Luke

by Sabrina Paige

  asks, with a laugh. "Because, uh, the answer is obviously, fuck no, I don't want to get dressed."

  The way he says it, like it’s self-evident, takes me by surprise and I stare at him. "Oh."

  "Yeah, oh," he says, crossing the space between us and reaching underneath my chin to tilt my head up to look at him. "Did you really think you were getting rid of me that easily?"

  "I didn’t –“ The truth is, I hadn't thought about him staying. I hadn’t pegged him as the kind of guy who’d be interested in staying. I hadn’t thought through much of this at all.

  “You know,” he says, cupping my jaw in his hand and running his thumb over my bottom lip, “That’s the thing about younger men…”

  My lips part, almost of their own accord, and I resist the urge to take his thumb in my mouth, the same way I took his cock in my mouth earlier. "What's that?"

  "We can keep going. It's a perk," he says. "I'm not exactly done with you yet."

  "Oh," I say stupidly. Apparently, that's another thing about a younger man. They leave you so drunk with lust that your IQ drops by half.

  "Oh," he says. "I don't think I'm going to get tired of hearing that come out of your mouth." He bends down, slides his hand behind my knees, and just like that I'm swept off my feet. Literally.

  He carries me upstairs without another word and deposits me firmly on the bed. When I slide my hands protectively over my stomach, embarrassed to be under his gaze, he moves them.

  "Don’t do that," he says. "Don't cover yourself up. There's no reason for it."

  "I have lots of reasons," I say. Like the fact that the man who is currently throwing one leg over me, straddling me, has abs that are so perfect, they look airbrushed on. Coupled with an ass that's hard as a rock. And if he has an extra ounce of fat anywhere on his body, I'm not sure I can tell.

  "Such as? Let's hear those reasons," he says, glancing down meaningfully at his erection. Because obviously, I have zero problems with your body."

  "I have mom tummy going on," I say.

  "Oh, yeah?" he asks. "Move your hands."

  "No."

  "Move your hands, Red," he says. "Right now."

  When I move them, he takes the edges of my shirt and slides it over my head, and then looks at me carefully, his eyes running over me.

  "Happy now?" I ask, my voice trembling. I feel more vulnerable than I have in ages. It's one thing to lose my inhibitions in the kitchen, but it's different now, lying here in my bed with him.

  "I'm not sure," he says, pursing his lips. He cocks his head to the side. "I need to have a closer look."

  He slides down, hovering just above my abdomen, applying kisses to my stomach, across the middle, the place where no amount of exercise seems to touch. "This part is definitely sexy," he whispers, pressing his hardness against my leg for added effect.

  "You're just saying that because you want to get laid," I say.

  "I definitely want to get laid," he says, running his finger along my stomach, tracing the stretch marks that line the sides of my abdomen, the aftereffects of my pregnancy with Olivia, and it makes me cringe.

  "Stop," I say softly.

  "You're uncomfortable."

  "Of course I am."

  "Why?" he asks.

  I laugh. "You wouldn't understand," I say. "You're perfect. There's nothing wrong with you."

  "Nothing wrong with me," he says. Now it's his turn to laugh. "You're delusional."

  "There isn't. Well, mental issues aside," I say, giggling when he narrows his eyes at me. "Physically, you're, like, completely perfect."

  He rolls his eyes. "So you don't think this shit is kind of awesome?" he asks, running his finger along a stretch mark.

  "Seriously, it's a total turn off," I say. "Please stop."

  The expression on his face shifts, and he looks at me, genuinely puzzled. “Are women really bothered by those?"

  "Are you seriously asking me that question?"

  "They're fucking cool," he says. "Do you not get that?"

  I laugh, the sound bitter. "No. I do not get that."

  He slides his hand down over my abdomen, then farther, between my legs. My body immediately responds to him, shutting down the objections I have and rendering me mute. "They're like scars," he says.

  "Oh yeah, cause everyone knows scars are fucking sexy."

  Luke sits up abruptly, turning around so that his back is to me. "See that?" he asks.

  All I can see is his back, a mass of rippling muscles that I can't help but run my hand over, my fingertips tracing a little path across him. "What am I supposed to be looking at here?"

  "I have my own scars," he says.

  Then I notice it, the scar that runs along his back, at least six inches long. It's faded, barely noticeable to the eye, but I trace the length with my finger. "What happened?" I ask.

  "It's an old scar," he says. "From a belt."

  His words hit me with all of the impact of a freight train, and I feel like a complete tool, griping about my stupid stretch marks. "I -- I'm sorry."

  Luke shrugs. "I wasn't showing you to get your sympathy," he says. "It happened a long time ago. Water under the fucking bridge and all that. I'm just saying -- we all have scars. Some are on the inside; some are on the outside. Those are a part of who you are, your life story – and part of Olivia's life story. So I think they're pretty fucking cool."

  I swallow hard, struck by the weight of his words. "You're pretty wise for –"

  He laughs. "For a jock?"

  "That's not what I was going to say." I was going to say for a twenty-four-year-old, which is just as bad. And I guess that's his point. I study his face carefully, the way his jawline is set, his expression serious, and I wonder for a moment if I've underestimated him.

  His fingers return to my abdomen, tracing along my stretch marks, and this time I don't stop him. He moves lower, lingering a moment, teasing me before he lightly touches his fingertips to my clit.

  "Are you going to tell me where you got yours?" I ask, my voice soft.

  "No," he says, bringing his mouth down on mine.

  "No?" I ask, when our lips finally part.

  "No." His fingers circle my clit, over and over. "Because right now I'm going to fuck you, Red. I'm going to slide my cock inside your pussy, and I'm going to fuck you, nice and slow, until you're begging me to let you come. And then, when you finally come -- when I finally let you come -- I'm going to do it again. Because I have a feeling you need to make up for lost time. Am I right?"

  Do I need to make up for lost time?

  It's been two years since a man has touched me. Only two years of time lost. Except...it's been a lifetime since anyone has touched me the way Luke touches me.

  "Well?" he asks.

  "Yes." I choke out the word as he slides his finger between my legs, slipping inside me, easily aided by my wetness. "Yes."

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Autumn

  Luke is as good as his word. He fucks me, this time slow -- his movements so excruciatingly drawn out that I think I'm going to die in some kind of pleasure-induced stroke as he moves inside me. He fucks me long and slow, holding himself above me with one hand as his other hand roams my body, up my arm, over my breasts, his fingers tangled in my hair as he kisses me. When his hands finally settle in one place, his fingers are interlaced with mine, hands above my head as he drives into me, fucking me with a gentle rhythm that's so natural, so effortless, that it feels as if we've been doing this forever.

  Luke brings me higher and higher until the only thing I'm aware of anymore is how I feel. Every part of my body feels wired, on edge.

  "Tell me how it feels," he whispers, as the head of his cock presses against me in just the right spot, the place that sends pulses of arousal through my body, all the way down to my fingertips.

  "Oh, God, Luke," I moan. How do I tell him that this is unlike anything I've ever felt?

  "Fucking you is amazing," he says. "You fit me like you're fucking m
ade for me."

  His words send a rush of arousal between my legs. "Your cock..."

  "Say it. Tell me how much you like my cock."

  "I love your cock," I say, my words more of a moan than actual words. I want all of him inside me. I want him deeply, and entirely, and completely, and I don't want to let him go.

  "I love hearing that come out of your mouth," he says.

  "I love your cock." I repeat it, the words liberating. I've never talked like this during sex, never said much of anything in fact. Until now, I've been quiet. And now, I somehow find my voice.

  He speaks to me, whispers how much he loves my pussy, bringing me to the edge and then denying me, telling me I can't crash over, that I won't come until he lets me come. And I don’t. I hold off, waiting for him, losing myself in the rhythm with him until it becomes so unbearable that I'm whining, begging him to let me come, telling him how much I need.

  I need so much, I tell him. I need him.

  Then he tells me to come -- no, orders me to come. And when I do, it’s blinding light, an orgasm that seems to wash over my entire body, overtakes my entire self, and sweeps me away. I hear him calling my name, whispering my name over and over as he comes inside me, and I'm clinging to him, my nails digging into his back, clawing at him wildly as I ride wave after wave of pleasure so intense I think I'm on the verge of tears.

  Afterward, I lie with my forehead forward against his chest, trying to catch my breath as I come down. We lie there like that, with him inside me, neither of us speaking. The room is still, completely quiet except for our breathing.

  "That was..." I start, and then stop. I don't have words for it.

  "Pretty fucking awesome," he says.

  "Yeah."

  We lay there silently for a few minutes before Olivia's high-pitched squeal reverberates through the stillness in the house. "Shit," I say.

  He jumps up, and off the bed, and I'm scrambling to throw on a robe, my heart racing. "We didn't wake her up, did we?" he asks.

  "No, we were quiet," I say. "She just wakes up sometimes."

  "You sure?" he asks, a pained expression on his face.

  "Positive." I'm dressed and out the door before I can decide whether the pained look is because he's suddenly remembered that I have a child.

  It's a few minutes before I calm Olivia down and get her into her crib, sleeping peacefully as if she never woke at all. Luke is downstairs, his clothes and shoes on, and the realization hits me. He’s slinking out of here.

  I stand there, looking at him warily.

  "I'm totally not leaving," he says awkwardly, holding up his hand. "I’m just getting Lucy back in here. I let her out a few minutes ago, and she’s out chasing something, I’m sure.”

  I laugh, wondering why the hell I feel relieved. "You mean you weren't sneaking out of here?"

  Luke laughs. "Shit. No. Is that what you think?"

  I look at him, one eyebrow raised. "Isn't that what you do?"

  He stands straighter, practically bristling as he looks at me. "You don't know that."

  "Says the guy who has girls blowing up his phone with angry texts?"

  “Touché,” he says. “Anyway, I’m not leaving. So stop assuming the worst.”

  “Who said you leaving was the worst case scenario?” I ask, my voice light.

  A slow smile spreads across Luke’s face. “Don’t pretend like you don’t fucking want me, woman.” He reaches for me, but I dodge his grasp as he laughs, breezing past me toward the front door. “I’m going to go chase down my dog, but when I get back, you’re going to pay for your smart ass.”

  When he returns, I’m in the bathroom, brushing my teeth, and he walks up behind me, sliding cold hands around my waist that make me squeal. “You’re freezing,” I whisper. “Maybe I don’t want you in my bed.”

  “I’ll keep you warm, Red,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows. I can see his reflection in the mirror above the sink, and it makes me laugh. “Unless you’re giving me the boot. Hit it and quit it?”

  I turn around to face him, my ass pressed up against the bathroom counter, and he flicks open my robe with his finger. He looks down at me, and heat rushes between my legs, despite the fact that I just had him. “Isn’t that what we said?” I ask. “We’re friends.”

  "That's what you said." Luke trails his finger up the inside of my thigh, one light stroke. "I never said such a thing."

  “You said you didn’t have women friends,” I say, my voice breaking as he moves his fingers up higher, between my legs.

  “This is a case in point,” he says, pressing his fingertip firmly against my clit.

  “We’re totally friends.”

  "Uh-huh," he says. Never breaking eye contact, he slides two fingers inside me, and my breath catches in my throat. "I don't know about you, but I don't do what the hell I just did with you, with any of my friends."

  “Mhmm.” I have no response, not when he’s touching me like that.

  "Get in the shower," he says, sliding his hand from between my legs. "Friend."

  I laugh. "I hope you don’t shower with your friends."

  “Well, I did play football,” he says, pressing me against the shower wall as soon as I step inside. “But none of those guys were nearly as hot as you are naked.”

  “I hope not,” I say before his mouth covers mine. His hand slides along my naked body, slick with water, and I lose myself in his touch. He spins me around, washing my body slowly, with a more careful touch than I’d expect.

  I protest when he insists on washing my hair, but he pulls me tight against his wet body, his hardness pressed against my lower back, arm over my chest, kissing my ear until I’m barely able to think, let alone tell him no. "Let me take care of you," he says, and I lean back against him, my eyes closing as he washes my hair.

  He washes my freaking hair.

  Slowly and...erotically. I had no idea hair washing could in any way be sexy at all, but I swear Luke has a way of making everything pretty much the hottest thing ever. He massages my head until I’m moaning at his touch, as the shower water runs over my body, taunting me, reminding me of the emptiness between my legs.

  "Is this good?" he asks.

  "Mhmm, good," I say, my words barely intelligible.

  He chuckles, his mouth close to my ear. The sound of his laughter is warm. "Good," he says.

  "So is this a younger guy thing?" I ask, goose bumps running up my back as he massages my neck, his hands moving down lower across my shoulders.

  "Is what a younger guy thing?" he asks.

  "Mmm, I don't know," I say, my voice soft. "All of this. The sex, the hair-washing. The whole thinking-I'm-hot thing.”

  He doesn’t speak yet. Instead, he slides one arm around me, holding me against him while he reaches around between my legs, finding my clit. His erection presses firmly against me, and the throbbing between my legs begs for his attention. "I hope not," he says finally. "Isn't that what...men your age...do?"

  I choke out a laugh, partly at what he says and partly at his hesitating choice of words. Men my age. "Uh...no," I say. "Not exactly."

  He rubs my clit in circles, sending a thrill of arousal ricocheting through my body. "Sweetheart, that's a damn shame," he says. "And I do mean that."

  Then he's kissing me, down my neck and my shoulders. I’m dizzy, drunk with lust and fatigue. "Condom," he whispers. "Shit. Hang on."