away like a rocket.
“Good girl,” he murmurs against my skin as if he knows how hard I’m working to obey.
