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He kissed me.
Moved faster.
Really fucked me. Like he meant it, like he needed it, like he was desperate to. Whatever it was he was feeling, he channeled it into his movements and fucked me harder and harder, his grip on my ass holding me in place.
My back arched, and I moaned, my nails dragging across his shoulders. Whether I was trying to hold onto him or push him away, I didn’t know. I was hot all over, my heart thundering, and all I wanted was to feel the release I knew was building up.
Desperation.
That’s what his kiss tasted like.
That’s what he fucked me like.
And I loved it.
I couldn’t get enough. I wanted more. More of the ass grip, of the lip bite, of the deep satisfaction I felt when he buried himself fully inside me and pressed against my clit at the same time.
More of his deep, guttural grunts of pleasure when I squeezed.
More of the hard-hitting orgasm that had me burying my face in his shoulder, my nails digging deep into his skin. Of the pleasure that wracked my body, head to toe, sending my heartbeat skyrocketing as I came hard all over him.
He thrusted faster, then, deep inside me, stilled, moaning into my shoulder. I swear, I felt it as he came.
It shouldn’t have turned me on, but it did.
He held me there against the wall until we’d both regained our breath. Leaning back, he pulled out of me and gently lowered my legs to the ground. My toes touched down tentatively, and although I was shaking, I nodded to tell him I was fine.
Brantley curled one hand around the back of my neck and kissed me. At odds with the way he’d fucked me, it was gentle and sweet, and seemed to say so many things I couldn’t figure out.
“Oh no,” I whispered when he pulled away.
“What?” Alarm tinged his tone, and he met my eyes.
I sighed. “Now, it’s going to be awkward when I leave. And I have to leave, or everyone and their mother will be discussing the fact I didn’t.”
He blinked at me, then burst out laughing. “Is that it?”
“That and I have a healthy amount of come dripping down my leg right now.”
He tilted his head, lips twitching. “Let me get you a towel for that.”
“That would be great, thanks,” I deadpanned. And squeezed my legs shut.
God, that doesn’t happen in porn, does it?
Never mind porn giving men unrealistic ideas about a pair of tits—it’d given me an unrealistic expectation of how clean wall sex was.
Which was not at all.
“Here.” Brantley handed me a black towel, and I stuffed it between my legs in the most unladylike way possible. He laughed at me again. “Now, for the second problem… Since you like to run, would it help if I used the bathroom and be in there just long enough for you to get dressed and leave? No awkward goodbyes, no nothing that you tend to avoid.”
Huh.
That wasn’t a bad idea.
I nodded. “Let’s go with that. It’ll save me doing something stupid like thank you for the orgasm on my way out.”
He pressed his lips together, shoulders shaking. “Right. Well, I’m going to use the bathroom.”
I nodded again, casting my gaze around for my clothes. Bra…shirt…shorts…
“Oh, and, Kali? You’re welcome for the orgasms.”
I grimaced. Ah, well. He knew I was awkward anyway.
The sound of his laughter accompanied his exit, and I quickly wiped my legs and between my thighs. God, sex was gross. They really needed to teach that in sex ed.
I gathered my clothes, shoving my bra and shirt on quickly. My plaid shirt was a crumpled mess on the back of the sofa, but whatever. The only thing I couldn’t find was my panties.
Where the hell had he put them?
Another quick look, and I had to cringe and throw on my shorts without them. There was only so long Brantley could pretend to be in the bathroom.
I grabbed the rest of my things and paused at the front door.
Did I shout goodbye? That I’d see him tomorrow at ten?
Shit.
I opened the door and ran before I really made a fool out of myself.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I stared at the ceiling. My alarm had gone off an hour ago, but I’d barely moved from bed since. Not that it mattered, because I didn’t have any work to do first thing this morning.
What I did have was a healthy dose of regret for the decision I made last night. Except this time the regret wasn’t because of what I’d done, it was because I didn’t feel bad about it at all.
No. For the first time since I’d met Brantley I was…happy. It felt right. The guilt was there because it shouldn’t have, but no amount of staring at the plain white ceiling would make me feel any differently about what we’d done.
