With Holden, I measure by the quality of the time. Every second with him has mattered.
As he opens the foil, I watch, licking my lips in anticipation. My skin heats up again as he rolls the condom down his cock, covering his thick length.
Even that turns me on. “Is it weird I think it’s hot that you’re putting on a condom?”
A sexy grin comes my way. “No. It’s not weird because it means I’m going to be inside you in a few seconds. Exactly where I want to be.”
I draw a deep breath as he settles between my legs. I lift my arms, sliding my hands up his pecs as he presses the head of his cock against my clit. I’m already sensitive from what he just did to me, but the sensation is so incredible, it sends a lightning bolt of lust through my body.
He rubs the head up and down my wetness, and I moan, trembling with a new wave of desire. As I run my hands down his chest, savoring the feel of his firm muscles, then the ladder of his abs, he lifts his face, meets my eyes, and asks, “Is this good?”
I nod, breathing out, as my whole body tingles from the promise of pleasure. “It’s so good.”
I love saying what I want. I love telling him my desires. I get a thrill out of asking for my own pleasure. My hands travel lower, roaming through the hair on his abdomen. “I want you inside me,” I whisper. “And I want you to tell me what to do next. Because that turns me on.”
He clenches his jaw, draws a deep breath, then whispers in the dirtiest voice I’ve heard from him, “Spread your legs, beautiful. Let your knees fall open more.”
I do as he asks, giving him room between my thighs.
“And watch me. Watch me as I slide into you,” he says, and pleasure ripples down my spine from his dirty words.
“I think I like a dirty talker,” I say as I stare down at his hand on his cock.
“Then you’ve got one,” he says as he nudges the head against my wet center, then pushes in the slightest bit.
I’m so aroused, but I’m still expecting it to hurt, so I tense.
My knees rise up, closing.
He stops. “You okay?”
I nod, but a prickle of fear wedges into my chest, and I can’t quite relax again.
This is Holden. This is the man you’ve waited for.
It might hurt for a minute. But it probably won’t after that. I let my legs fall open again, and he slides in an inch or so.
It hurts, and it feels good.
I gasp, my breath hitching. “Oh.”
“Does it hurt?” He sounds terribly worried.
I shake my head. “Only a tiny bit.”
“Do you want me to stop?”
I shake my head. “Please don’t stop. Just go slow.”
“I will. I’ll give you anything you need.”
As he fills me a little more, a small spark of pain shoots through my center. Even as the sliver of tension works its way inside me, I feel a bloom of pleasure too—the sensation of being filled, of him going deeper.
Of the prospect of bliss and delicious sensations radiating through my body.
“Reese, tell me if you want me to stop. Are you sure it doesn’t hurt?”
“Just take it slow. Just like you’re doing. Everything you’re doing is perfect,” I say.
“Anything for you,” he whispers. Then he lowers his face, brushes a soft kiss to my jaw, and says it again. “Anything for you, beautiful.”
From anyone else, it would feel like a line.
From another man, it would feel like a lie.
But from him, it feels all true, every word of it, every breath of it.
And like that, I relax fully. I tell myself to breathe—just breathe. I wrap my legs around him, inviting him in, and the tension slinks away, leaving only this bone-deep connection and the promise of more.
I roam my hands down his back then curl them over his ass.
Holy buns of steel.
I let out a carnal groan. “Oh my God.”
He gives me a cocky grin. “What’s that for?”
“Your ass is made of iron,” I say, squeezing it, kneading it. “It’s hard as a rock.”
He laughs. “Glad the workouts are effective.”
“Oh, they are. They definitely are,” I say, squeezing harder. Not only does he feel amazing, but this touch also lets me control the penetration. I tug him a little deeper. He slides in farther, his eyes locked on me as if making sure I’m good.
I am so good.
I am so unbelievably good with Holden Kingsley making love to me.
He fills me all the way, bottoming out. Reflexively, I draw a sharp intake of breath, but not from pain, from the intensity, the tightness. And the awareness—at last, here we are, where I want to be. I wriggle, letting myself adjust to the intrusion, to the feel of a man inside me all the way at last.
I wrap my legs around him, pulling him closer.
“How you doin’?”
I smile and nod, my arms wrapping around his neck now. “Pretty damn good,” I whisper.
He drops the softest kiss to my neck, chased by a nibble that’s somehow both sweet and possessive. It’s tender and fierce, and that’s exactly who he is and precisely why I’m falling for a man I can’t possibly be with.
Not the way I want.
Except he is all I want right now.
I want him so badly that the pleasure blots out the world beyond this room. He rocks into me, a little deeper, nice and long and slow, and do I ever enjoy it. Because that’s the point of sex. I’m learning for the first time why everybody wants this. Why people will beg, borrow, or steal for it.
And I’m learning, too, why some people wait for it, and some people don’t. Because sex like this is both worth waiting for and worth having whenever you’re ready for it.
Sparks of desire tear through me as Holden moves in me, finding a delicious and luxurious rhythm.
One thrust, two, then a long, tantalizing one as he fucks me deep like I asked for.
Bracing on his forearms, his chest almost flush with mine, he swivels his hips, going deeper. Then he glides out, nearly all the way, his cock sliding over my clit deliciously as he moves, bringing me pleasure.
So much pleasure that I’m bathing in it, an ocean of bliss.
And I will happily float here all day long on these ecstatic waves.
We bask in that pace for a bit, and the sounds too—the slide of our skin, our moans and murmurs. My name on his lips, carnal and hungry, paired with my ohs and yeses.
The sounds of our pleasure light me up, making my toes curl.
I don’t want this moment to end. But I also want that sheet-grabbing, window-shattering crush.
He seems to sense my wants, that I’m on the edge, eager to feel everything. “Play with yourself. Let me see how you got yourself off to those thoughts of me.”
“So many times,” I moan.
He nods savagely, pushing deep, making my back bow. “Same for me with you,” he confesses. “Show me, beautiful. Show me now.”
He rises up, giving me room. I slide a hand between my breasts, down my stomach, on a fast track to between my thighs.
I touch my clit, rubbing it, arching up into my own hand, as the pleasure spirals deep inside me.
His eyes are feral as he drives a little harder. And I like that. I like the possession in his touch, the heat in his voice. “My God, fucking you is incredible,” he groans.
His dirty words, rather than sweet ones, do me in. The swears are an injection of intensity up and down my spine, to my legs, to my toes.
“Yes. Do that again. Say that again.”
“You feel so fucking good,” he grunts.
And I rub harder, faster.
“I want to fuck you again and again,” he rasps out.
Ecstasy coils deep inside me from those words, filthy and beautiful.
The pleasure runs wild, gallops inside me, intense and electric, winding tight then spreading everywhere inside me and taking over every molecule.
And I
burst, shuddering as I come—thanks to him, thanks to me, thanks to both of us taking us there.
It gets even better when he pushes my right knee up higher, against my chest, giving himself more room as he pumps deeper, buries his face in my neck, and growls my name savagely as he hits his own release, grunting. “Reese, you make me come so fucking hard,” he says, his big body shaking on top of me as his climax seems to shatter him too.
When he stops shaking, I run my hands down his back, feeling the sheen of sweat on him.
Hearing the stuttering pants of his breath.
Sensing the rapid beat of his pulse.
And wanting him again.
I’m pretty sure this is exactly how sex is supposed to feel.
I know why I waited so long. In college, I was waiting for the right guy, and then I met him right at the end.
There was no need for anybody else—he is the right guy for me.
And I don’t want us to stop, even though I fear it’s inevitable that we will.
Soon.
But for now, I let the bliss carry me away.
21
Reese
His shirt falls to the top of my thighs.
He can’t stop looking at me in his clothes.
But then, I can’t stop looking at him as he sautés mushrooms, carrots, and peppers while wearing gym shorts and a gray T-shirt.
It’s a good view, the baseball player cooking, as he whips up a quick fried rice dish, adding some sesame oil.
Holden seems to enjoy the view of me too, in his T-shirt from our alma mater. He tossed it my way when I said I was hungry, and he said he’d cook for me if I didn’t get fully dressed.
Seemed like a fair deal.
Also, I’ve learned this—sex makes me ravenous.
As I lean against the counter in his clean, immaculate kitchen, my stomach rumbles again.
He rolls his eyes. “I’m working on it, woman.”
“Sorry. Not sorry. You worked up an appetite in me.”
He gives me a crooked, satisfied grin. “Good,” he murmurs as the veggies sizzle. “So. Sex. What’s your score?”
I stare at the ceiling, screwing up the corner of my lips. “What’s the scale? I need to know how I’m measuring it.”
“One to . . . Give me more of that good shit right fucking now,” he says as he turns down the heat on the pan.
“That.” I point, indicating the latter. “That’s how I rate it; that’s what I want. Well, after I eat, of course.”
He winks. “Good answer,” he says, adding some soy sauce then plating the food and setting it on the table.
He grabs forks and cloth napkins, then pulls out my chair.
“Such a gentleman,” I say.
“Except in bed,” he whispers, all low and smoky, sending a shiver down my spine.
“And I like that you’re not entirely a gentleman in bed.” I pick up my fork and dig in. I moan around the first bite like a Food Network host. “You have won the favor of my belly.”
He wiggles a brow. “So, I’m in the good graces of your pussy and your belly. Nice to know.”
I crack up. “Yes, Holden. You have won over my vagina. Aren’t you pleased?”
“As fucking punch,” he says in a sexy rumble. “But the stomach too?” He blows on his nails. “Damn, I’m good.” He takes another bite of the lunch.
“You are very, very good,” I say slowly, seductively, so the compliment sinks in.
When he’s done chewing, he leans closer, kisses my cheek, then whispers, “Thank you.”
My chest flips. “For what?”
He pulls back, sitting up straight. “Just thank you.”
I smile, dipping my head, knowing what he means. He’s thanking me for giving him the keys to my body for the first time.
Hell, I’m thanking me too.
I chose well.
Yay, me. “Let me get this straight,” I begin, loving this moment, the après sex where we can flirt and tease as if the world doesn’t exist beyond this home. “You can cook. You like your parents. You’re smart. You play word games. You’re a hard worker. And you don’t do hookups. What exactly is wrong with you?”
Of course, I know the answer—nothing. But there’s something wrong with the situation, the thing that’s hanging over our heads.
The salacious tabloid fodder we’d be.
The sheer juiciness of us is a problem for a man trying to carve out a new golden boy rep with the press. A few words here or there on social media, a spin to the left by the press, a spin to the right by the public, and we’d be the golden boy Home Run Hitter and the sweet-as-apple-pie Coach’s Daughter one day. But the next day Twitter would chew us up and spit us out with memes about Holden nailing his spot in the lineup by nailing me.
We’d be trashed.
Ugh.
Perception.
It’s a wonderful thing, and a terrible thing,
Your star can either shoot to the stratosphere or dim out based on how the public sees you on any given day. I love and hate the world I work in, but I understand it, and so this tryst between us exists in a mini vacation, a contained moment in time. When this afternoon ends, he’ll head to the ballpark, ending the spell.
But right now, behind closed doors, we’re in a cocoon of food and sex and laughter.
“You forgot on your list of pros that I’m good in bed,” he points out.
“But are you? I don’t have any benchmark,” I tease.
He narrows his eyes, his voice dipping deeper. “And I like it that way.”
“You’re a little possessive.”
“Yes. I like being your first. Call me primal. Call me possessive. Call me whatever you want. I just like it.”
“And I like it too,” I say.
After we finish eating, I help clean up, and then he tugs at the bottom of the shirt I’m wearing. “Don’t go,” he says, his tone vulnerable and commanding at the same time.
My heart pirouettes, delighted that his appetite for me is ravenous. “I do have to interview you for the podcast follow-up,” I say playfully, though I know that’s not why he wants me to stay.
“Yes, interview me, and then still don’t go.”
I laugh, feeling light and happy inside.
“Spend the rest of the day with me. Tell me you don’t have to go,” he implores.
I wrap my arms around his neck. “I don’t have to go.”
He loops his around my waist, yanks me close, and meets my eyes. “Good, because I want to fuck you, and make love to you, and spend the day with you.”
Gooseflesh rises on my skin. “You don’t have to sell me on it. With you, I’m sold,” I whisper.
A kiss is his answer.
A kiss that makes my knees wobble.
The kind of kiss I want over and over.
We break it and head to the living room, settling into the couch. Grabbing my recorder from my purse, I do a quick follow-up interview for my podcast.
It’s brief, under ten minutes, and we touch on what he’s been up to since the last time he was on my show.
I’m open and forthright, and he’s the same, a marked contrast for the “no comment” king.
When we finish, I turn off the device and tell him he is going to be a model media baseball player. “So long as you stay away from the—gasp—forbidden fruit of me,” I add in my best soap-star voice. But though I’m treating it lightly, it’s not a light situation. There is a world beyond these walls.
A world that would see this afternoon only one way.
And I’d be a fool to pretend there isn’t.
“Seems I’m oh-for-three at resisting the forbidden fruit,” he says with a crooked grin, and I wish we were only joking. I wish we weren’t truly tangoing with trouble.
His eyes drift to my recorder. “Can I take my turn interviewing you?”
“You’re into table-turning, and I’m just learning this?”
“Maybe I am,” he says.
“Then try me.�
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I sit cross-legged, fold my hands in my lap, and adopt a good-girl look. “Let’s see if you give a good interview.”
“The challenge is on.”
But he doesn’t pick up the device. Instead, he clears his throat and dives into the question pool, turning the tables on me immediately. “So, Reese, tell me the best piece of advice you’ve ever been given.”
I sit up a little straighter, answering from the heart. “My mom likes to say, ‘The answer is always no, unless you ask, so don’t be afraid to ask for what you want.’ She said that to me when I was growing up as a way to instill confidence in me.”
He arches a brow. “You’re confident? I had no idea,” he says, rolling his eyes.
I swat him. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
He smiles. “It’s an excellent thing. And it’s good insight into you, into why you’re such a go-getter. Because you are.”
“She also taught me to know my limits. And I think that’s just as important.”
His brow furrows. “Makes sense, but what does that mean to you? Why did it resonate?”
“It means something to me because it meant something to her,” I begin, careful not to tread too close to the elephant in the room—my dad. “She was a woman who learned hers. She was a woman who knew when she’d reached them,” I say, dread curling in my veins as we sway close to the reason this afternoon can only be an afternoon.
Without even saying it, we both know how today ends.
It ends without any more plans. It ends without a game plan for us.
It ends with him going to the ballpark to work for my father.
I swallow the bitterness coating my throat. “And to know myself. Like knowing that I would only go so far in volleyball. Like knowing what I want and what to expect from myself in a relationship.”
I put that out there, not afraid to tell him what I want, even if I can’t have it. “I’m a relationship gal,” I say. “And it’s good to know your limits.”
He’s quiet for a beat. Maybe I’ve touched on a spot that’s sorer than I thought.
His limits.
22
Holden
The Virgin Game Plan Page 16