Liar, Liar

by T. L. Martin

  “But—”

  He pulls back to see my face, an unwavering look in his eyes. “It stays.”

  Confused, I stand frozen, staring blankly at him. He doesn’t want me to undress? What do I even do from here?

  All thoughts dissolve when his warm palms slip beneath the jacket to gently clutch my waist. He tugs me toward him so our hips connect. I pant at the contact even though we’re both fully clothed. Something about the position feels vulnerable, flirting with innocence despite his hardening erection pressed against my lower stomach. Heat radiates from him, searing my skin through my dress, and his smallest touches make my throat go dry.

  One hand slides up my waist, brushes the side of my breast for a fleeting moment before continuing higher. He grips my throat, gently, so gently, and his thumb guides my chin upward so my eyes meet his.

  My lips part, muscles going limp in his arms. I’ve never felt so at ease to let another person take control, but Easton’s proven so many times I can trust him. I savor the foreign sensation of my body turning to putty in someone else’s hands.

  His eyes shut as he almost touches his lips to mine. A shaky exhale brushes my mouth, his fingers pressing into my neck.

  I lean into him, light-headed, desperate. He has to kiss me now. I think I might die if he doesn’t.

  “Not yet,” he whispers roughly.

  Angling my face toward the ceiling, he strokes the column of my throat with his nose. He inhales, and his hot sigh dives to the apex between my thighs.

  “Fuck, I love the way you smell.” He nips just below my ear, sensual and wet.

  My knees weaken.

  His tongue darts out to taste me, a slow lick, and then a soft pull. I grip his arm around my neck for support. He trails his mouth toward my collarbone, deliberate and tender. Another lick, another scrape of teeth. A moan climbs up my throat, and I squeeze my thighs together.

  “What are you doing?” I protest to the ceiling. No one has ever touched me so slowly, so thoughtfully. It’s torture. “Why are we still dressed?”

  “So impatient,” he drawls, the breathy chuckle vibrating against my throat. “I had no idea you wanted to get me naked so badly.”

  My lips curve into a partial smile, but I’m too hot, too needy, to let the amusement stir me from this lust-induced daze. The fact he has the ability to make me lust at all is a mystery, and the feeling is a compelling mix of addictive and terrifying.

  I don’t know how long it will last, but right now, all I want is more.

  When I meet his sweltering gaze, he loosens his grip on my neck. I touch his jeans. Unsteady, I wander higher, slipping beneath the hem of his T-shirt. My palms connect with hard muscle, and my breath comes out fast. Too fast.

  I’ve never undressed another person before. I’ve never wanted to until Easton. Is he going to stop me? Getting his clothes off is selfish, greedy. Entirely for me. It doesn’t serve him at all.

  Does he want this?

  If he were any other guy at school, I wouldn’t care how he felt, but this is Easton, and if my past on the streets has taught me anything, it’s that guys want what serves them, not me. What if our last night together was a fluke?

  His eyelids lower as he absorbs my hesitation, something dark yet soft flaring in his irises. “What do you want?”

  I lick my lips, glance at the T-shirt in my way. “I want it off.”

  “So take it off.” His thumb traces the curve of my jaw, voice so gravelly it makes me shudder. “You don’t need to ask me for permission. Whatever you want, Eva, you can have.”

  The words caress my chest, and, slowly, I drag my hands upward, pulling his T-shirt up little by little. I’ve reached the tops of his abs when he takes a small step back and away from me.

  My eyes narrow, and by the lazy quirk of his lips, I realize he’s playing with me. Daring me to take what I want.

  An unexpected thrill races through me, just strong enough to push my feet forward.

  I never say no to a challenge.

  Holding Easton’s gaze, I close the gap between us. A small wave of courage pulses like a livewire. My fingers aren’t steady or skilled when they curl around the hem of his T-shirt, but they’re bold, pushing his shirt higher. My heart thumps in my chest, demanding I take it:

  Take what I want.

  Because Easton isn’t like them.

  Because he makes me feel like Eva. Strong and bewitching. Maybe even deserving.

  That slippery word—deserving—cloaks me in silk, its texture soothing and desirable. He lifts his arms for me to push the T-shirt over his shoulders, but when I struggle to remove it due to the height difference, he releases an amused breath, pulls the material over his head, and drops it to the floor.

  I stare shamelessly. I’ve seen him shirtless, thanks to living together and witnessing countless sweaty football practices, but I’ve never been so close. The defined lines of his abs move up and down with each shallow, uneven breath, and my fingers burn with the need to touch them. But first, I unbutton his jeans. Then I slowly pull the zipper down.

  He keeps his arms at his sides, but goose bumps race up my body when they flex and contract, his hands balling into fists, then releasing. He lets me explore him, and each slow squeeze of his fists pumps a new wave of strength and lust into me.

  In The Pitts, Monica used to say the sexiest men are the ones so overtaken by desire they can’t hold back. I disagree. Easton is living, breathing proof there’s nothing sexier than when someone who wants you badly—so badly his entire body shakes with need—restrains himself for your sake.

  The sight is intoxicating.

  Moving.

  Powerful.

  Black boxer briefs peek out from beneath his jeans that hang low and reveal a sharp V-cut I’ve only fantasized about touching. My palms go damp, skin blazing. Biting my lip, I trace my fingers along the delicious V-cut. Then, I move down farther to skim the dark trail of hair leading beneath his briefs.

  Hunger, thirst, need.

  And something else. Something more.

  My chest thumps.

  It’s so loud—

  Ba-bum.

  So poignant—

  Ba-bum.

  So naked—

  Ba-bum.

  The pressure thickens, sticks to the back of my throat, and my hands wander up over his abs, which tense beneath my touch. His chest is sculpted, shoulders broad. I touch him everywhere, but still, I need more. I cup both sides of his jaw, and intense, whiskey irises consume me.

  This constant, inherent pull toward him—a pull that once started as small but vibrant as a candle’s flame—expands in my body, shooting heat through every vein, every inhale, every heartbeat. I wonder if this much emotion could kill a person. It seeps from my pores, prickles along every inch of skin. I’m going to fucking burst from it.

  Before he can blink, I’m on my tiptoes, my mouth on his. An unsteady brush of lips, a whisper of a kiss. It’s abrupt and unskilled. I don’t know what I’m doing. I just know I need it.

  When he doesn’t part his lips for me, I pull back to see his expression. Heat flares in his eyes, locked heavily on mine.

  After a beat, he steps closer, guiding me backward, one step, two steps. The moment my back touches the wall, his free hand cups the nape of my neck, angles my head closer.

  “Easton . . .”

  “I won’t be able to take it back.” He pants against my mouth. “If we do this, your first kiss will always belong to me. Are you sure that’s what you want?”

  He says I don’t need to ask him for permission, yet he asks me.

  He always asks.

  “Quite the burden,” I say lamely, hoping my sarcasm will deflect the vulnerability that tightens my lungs. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

  “I’ve been wanting to kiss you for three years, Eva.”

  My stupid eyes burn, chest tender, and the demand comes out raspy. “So do it already.”

  His fingers press lightly into my neck. Heat
pulses inside me, and his tongue slides across my upper lip. Light, wet, teasing. He pulls my lip into his mouth, gives a soft, warm tug, and a full-body sigh escapes me.

  Tongue, lips, heat—a kiss, but not. He’s flirting with the edges of what I need, and the anticipation is painful.

  “Easton—”

  He catches my complaint in his mouth. The instant his tongue slips inside and meets mine, his restraint collapses into dust.

  My breath comes out in shallow pants as he deepens the kiss. Despite his intensity, his tongue glides along mine in slow, deep strokes. He tastes me like I’m a delicacy, rare and exquisite. Fire expands in my blood, seeps outward, and I can’t stop touching him—the hard line of his jaw that moves with each taste, the vein throbbing in his neck, and the tension pulling his abs tight. I should have guessed Easton would be able to use his tongue in a way that vibrates from my insides out.

  Something obscure and gratifying rushes into my lungs as we explore each other in new ways.

  I picked him.

  Pride overwhelms me, giving me a taste of the unfamiliar.

  I press my palms to his chest and give him a little push. A husky growl leaves his throat, and he obliges, walking backward while we’re still connected. Strong hands grip my waist and squeeze. He lifts me to line our hips, our bodies pressed together. Once we reach the bed, he stops, releases my waist to clutch my face, and takes his time licking, sucking, devouring my mouth. His tongue speaks to me in a way I’ve never heard, whispering words that settle deep in my bones.

  Worthy.

  Beautiful.

  Wanted.

  My pulse drums erratically, buzzing beneath my skin, between my thighs.

  Lowering my hands to his hips, I give another shove. He sits on the bed and pulls me onto his lap. I swallow his groan when I spread my legs to straddle him. His fingers tangle in my hair, and he tugs me close. I never imagined I’d be the one fully clothed, with over six feet of a half-naked guy locked between my thighs. Awareness sparks beneath my panties, the position deeply erotic, and my body screams for more.

  I need friction.

  Determined, I break the kiss to yank his jacket off my shoulders, but, again, he stops me.

  Irritation rises, and I glare at him. It must not be that threatening because he only chuckles, a lazy smile quirking up on one side.

  “Don’t you want me to take my clothes off?” I complain. “It’s okay. I’m ready for more.”

  Just like that, the smile fades. His eyes flicker with gravity at my words. “Then let me give you more.” Rough palms touch my hips, burn through my dress, and give my curves a little squeeze. “You don’t need to get naked for me, Eva. You turn me on without even trying.” He brushes his lips against the base of my neck, and a slow tremor rocks me. “You make me want you in ways you don’t even know. Let me prove it to you.”

  I swallow, disbelief tainting me. “But . . .”

  He presses a kiss below my ear, gives a tender pull between his teeth, and a sigh spills from my body. His touches are so light, rough fingers grazing my arm. Jeans brushing my inner thighs. Breaths slow and deep. But they do things to me.

  Tantalizing, erotic, throbbing things.

  His hand finds my hair. He tugs, trailing open kisses down the front of my throat. My lungs constrict, each inhale more shallow than the last. I think I’m floating, yet every contact burns and lingers. He releases my hair, and his hand wanders down my back until it reaches the curve of my ass. He lets out an uneven sound as his palms grip my ass, and when his thumbs skim the naked skin below the hem of my dress, a shiver takes hold of me. Every inch of flesh is more sensitive than if I were undressed.

  Gripping the waistband of his jeans, I give a tug, and he lifts his hips so I can pull them down. I grind against him, my panties connecting with his hard length through his boxers, and a shudder rolls through him.

  “Fuck,” he groans. He traces a finger along my panties, starting at my clit, and electricity shoots to my core. His voice is hoarse, laced in lust and appreciation. “You’re soaking wet.”

  I move against him again, slowly rotate my hips, and the heat, pressure, and friction spirals inside me. Even clothed, his erection hits me just right, rubbing perfectly against my clit. I grind against him again, and again, and my eyes roll back into my head. I had no idea dry humping could feel so good.

  Easton’s fingers dip below my dress, sinking into the sensitive skin at the back of my thighs, and hungry lips trail up my throat until he returns to my mouth. His tongue latches onto mine, starving.

  Riding Easton Rutherford is the most delicious and satisfying thing I’ve ever done. I’ve never been so turned-on in my life and without a flicker of apprehension. I swallow, absorbing the way we sit, the way we move, the way we touch. The way we’re dressed. Sensual but in control. Provocative but safe. His hips grind against me, pulling a moan from my mouth, and I grip his shoulder, building up momentum as I chase what I need.

  So close, so fucking close, but what I really need is to feel him.

  Really feel him.

  And I need him to know it’s okay.

  Reaching between us, I slip my hand beneath his boxers. A deep, throaty sound rumbles up his chest, body tensing, as my fingers wrap around his smooth length. He pulls away from the kiss to watch my movements closely, panting.

  I tug on the waistband of his boxers, and his Adam’s apple moves up and down as he helps me pull the material down.

  I move the narrow strip of my panties to one side, holding it there. A low hiss escapes him as I lower myself onto him again, positioned the way we were before. Except this time, there’s no material in the way. We’re skin-to-skin. Heat to heat. My wetness traps him, and pleasure spikes through me like a bolt of lightning.

  This time, when I grind against him, his jaw clamps shut, and the groan that shudders through him shakes his entire body. He’s not even inside me, but he feels so good. It would be easy to go all the way with him—so easy. Except, even now, fear at that thought cripples me. He doesn’t seem to mind this though, so I force the thought away and continue to roll my hips up and down, up and down, from base to tip, familiarizing myself with him and ensuring he’s covered in my scent. I want to make him feel as good as he makes me feel.

  The thought clutches my chest.

  I have never, not once, enjoyed giving pleasure to someone else.

  And yet every sound he makes sends a thrill through me, the sensation delicious but foreign.

  He must notice the shift in my expression, because even as he shakes beneath me with every rock of my hips, his eyes soften. He touches the side of my cheek, bringing my face close to his. Our foreheads touch, damp and tangled with hair.

  He looks at me.

  I look at him.

  I grind on him shamelessly, slow but hard. We breathe together, our lips parted, sustaining each other. The pressure builds, throbs between my thighs, until it’s almost unbearable. I bite down on my lip, pleasure seizing me. Easton’s eyelids lower as he watches me. He uses his palms to guide my hips a little harder. An uneven breath leaves my lips, and he lets out a low growl. With every slow movement, the sensation flutters, making it difficult to inhale. Until, finally, heat erupts, splintering from my most sensitive nerves, and I cry out. That’s all it takes for Easton to curse and pull my mouth to his, his body tensing and shuddering beneath mine as he comes hard with my tongue in his mouth.

  Tremors still wrack us when his forehead drops onto my shoulder and my arms wrap around his neck. For a long time, we sit together, panting, in a loose, sweaty embrace. I almost can’t believe the best orgasm of my life happened while I was practically still fully clothed. He said he would show me what he meant. He said I didn’t have to undress for him. He even gave me the jacket that covers me up.

  And yet he wanted me.

  He kissed me.

  He held me.

  “Shhh,” he murmurs, wiping wetness from my cheek with his thumb.

  I didn’
t know I was crying.

  His brows slant beneath messy strands of hair, and he swallows. “Do you regret—”

  “I like you,” I whisper. My voice is unsteady, and I can’t believe I just said that. But as the words settle weakly around us, I realize how inadequate they are for what I feel for him. They’re a joke. The embarrassment that flushes my neck afterward, however, is perfectly adequate. “Forget I said that. It was stupid.”

  “I sabotage your showers.”

  “What?”

  “And I follow you sometimes. Most times.” He sits up slightly, rubs the back of his neck with one hand, and lightly squeezes my hip with the other as though worried I’m going to try to run away. “I do it to make sure you’re okay.”

  My jaw drops, and I narrow my eyes. “That night you followed me into The Pitts?”

  He clears his throat. “Not the first time.”

  Warmth curls around my body, my throat burns, and my thighs clench around him. I knew rich people didn’t have shower problems.

  “Fucking stalker,” I whisper affectionately.

  He runs a thumb across my lower lip, pulling it down slightly. His voice is quiet, reluctant. “Do you want me to stop?”

  I flick my tongue out to taste his thumb. “Not a chance.”

  He stares at me, and the gentleness in his eyes is deep and unflinching in a way that doesn’t allow me to question what he sees in me. For the first time in my life, I feel safe. I don’t think about yesterday. I don’t think about tomorrow. Right here, right now . . . I’m okay.

  And I’m not even lying this time.

  Eva

  Hiking my backpack up my shoulder, I’m about to open my bedroom door when my eyes catch on my reflection. My navel piercing glints above my jeans, my tank tight and restricting. I hesitate. So it’s a bit tight, I tell myself. Harmless. The outfit is the same thing I wear almost every day.

  And yet, today, uncertainty rocks me. My tank has never felt so suffocating. Who am I even doing this for?

  Chewing my lip, I slowly backtrack, open my dresser drawer, and grab a simple black T-shirt. I switch out the tops, then tilt my head to examine my new reflection. This shirt is plain and loose. It does nothing to highlight my curves. It’s not me, but neither is the tank top. I have to admit, there’s something comfortable and freeing about the loose fit, but still, it’s not quite right.