Grinding against her, I continue my travels, mapping her neck with my mouth. Kissing her shoulder. Dusting my lips across her exposed collarbone, a location on a woman’s body that doesn’t get the attention it deserves. “I think I’ll worship your collarbone for a little bit as I make my case,” I whisper, kissing her there, inhaling her scent—something sweet, maybe vanilla, maybe honey. I don’t know, but it goes to my head, making my mind hazy with desire.
“You’re presenting some compelling evidence, counselor,” she whispers.
“I’m only getting started. But here’s Exhibit A.” I run my fingers through her hair as I kiss her neck, running my other hand down her arm, sliding past the short sleeves of her blouse, traversing her skin as the little hairs on her arm stand on end. I inch closer, my chest to her back, as my hand glides down to hers, palm touching palm. There’s a hitch in her breath, and it sounds like an invitation. And it’s one I desperately want to accept. My body heat rises as I move in closer and thread our fingers together, clasping her hand. She clasps back, squeezing tightly.
And that, right there, is another line.
Or maybe everything is a line, and I’m hell-bent on vaulting each damn one.
I kiss her neck harder, driven, determined to make her feel incredible.
She’s trembling in my arms, and that’s what I want. I nip my teeth against the flesh of her neck, setting off a chain reaction. She groans, a rumbly, sexy sound that fills the silence, that hooks into my body and drives me on.
I spin her around, grab her face, and drag her to me, pressing my hard-on against her body. “I know I said I shouldn’t kiss you again, but that was temporary insanity. I can’t not kiss you.”
Her lips part, and her eyes spark with lust. “You’re right. But I’m not going to take your word for it.” She grabs at my shirt. “I want more hard evidence.”
Oh hell, she is dirty, and I love it. “Then here’s Exhibit B.” I push against her, letting her feel the outline of my length.
She moans, and her fingers tighten around the fabric of my T-shirt, twisting it as she rubs against me. “I need to know if that law should be overturned, overruled, whatever you lawyers call it. Show me.”
“I’ve got quite a case to present,” I murmur as my hands loop through her hair, the lush, blonde strands sifting between my fingers. “Also, for the record, there was not a single chaste thing about kissing you. It was never pretending. It was always a turn-on.”
“A rush, a total rush,” she whispers, barely a breath.
Then I cross all the lines, crushing my mouth to hers and devouring her lips.
Kissing her hard, possessively, like she belongs to me. My lips claim hers, my tongue flicking across her delicious mouth, the taste of her lip gloss so damn arousing. It’s understated and sexy, like everything about her. The sporty tomboy has turned out to be wildly feminine underneath, and the scent of her, the feel of her, sends a new wave of lust crashing over me.
Because this kiss is different.
It’s not our first. But it’s a whole new kind.
We kissed in the park.
We pecked at the wine tasting.
We went at it in the diner.
We made out for the Jumbotron.
Every other time, there has been an audience. Every other time, we’ve pretended it was pretend.
Now that it’s only us, I’m learning it was never pretend for me. That I was only fooling myself. Because every time, I felt something.
Something unexpected.
Something that surprised me.
Maybe that something has always been there, and I had no clue until I touched her.
I can’t say for certain. All I know is I’m kissing her for real now, kissing her like nothing else matters beyond these four walls. My hands tighten in her hair, and my tongue explores her mouth, and my body craves more and more contact with her. More closeness, more connection.
Maybe their comments earlier about me being bad in bed flipped a switch. Maybe they drove me to break the promise I made to Summer outside the jewelry store. Or maybe they gave me the excuse I’d been looking for to get closer to her again.
But they’re not the reason I’m kissing her.
They aren’t why I’m scooping her up in my arms.
And none of that spurs me into carrying her to her bedroom, kicking the door closed, and setting her on the edge of her bed.
As my breath comes hard, I gaze at the woman I’ve known more than half my life.
The woman I took to prom.
The woman who’s been my rock.
The person I’ve depended on.
And holy shit, I really want to get naked with her all night long, damn the consequences.
I don’t want to do it to prove a point. I want to do it because I want her.
I want Summer Clarke so damn badly.
I cup her cheek, meeting her gaze, ready to tell her that this thing between us—and I don’t want to define it—is so much more than a stupid point to prove.
That it’s turning into a strange new sensation in my heart.
But she speaks first while she’s tugging at my shirt, pulling it up, trailing her fingers against my abs.
“Oliver, show me,” she whispers in the voice of a seductress. “Show me how good you are in bed, as good as I’ve imagined.”
My brain short-circuits.
All the wiring fries, and I can’t form coherent thoughts.
Because she’s pictured this.
Knowing that throws accelerant on a roaring fire.
I ignite, and the flames lick through my body as I pull off my shirt the rest of the way, letting the corner of my lips curve up in a grin. “You’ve pictured me?”
She nods, dancing her fingers down my stomach, over my abs. “I have. I shouldn’t, but I have, and every time, you’ve made me come.”
Holy fuck.
She is a goddess of dirty dreams.
She’s a kitten and a vixen and a daring, bold woman all in one.
She runs her fingers back up to my chest, making my brain pop. My skin sizzles.
I don’t need to form intelligent thoughts after all. Telling her this isn’t about ego, that I’m not making a case—those protestations don’t fit in the heat of this moment.
Not when she wants this purely physical connection.
So I home in on that.
I undo her blouse, slipping one button through its hole, then the next, then the next. Her shirt falls open, revealing soft, creamy skin and a pale-pink bra holding in those beauties. She shrugs off the shirt, letting it fall to the floor. We toe off shoes, and then I climb onto the bed with her, lying down, sliding under her so I can kiss her like that.
It should be weird, kissing my best friend with her lying on top of me.
Kissing in her bed, half-undressed, knowing everything’s coming off so very soon.
But it’s not weird.
It feels inevitable.
It feels like it’s about damn time.
And it’s utterly fantastic to finally give in.
I’m not sure how long I’ve wanted her, whether these feelings are new or they’ve been there all along, just waiting.
But I know, right now, my desire for her runs far and deep.
I bring her close for another devouring kiss. She tastes sweet and sexy as our lips collide in a hungry, wild crush.
My hands slide to the back of her bra, unhooking it. She sits up on me, lets the lingerie fall to the bed, and I stop everything because I have to look. I have to feel.
My God, she’s spectacular.
I cup her breasts, moaning my appreciation. “You are fucking beautiful.”
She smiles, kind of shyly, as she arches her back. “So are you.”
“But that’s the problem, isn’t it? You think I can’t make you feel good.” I tease her nipples, lifting my head up from the pillow to draw one delicious teardrop breast into my mouth, sucking on that diamond point.
She gasps,
and it turns into a long, lingering groan. “Oh God. That feels so good. You do make me feel good.”
“Good. That’s what I want.”
Except, for her, this might merely be an exploration. An exercise. A test.
But as I flick my tongue across her nipple, I decide I can’t fucking care about the why right now. All I care about is that this doesn’t stop.
I bite gently then switch to her other breast, lavishing attention on it too.
She wriggles as I touch her, bowing her back, seeking out my mouth.
I answer her movements, licking and sucking and kissing as the girl next door writhes on top of me. As I play with her breasts, she moves up my body, straddling me now, rocking her hips against the outline of my cock.
“Oliver,” she whispers, a needy plea. “More, please, give me more.”
I thrust up against her as I kiss her breasts, licking as she gasps, as she seems to chase her pleasure.
And soon, her hips are rolling, her pelvis rocking, her tits bouncing in my face.
Her breath comes in short, sharp bursts.
“Don’t stop.”
“I have no intention of stopping,” I murmur against her chest as my hands guide her, gripping her, working her over as she seeks her release.
Because that’s what she’s doing.
And this is a fucking revelation.
Summer loves it when I kiss her breasts.
Summer gets wildly aroused from me biting her nipples.
Summer is so turned on, she’s panting, moaning, and riding me clothed, looking perilously close to climax.
And then she does.
Her mouth falls into an O.
Her moan rises higher.
Her body rocks, thrusts, then shudders.
Beautifully.
“Oh God, oh God,” she pants, then cries out, collapsing onto me. The sight of her coming is honestly the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
So hot that I flip her to her back, strip off her jeans, then meet her gaze, my fingers stopping at her pale-pink knickers. “Summer,” I say.
“Yes?” Her tone is feathery. She’s still floating on her orgasm, it seems.
“I need these off. I need to be inside you. Tell me you need it too. Please fucking tell me you need it too. I’m desperate for you.”
She nods, blinking, then sits up, grabbing at my jeans. “Take these off. Now.”
Maybe we ought to be having a conversation about what this means, or what happens next, or how we navigate friendship and fucking.
But I don’t want to ruin the moment.
She yanks at the button on my jeans, and I fumble at the zipper, working it open. Before I push my pants down, I grab my wallet, fish out a condom, and set it on the bedside table. Then I shed my jeans as she helps us along by slipping off her pink lace.
She’s naked, and she’s gorgeous.
And I’m so damn hard. My cock throbs as I push down my boxer briefs, freeing my erection.
She licks her lips, her eyes never straying from my dick.
And hey, I don’t mind the eye-fucking.
I don’t mind the ogling at all.
I grip my cock, sliding a fist over it, showing her what she’s doing to me. “You are so fucking sexy.”
“So are you,” she says, her eyes hooded, her tone so sensual. She moves her body like a cat stretching out, then she glides her hand down her pelvis. “I don’t think you’re bad in bed so far, but I think you should prove it beyond a shadow of a doubt.”
And there it is—I was right about what she’s after. Why she’s doing this.
Proof.
But I’m not trying to prove anything. What drives me is pure and simple want.
It’s too strong to fight. It’s overwhelming. It’s fierce and dangerous, like a wild animal finally set free.
Part of me thinks it’s for the best that she’s not on the same page. That it’s safer.
And this may be simply an experiment for her, but she seems to be enjoying every second of our lab test. She arches her hips, such a desperate thing.
And it’s so arousing that my dick throbs insistently.
“I will make sure beyond any reasonable doubt that you come hard for a second time, maybe even a third. Sound about right?”
She moans. “Sounds perfect.”
Getting on the bed, I wrap my hands around her ankles, opening her legs.
But she shakes her head. “Let me be on top.”
“What the lady wants.” I flop onto the mattress as she shifts, straddling me. I reach for the condom, open the packet, then roll it down my length.
With avid eyes, she watches me, a wild sort of hunger in her gaze. It’s something I’ve never seen there before. Something I never expected from her.
But it’s incredibly erotic to experience her like this.
To see my friend come alive in a whole new way in the bedroom.
As she settles her knees on either side of me, I don’t need any proof to know I want so much more than one time with her.
Because I’ve been wanting her for a long, long time.
How did I not realize it sooner? I’ve been craving this, denying this. Moments over the last few years flash before me. Snapshots of the flush on her chest, my gaze on her lips, our bodies nearly touching.
The way I felt.
How I reacted.
I shoved all those wants away each time, ignoring, denying.
Pretending.
That was where I was truly faking it.
Now, here I am with her for real, and I’m pretty sure my want is so much more than physical.
It’s hitting me in a much deeper way.
And evidently, like a stupid idiot, it took me getting naked with her to learn I really, really like her.
On a whole lot of levels.
Even if she’s only feeling it on one level.
I’ll have to take what I can get.
27
Summer
I hardly feel like me.
Gone is the outgoing, upbeat, peppy, positive Summer.
I’m suddenly this wildly different woman.
I’m lust-drenched and dipped in desire, rolled in it from head to toe like a sugar coating.
As Oliver sheathes himself, I’m vibrating with desire.
I’m enrobed in lust.
I can’t entirely believe I’m doing this.
I’m about to fuck my best friend, and a part of me wonders why we waited so long to cross this line.
Here in my room, everything about us together feels . . . undeniable, like maybe all our touches, all our teasing, and all our kissing was always pointing right to this.
He grips my hips, his fingers digging into my flesh as I position myself over him. I take his cock in my hand, and I breathe out, hard. It’s a relief and a thrill all at once to touch him at last. To touch the man I’ve been crushing on for years.
And the only way—literally the only way—I can get through the sheer intensity of this moment is to act like it’s just a game, an experiment.
But it’s so much more.
It’s a deep and potent longing to know him like this when I’ve craved it for so long.
As I curl a fist around his length, I’m lit up, because this is heady, this is real, this is me touching my best friend and knowing he wants me the same way I want him.
And I want us to feel everything together. I rub the head against my wetness, my eyes squeezing shut at the first enticing feel of his cock against me.
Then I rise up, and I slide down onto Oliver Harris, the boy who took me to prom, the man who I’m taking to bed, the person I enjoy the most in this world.
“Oh God. Oh my God,” I groan as I sink down, settling onto his shaft.
He growls, a long, carnal hum of approval. “Summer. You feel fucking incredible.”
“God, so do you.” It’s all I can say, all I can feel as I adjust to his delicious length, to the feel of him pulsing inside me.
If I say an
ything more, I’ll say too much.
I’ll tell him I’ve wanted this for reasons that go beyond his beautiful face, his carved body. For reasons that live inside me. Because he’s the person I’ve laughed with, depended on, turned to.
And he’s this beautiful man beneath me in bed.
A friend and now, for the most unexpected of reasons, a lover.
Those roles are supposed to be separate. Opposite sides of the ring. But they’re crashing into each other and doing crazy, dangerous things to my heart.
It’s hammering. It’s expanding. It’s reaching for him.
Focus on the physical.
Yes, that’s what I need to do.
I start to move, to seek a rhythm, find a pace.
Moving my hips, I roll back and forth, up and down, taking him in, out.
I plant my palms on his chest, and he guides me with his strong hands.
“That’s right, cupcake. Use my cock. Use it to make yourself feel so fucking good.”
Sparks race across my skin. He’s a dirty talker, and I love it. Love discovering this side of him.
“More. Give me more dirty words,” I pant. His voice sends shivers across my skin, hot, decadent tingles that feel so damn good.
“Fuck me hard, cupcake. Like you know you want to,” he urges, moving me up and down on his thick, hard cock.
Sparks of pleasure ignite in my core, fireworks exploding into the night sky as I rock my hips against him. “I do. I do want it hard. I do want it good.”
I’ve never spoken like this during sex.
I’ve never wanted to. Never tried.
But it’s heady and thrilling to say out loud all the filthy things I feel.
“Then that’s how you’ll get it. You are going to get it so hard and deep you’ll be feeling me tomorrow. Now let me see those beautiful tits bounce up and down,” he says, rocking under me, fucking me from below. He pistons his hips, driving into me and consuming me with pleasure. I can’t stop moaning, because the threat of bliss is close, so deliciously close.
Oliver slides a hand across my waist, down my belly, heading straight for my clit. The second he touches me there, I cry out. I toss my head back, yelling his name.
“Oliver, God, Oliver! Yes, yes, yes.” His name is hard to say during sex. All those syllables. But I want to feel it on my tongue. I want the reminder that he’s doing this to me. My friend, my rock, my confidante. That even if this is a game, a slipup, a moment in our pretend love affair, I want it to feel as real as I’ve imagined it.
Dear Sexy Ex-Boyfriend (The Guys Who Got Away Book 1) Page 14