Flawed

by Tracy Wolff

  But now that I do know, now that she’s right here on this bed with me, I’m determined to make it last. Determined to draw every ounce of pleasure from her that I can. Which is why I don’t slip a hand down the front of her pants yet, why I don’t move her body though every instinct I have is screaming at me to take, take, take.

  Instead I stay where I am, kissing, licking, sucking at her breasts until sweat is dripping from both of us. Until our hips are thrusting desperately against each other and our breathing is so ragged that neither of us can fully catch our breath.

  And still I take her, still I push her with each swipe of my tongue, each slide of my mouth over her skin. I can feel her need to come again. It’s in every trembling breath she takes and every arch of her hips against mine—vicious, undeniable, inescapable.

  She’s moaning, now, begging, crying out again and again as I ride her through her pants, through my shorts. I can feel her heat even through the double layers of fabric and for a moment all I can think about is ripping it away and putting my mouth on her, my dick in her.

  She must feel the same way because suddenly she’s chanting, “Take them off, take them off,” as she bucks and twist beneath me.

  “Soon, baby,” I tell her as I slide a hand down her stomach. “I’ll take care of—”

  “Now!” she all but screams, her fingers ripping at her pants in near hysteria. “Now, now, now.”

  Fuck! Shit. Goddamn. I wanted to push her higher, wanted to give more to her—more pleasure, more sensation, more attention. But I misjudged how far gone she was and how little control I would have in the wake of her pleas. As she bucks and trembles against me, whatever control I’ve managed to hang on to slips right through my fingers.

  I strip her roughly then, my hands tearing off her pants in an effort to get at her. Her eyes widen at the sound, her breath catching in her throat, and somehow that only turns me on more, making my blood boil and slamming me into a near frenzy that I can barely think through.

  “Miles, please!” Tori wails, nearly incoherent as her head thrashes back and forth against the bed.

  “Okay, baby, okay.” I don’t bother to take my shorts all the way off. Instead I just shove them out of the way with one hand while I fumble in the nightstand drawer for the box of condoms that the housekeeper always keeps stocked in the guest rooms.

  In my haste, I tear it straight down the middle, scattering condoms across the bed like confetti.

  Tori grabs one, tears it open with her teeth. And then she’s fitting it over the head of my cock and rolling it down, down, down in a hand-over-hand maneuver that has me gritting my teeth and fighting not to blow before I ever get inside her.

  Once she’s done—after what feels like hours but is only seconds—I slip a finger into her pussy to make sure she’s ready for me. She’s wet and hot, her sex clenching around my finger like she’ll never let it go. She feels good, so fucking good, and for long seconds I stay like that, my finger thrusting inside her while my thumb rubs circles around her clit.

  There’s a part of me that wants to get her off like this just so I can watch her face when she comes. But I’m too far gone, my body all but screaming at me for release.

  Later, I promise myself as I reluctantly pull out. Later, I’ll make her come like this. Then I’ll make her come on my mouth, on my tongue. And then I’ll start all over again. But for now, I want—no, I need—to feel her come on my dick, her sex clenching around me as we both crash over the edge together.

  Tori whimpers as I lift her legs over my arms, whimpers again as I line my cock up and start to push my way slowly, inexorably, inside her. She freezes when I’m about halfway in and I do, too, my eyes going to hers as I try to figure out if I’m hurting her. She’s so feisty most of the time, so much larger than life, that it’s easy to forget how small she really is. And how easily damaged.

  “Okay?” I ask, doing my best to fight back the need clawing its way up my spine.

  “Yes, yes, yes,” she chants, even as she lifts her hips against mine.

  It’s all the encouragement I need, and I follow her need, thrusting forward, forward, forward, until I bottom out inside her.

  “Okay?” I ask again, but she’s too far gone to answer as a second orgasm rolls through her.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. She’s clenching around me now, the silken muscles of her sex robbing me of my ability to think, to move, to so much as breathe. Because if I do, if I so much as thrust against her right now, I know I’ll be coming, too. And that’s not going to happen. I may want her more than I’ve ever wanted anyone in my life, but there is no way I’m going to blow my wad the second I get inside her. Not when I’ve waited this long to have her.

  I slip a hand between us and stroke her though her climax, relishing the sounds she makes and the way her body rocks against mine, milking my dick again and again and again. And then, just as the last waves of her climax work their way through her and into me, I start to move.

  Pulling back, I thrust into her again and again. Fucking her. Taking her. Claiming her in a way I never would have thought possible even twenty-four hours ago. She takes it all, takes all of me, with a few low and sexy moans and hands that clutch at my back, my hips, my ass.

  With each thrust, I feel the heat building inside me. Feel myself getting closer to oblivion, closer to ecstasy. I try to hold on a little longer, try to stay right here—with Tori—for just a few moments more. But she wants me to let go at least as much as I want to hang on.

  Wrapping her arms around my neck, she pulls my face down to hers and presses hot kisses to my cheek, my jaw, my lips. She skims her mouth down my throat, over my shoulder, across my pecs. Then she pulls my face even closer to hers as she whispers dirty, sexy things in my ear.

  Things that make my dick throb and my balls draw up.

  Things that make my brain fuzz out and my body bliss out.

  Things that make me come.

  It takes me by surprise. One second I’m holding on to my control with bloody, battered fingertips. And the next I’m flying right over the edge of the most intense pleasure I’ve ever felt.

  It swamps me, pulls me under. Takes me deep as I come and come and come, with my face buried in Tori’s neck and her entire body wrapped around mine.

  She holds me through it, her mouth pressed to my ear. Her hands tight around my back. Her body moving perfectly under mine. I want her with me, want her coming one more time as I empty myself inside her, so I slip a hand between us and stroke her clit once, twice. Third time’s the charm as she cries out, her body clenching me in a rhythm so perfect that I wish it would never end.

  And that’s when I know for sure. This thing between us isn’t some temporary aberration. It isn’t some early-morning fuckfest that we’ll forget as soon as it’s over. No, I think as I take her mouth with mine in a kiss that is as possessive as it is deep, whatever this is that’s unfolding between us…it isn’t casual and it isn’t temporary…at least not on my part.

  Now all I have to do is convince the Queen of Fuck and Run that this time, staying will be a lot more fun…

  Chapter 15

  Tori

  I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck.

  It’s not just that Miles is heavy where he’s stretched out on top of me—he is. Nor is it that the cut on the bottom of my foot broke open sometime in the last hour—it did. It’s that every part of me—my body, my mind, my heart—feels flattened by what just happened. And I have no idea how I feel about that…or how I should feel.

  There’s a part of me—a big part, actually—that wants to stay right here in bed with Miles. That wants to cuddle up and wrap myself around him forever. Or at least for as long as he’ll have me. It’s that thought that scares me, actually. That thought that has me pushing him off me. That has me sliding out of bed and heading into the bathroom at what could loosely be called a jog, but is really more of a run—even with my injured foot.

  “Hey.” The covers rustle behind me as
he sits up, makes a grab for my wrist. I manage to dodge him without making it look like I’m dodging him—it’s a gift I’ve perfected over the course of several awkward morning-afters.

  “Are you okay?” he asks. But I’m already halfway to the bathroom, escape the only thing on my mind. Being the one to leave instead of being the one left.

  “Of course.” I toss him a careless smile over my shoulder. “Why wouldn’t I be? That was amazing. You were amazing.”

  He doesn’t look convinced, but I don’t wait around to see if that changes. Instead I duck into the bathroom and close the door before turning the shower on. Only then do I stop. Only then do I sink down on the edge of the bathtub and give myself a second to breathe.

  What just happened?

  What the fuck just happened?

  Two days ago I hated Miles Girard, didn’t trust him as far as I could throw him. And this morning I let him give me three orgasms? Three! Orgasms! When I’ve only ever been able to have one with a guy before—if that.

  I don’t know what the hell happened in that bed, or what the hell is happening inside me still, but it feels like my brain and my instinct for self-preservation went on vacation right along with my bank account. It’s only been a day, but I miss all three.

  Especially since I was just underneath Miles Girard, and had to fight against an overwhelming desire to stay right there—which is totally not acceptable. I’ve never been one to stay where I’m not wanted, after all. It’s a lesson I learned early on.

  Which means I need to get my shit together. I need to remember that staying here is just temporary because my whole damn life is in the process of falling apart. And that while Miles may not be the total ass I’ve always thought he was, that doesn’t mean what just happened between us means anything. It sure as hell doesn’t mean that we’re going to live happily ever after or some such shit.

  Just the thought has me breaking out in a cold sweat. I never think about happily ever after, rarely even let myself think about what it would feel like to be happy for now with someone. So where the hell did that idea of anything even remotely resembling permanent come from? And why the hell should I care that there’s no chance for us to be anything but what we already are?

  I don’t care, I tell myself as I rub my hands along my suddenly goosebump-covered legs. I don’t care at all. I’m just strung out from everything that’s happened. I’m lost, adrift, and Miles is the first thing I’ve glommed on to. That has to be it. That has to be—

  I stand when a knock on the door interrupts my deluded musings (yes, I’m totally woman enough to know when I’m lying to myself). “Tori. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, of course.”

  There’s a pause. “Will you please come out here and talk to me for a minute? Let me see your face?”

  That’s the last thing I want right now, considering how vulnerable I’m feeling. I need to get my defenses in place before I face him again; otherwise all these mixed-up emotions will be written all over me. “I’ll be out in a few minutes,” I tell him. “I’m in the shower right now.”

  It’s a small white lie, one I don’t expect to be caught in. At least not until the bathroom door opens—why the hell didn’t I lock it—and Miles is standing there, eyebrows raised and lips twisted sardonically. “In the shower, huh?”

  “I was just waiting for the water to warm up.”

  “I can see that.” He gestures to the steam-drenched glass as he steps into the bathroom.

  It’s a big bathroom, but Miles has a big presence and he takes up most of the room—and most of the air. Especially when it registers on me that not only is he still naked, but this is the first time I’ve ever really seen him naked. When we were fucking I was too caught up in what he was doing to me to pay as much attention to his body as I should have.

  And I really should have, because…holy shit. Just holy shit. He is…wow.

  I may be panicking, may be freaking out about what just happened and all the feelings it’s got floating around inside me, but that doesn’t mean I’m blind. And it sure as hell doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate the sight, because I’d have to be blind and dead not to appreciate Miles Girard in his rawest, most natural form.

  Because he is built. Like really, really built. Like holy-shit-his-abs-should-be-in-a-museum built.

  He might be a tech nerd, but he’s got the body of an athlete. Long and lean with muscles in all the right places and a V-cut that makes my mouth actually water with the need to explore it. He’s beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.

  Or he would be if he weren’t scowling at me, his blue eyes stormy with an emotion I can’t quite put my finger on. “Look, I just want to take a shower. Then I’ll be out of your way—”

  “Out of my way?” he demands, stepping closer and wrapping a hand around my upper arm. “Is that what you think I want?”

  “I don’t know what you want.”

  “I thought I made it abundantly clear this morning that I want you.” He tugs on my arm a little, just hard enough to have me stumbling against him. “But if you need more convincing, I’m happy to oblige.”

  He goes to wrap an arm around me, to pull me even closer, but I slap a hand on his chest and push back. “Dude, if you convince me anymore, I won’t be able to walk.” Or walk away, which is what I’m actually afraid of.

  He just grins at me. “I’m not seeing a downside here.”

  “Of course you’re not. But I have things to do today.”

  “It’s Sunday.” He ignores the hand pressing him back and wraps his arms around me anyway, dropping kisses on my neck and shoulder as he cuddles me close. “What could you possibly have to do today that’s more interesting than this?”

  He cups my right breast in his hand, rubs his thumb over my nipple. It turns me on, despite my resolve to put some distance between us. Not that that’s exactly a surprise. Miles is an incredible lover with a truly awe-inspiring attention to detail. I think it’s the engineer in him, the perfectionist who wants to make sure whatever he does is the best he can do. Including making love.

  Pleasure creeps through me, weakens my resolve. But even as my body starts to melt against him, my head is telling me all the reasons I shouldn’t give in. All the reasons I shouldn’t go back to bed with him.

  The fact that I want to is the biggest reason I can’t. Never want anything too much, I remind myself as I reluctantly pull away. And definitely never need anyone. It makes you vulnerable.

  That’s a lesson I learned early and well—my parents were great teachers—and I’m not going to forget it now just because Miles gave me the three—three!—best orgasms of my life.

  “I have to find a job,” I tell him, pulling away from him once and for all. “And I need to figure out how I’m going to handle this. If I do what Chloe wants, I need to prepare some kind of statement—”

  “That’s what the publicist is for,” Miles says as I open the shower door and step inside. He’s watching me through narrowed eyes, like he’s not sure whether to believe the excuses I’m throwing at him or not. He should, because they’re true. They’re just not the whole truth.

  But that’s okay, I remind myself as I reach for the bottle of shower gel. Fake it till you make it and all that. It’s a saying for a reason.

  “I don’t want a publicist speaking for me,” I tell him as I dunk my head under the water and wet my hair. “I mean, she can read what I come up with and edit it, but if I’m going to do this, I want it to be in my words. I want it to be my story.”

  For long seconds, he doesn’t say anything. He just watches me through the glass. I’ve got my eyes closed now—to keep water from streaming into them—but I can feel his eyes on me. Can all but see the wheels turning in his head as he tries to figure me out.

  But better people than him have tried and failed at that. Just because we had sex doesn’t mean I’m going to trust him. And it sure as hell doesn’t mea
n I’m going to let my guard down. Men like Miles are used to getting whatever they want, whenever they want it. But I’m not some plaything for him to acquire and then toss aside. The sooner he learns that, the better off we’ll both be.

  “Why don’t you go jump in your shower, too,” I tell him as I reach for the shampoo. “Then you can work while I make breakfast.”

  “You don’t have to make breakfast.”

  “I don’t have to do anything.” I squirt some shampoo into my palm. “But I need to do something to pay you back for letting me stay here. Besides, I like cooking and I’m good at it, so why shouldn’t I do it?”

  I close my eyes again as I start to rub the shampoo into my scalp, but they fly open the second Miles yanks open the shower door. “What are you—”

  “Shut up,” he tells me as he crowds me against the side wall of the shower.

  “Excuse me? Don’t you dare—”

  “Shut. Up,” he tells me again, and this time the words are accompanied by a look—and a growl—that has my throat seizing up. Which, in turn, has me doing exactly what he asked.

  “That’s better,” he says as he pulls me against him, my back to his front. And then his hands are in my hair, massaging in the shampoo with firm, steady fingers. It feels good—so good—and I end up dropping my head back against his shoulder before I can stop myself.

  The only man who’s ever washed my hair before is my beautician, Pedro, and he never makes me feel like this. Warning bells are going off all over the place inside me, but I don’t heed them. I can’t. Not when I’m drowning in the simple pleasure of Miles’s fingers rubbing over my scalp.

  He keeps it up for a couple of minutes, until my knees are weak and I’m all but melting against him. Only then does he tilt my head back and rinse the shampoo out, all while being extra careful not to get it in my eyes.

  Then he reaches for the conditioner, and by the end I’m little more than a whimpering mess. I expect him to take advantage, expect him to push me up against the shower wall and fuck me until we both come. God knows, the way I’m melting against him can’t be mistaken for resistance, no matter how this shower started out.