Yours

by Jasinda Wilder

  And you bet I'd be up for the dare. I'd reach out, tug the jeans down. He'd step out of them, kick them aside. Nothing but his underwear. Big bulge begging for my touch. I imagine my own hands reaching out, slipping under the elastic, finding hot thick warmth. He'd moan a little, maybe shift his hips in a silent plea for me to touch him more. Shit, yeah, touch him more. Slide my fist down around him.

  My fingers--in real life, in the sad reality of me alone in my room, lying on my bed fully clothed, my cat watching--slip under my panties, down to my core.

  I imagine Lock with that underwear gone. Standing naked in front of me, his beautiful erection in my hand, and his eyes on me, desperate, pleading. He's at my mercy. He wants this.

  But instead of giving him what he wants, I make him give me what I want, first. I'd guide his fingers to my aching core. He'd unburden me of my clothes, slowly, his gaze devouring me every step of the way. Maybe pepper me with kisses while he undresses me. And when I'm naked, he'd feather his fingers against me. But that's not what I want. If I wanted fingers, I'd use my own. I'm doing that now, in fact, touching myself, edging closer and closer to climax. But in the fantasy, I want more than his fingers. I reach up, put my hands on his shoulders, and push him down to his knees.

  Worship me with your mouth, I'd tell him. Like in that book I just read.

  And he would.

  He'd have a nimble, expert tongue. Maybe use those thick fingers, too.

  Tongue and fingers, faster and faster. Warm, wet, strong, skillful. Plying me higher and higher, taking me there without hurrying.

  I'm totally gone for the fantasy. I can picture it, picture that thick blond mane of his between my thighs, can almost feel his fingers inside me instead of my own, can almost feel his tongue sliding against my clit.

  Just like that--shit. Yeah. Yeah.

  Oh god.

  I hear a noise, somewhere, but I assume it must be the cat. I don't care.

  I'm there, my hips bucking up off the bed, lightning zinging through me.

  "Lock!" I cry out his name, because in my fantasy it's him giving me this orgasm, my first in well over a year.

  "Niall, I--oh, holy fuck." I hear his voice.

  My eyes fly open, and there he is.

  In reality.

  In my room.

  Watching me get myself off. He for sure heard me call out his name. Watched me come thinking about him.

  Fuck it: I stare him down, and finish myself off, finger the last few surges of fluttering heat out of myself while holding eye contact with him.

  "Jesus." He rubs his face with both hands.

  "What are you doing in my house, Lock?" I withdraw my hand, but don't tie my pants.

  I don't sit up. I leave them loose and open and shoved down around my hips. My panties show, black briefs, nothing special or especially sexy. But his eyes go to them. My shirt has ridden up, baring my belly, a hint of purple bra.

  Unconsciously, he adjusts himself--his erection.

  "I--I couldn't just run away like that. Leave you thinking I didn't want--" He scrapes his hand through his hair, fist flexing, takes a step toward me. "It wasn't you. I wanted to explain. I knocked, I waited. I was worried about you."

  "You spend a lot of time barging into the homes of single women you barely know?"

  "No...I--no. I'm sorry." His gaze, though, isn't sorry. It's blazing with potency. Churning brine, storm-tossed waves. Eyes like the angry sea. "You called my name."

  "You left me all worked up."

  "I left myself all worked up." He's another step closer.

  Chest heaving, eyes narrowed, brows drawn, jaw flexing, fists clenched. Scary, huge, primal masculinity embodied. Hair loose and wild, black T-shirt tight around brawny muscles. God, I can't get my fantasy-Lock out of my head.

  I sit up, on the edge of the bed. "Why'd you run, Lock?"

  "We shouldn't--" He's right here, now. Inches away.

  My knees part, and his hips fit between them. I have to look straight up to find his eyes.

  "Shouldn't what?" I ask, whispering for some reason.

  "Do this." He's murmuring too, as if to speak too loud will ruin everything.

  "Do what?" I'm not whispering, now, but breathless. Unable to speak any louder.

  "This." He leans into me, presses me backward to the bed. He's on top of me.

  God, this is even hotter than my fantasy. This kiss isn't desperate or soft, isn't hesitant or crazed. It's intentional. It's a promise. It's a kiss that tells me he knows how to kiss; he knows how to make me wild with just his tongue and lips. And god, does he ever. His tongue flicks and flits and teases, touches my lips, my teeth, my tongue. He breaks away, brushes a lock of hair out of the way.

  "Really shouldn't do this, either." He curls the fingers of his right hand under the elastic of my panties and drags them down, my pants with them.

  And just like that, I'm naked from the waist down.

  "Or this." He shoves my shirt up. Tugs the underwire of my bra up and away to bare my breasts.

  He kisses my lips, once, briefly. And then he's descending.

  "Most definitely shouldn't do this to you." Kisses my breast, suckles my nipple into his mouth.

  "Why--oh fuck--" I arch my hips off the bed as his fingers find my opening and slide in, one finger, a slick slide in and out, and then he adds a second, while his mouth pays lavish, ravenous attention to my breasts. "Why...why not?"

  "Because there's so much you don't know about me." He says this, and then returns his mouth to my nipple.

  "Would it--oh, oh, oh Jesus Christ...LOCK!" I'm right there, on the edge within seconds. And this edge? If the orgasm that I gave myself was me falling off a cliff, this, what Lock is giving me, it's me about to fall off the edge of the very world. "Would it change how much I want this with you?"

  "It'd change things."

  "Not what I asked."

  He returns his mouth to mine, and now the kiss we share is hot and deep and slow. Intimate. Meant to go on and on and on. "I don't know."

  "It would change--everything I don't--oh god, oh my god--everything I don't know about you?" I'm writhing under his touch, hips bucking, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

  "Yes."

  "Which means if you shouldn't be doing this to me--" I have to stop, have to suck in a breath, and focus on holding out, waiting, putting off the climax, so I can savor this, soak this up, memorize every sensation of what Lock is doing to me, the gift he's giving me.

  I don't think he understands what he's giving me, what it means to me, how alive and how beautiful I feel, or how dead and lifeless and unbeautiful I felt until he came along. He doesn't have to understand. I don't care if he doesn't get it. I just need this. I don't care about anything but finally feeling. And, god, what feelings. He's every bit as good as I thought he'd be, and more.

  And he's not even naked. Yet.

  "Then I shouldn't--I really shouldn't--do this." I rip open the snap of his jeans, drag down the zipper.

  I shove my hand between cotton and flesh. Reach down; grip a greedy, needy fistful of Lock. And god, there's so much to grip. My fingers don't meet, can't fully encircle him. I whimper as I get my hand around him. Groan in delight as I stroke him top to bottom.

  "No..." he chokes out. "You really shouldn't."

  "But I'm going to anyway." I use a moment--knowing this time together is limited, each second ticking away is one closer to when, according to him, everything is going to change--to jerk his pants down, use my feet to shove them to his ankles.

  He kicks off his shoes and steps out of his pants, and then, just like in my fantasy, peels his shirt off. Exactly how I pictured. Leans back, crosses his arms in front of his body and yanks the shirt off. And fuck, he's even sexier than in my fantasy. Miles of muscle, lean, hard, bulging muscle. Corded forearms, thick biceps, razor-cut, grooved, ridged abs, that yummy V-cut I want to lick. He looks like a warrior from bygone eras, even has scars on his torso and arms. Fairly recent scars on his chest
, near his heart. Surgery scars.

  I don't spend too long on that. Doesn't matter.

  All that matters is that I've got him in my hand again, and he's kissing me, fingers moving in me, against my clit. I ache. Throb. I'm volatile. I take my time touching him, exploring him. Cup, curl, stroke, rub my thumb across the tip. God, I missed this. I need this so bad. I know I'll have a world of emotions to deal with later, probably including regret or remorse or guilt or shame. But right now, all I know is the power of the present. How beautiful this feels. How beautiful and desired I feel. His eyes are all over me. His mouth is all over me. His hands, his fingers. He can't stop. He knows he should, for whatever reasons he has that are so clearly eating away at him. But he can't.

  And I like that he can't. I don't want him to be able to stop. It means he's as drunk on me as I am on him. It means I've still got something that can entice a man, when I thought I'd lost it. I'd barely subsisted for so long, dragging through each day, just existing, not feeling. Certainly not feeling like a woman who could ever be the subject of a man's desire again, let alone feel that desire for a man within myself.

  I thought I'd died too, that day on the freeway.

  But I didn't.

  I feel Lock's hands lift me up, feel him unclasp my bra. Impatiently, I jerk my shirt off, tossing my bra with it. And being naked with Lock isn't weird, or awkward, or embarrassing. He's raking his gaze over me, devouring me, exactly as I'd fantasized.

  "Niall, Jesus." He smooths a palm down my side, cups my hip. Nudges his knees between my thighs, towers above me. "You are..." He doesn't seem capable of finishing.

  "What, Lock?" I stroke him. Touch his abs, rub my palm over his pectoral muscles, over his biceps, down to his waist, to the taut, hard, cool bubble of his ass. "What am I?"

  "Fucking gorgeous." His palms are so rough, like sandpaper. It should hurt when he grips my breasts, but it doesn't. The rasp of his callused hands across my soft, sensitive skin is delicious, makes me tingle all over, makes me shiver. "The most beautiful thing I've ever seen. And I've seen some of the most beautiful things there are to see in this world."

  My throat catches, a thick hot knot in my throat. "Don't stop there. You don't know how much I need to hear this. Especially if you mean it."

  He laughs, white teeth flashing. "I mean it, Niall." His expression sobers. "But the truth is, we really--"

  "I know," I say, cutting him off. "And I don't care. Whatever it is, don't tell me. Not yet. Just...just let me have this, okay? Please? I want this. I want you. Yeah, we just met, so we know basically nothing about each other. I don't care. Yeah, you're this drifter, and you're going to move on. Okay, fine. Just let me have this moment.

  "I need it, Lock, I need it so fucking bad, and I'm not going to apologize for that, or for how desperate I know I must seem--I am desperate. And sure, maybe you have some earth-shaking thing to share with me. Maybe I'll hate you and never speak to you again, although I can't fathom what you could possibly have to tell me that could make me feel that way. I don't care. Not yet, not now. I will, probably. But right now, I just...I want to have sex with you. I want you to shut me up with a kiss, and not stop. I want you make me feel things I've not felt in--so long. Too long. And if you're gone in the morning--"

  His mouth crashes against mine, shutting me up, as requested, with a kiss. His hands are all over me, roaming over my breasts, my hips, my face, my thighs. Delving in between my thighs, touching me there, bringing the wild heat back.

  He dusts kisses down my jaw, on my throat, between my breasts. "I won't be gone in the morning," he says. "And I reserve the right to say I told you so, later."

  I bury my fingers in his hair, let my knees fall apart, and hold on to his head as he settles between my legs, lips touching delicately to the insides of my thighs. Inward. Closer. And then, fuck yes, his tongue and lips are there where I want them, and it's infinitely better than I could ever have fantasized. He's so much more skillful at this than I ever thought possible. He's edging me, using his fingers now too, bringing me to the cusp of coming and then backing me off, bringing me closer yet, and then back, closer, and back. Again and again until I'm vicious with the need to let go.

  "Enough, Lock," I gasp. "Let me have it."

  He rumbles a laugh, and then does as I ask. Does this thing with his fingers and something else with his tongue, reaches up and tweaks my nipple, and then I'm screaming his name and thrashing and everything is white and hot and I'm dizzy and detonating, hips driving up off the bed, a live wire searing inside me.

  He doesn't stop when I climax, though. He keeps going until I'm limp and then keeps going until I come again, harder, and then I feel him move up over me. I feel him on me. Feel his weight.

  His beard tickles, and then he's kissing me.

  And I feel him nudge against me. Hard, thick, hot, soft. I reach between us, grip him. Stroke him and stroke him. Devour his kiss and lift my hips and slide him into me.

  It feels so good I cry. Sob into his kiss, knot my fingers in his thick hair so he can't stop kissing me, and lock my heels around the backs of his thighs so he can't stop, so he can't get away.

  He moves.

  And it's heaven.

  I bite his shoulder and claw my fingers down his spine and bury my nails in his butt cheeks, pulling him against me. I don't know this version of me. I'm a beast, thoughtless, feral, full of raging need for this, more of this, all of this. I hear myself making...noises. Desperate, erotic, wild noises. Loud shrieks, hoarse cries.

  The way he moves, slow, deliberate, makes me even crazier because I need it harder. So then he gives it to me like that, hard and fast. But then he slows down again, fluttering soft and sweet and shallow. When I mewl in frustration, he pushes deep and increases the tempo.

  Mastery. God, such mastery. He knows exactly what I want, exactly what I need, and he refuses to give it to me until I'm ready to vocally beg for it. He plays me like I'm an instrument, plucking the strings of my needs and desires. Mouth moving over my flesh, sucking, kissing, laving his tongue over and over and over.

  Worshipping me.

  I move with him, give in to his mastery, go where he goes, take what he gives. He feels me tense, feels me clench, hears my breath go short and ragged, and he moves faster and faster until I'm riding the edge, and now I'm falling over again, falling this time off the edge of the entire galaxy into the nova-hot epicenter of an orgasm so intense it steals my breath, my sense, any hold on any restraint I might have left.

  I feel his motions stutter, feel his biceps flex. Feel his abs tighten.

  "Niall, Jesus, I can't--I have to--fuck, I'm so close." He gasps this against my ear.

  He pulls out, and I take hold of him with both hands and smear our mixed essences all over him and stroke him hard and fast and relentless until he growls like a lion, grunts, hips spasming, pushing his erection into my hand, his entire body going rigid, his face pressed between my breasts, breath coming in groans. I pump him hard and fast, feel him come, feel him unleash, feel it splash wet on my stomach, laying a hot wet line up to my diaphragm.

  And then I give him what he gave me, soft slow endless touches until he softens in my hands.

  Spent, Lock flops to his back beside me.

  And immediately, grabs me, hauls me against his left side.

  I move closer, throw my thigh intimately over his thigh. Hand on his belly. Not caring of the mess I'm making of both of us. I press my cheek to his chest, my ear over his heartbeat.

  And now comes the fraught emotions.

  It's the heartbeat in his chest that does it. Beating hard and fast, loud under my ear, slowing to a steady, rhythmic thump that is so familiar, so beautiful in its familiarity. This place, being held, cuddled in the shelter of a strong man's arms...is its own gorgeous brand of intoxicating. As much so as sex itself.

  I look up at Lock, and I realize he's feeling his own maelstrom of emotions. And judging by the expression on his face, he's waging a war of some kind.


  Losing, too, I think.

  And, selfishly, I choose to wait. Choose to enjoy this for as long as I can.

  Thump-thump...thump-thump...thump-thump...

  Go all in just to lose again

  She's asleep. Sheets bunched just beneath her perfect, heart-shaped ass, lying on her side, one hand under her chin, the other thrown behind her. Curls springing awry, exploding everywhere, a bomb of brown ringlets. Long, thick black lashes dark against her cheeks. Innocent. Relaxed.

  Perfect.

  And my heart is hammering out of my chest, my gut is twisting. Guilt is a razor-sharp blade corkscrewing through me.

  Confusion has my heart in a vise.

  Panic is a serpent injecting poison into my veins.

  And beneath all this is a complete and utter lack of regret for what we just did. Because that was...

  I can't even articulate in my own mind what just happened. What it did to me.

  My entire soul has been rocked off its axis.

  I don't know which way is up. I'm not a crier. I'm not a pull my hair out, pacing back and forth type. I'm not a pensive, brooding sort.

  Because I've never invested in anything, or in anyone. I've never let anyone mean anything to me.

  I've known Niall for two fucking days, and what just happened, it was...

  ...I don't have any goddamn words for it.

  It's just too much, too intense.

  I am motherfucking terrified.

  I have to get up. I have to move. I can't breathe in the same room with that woman, even if she is asleep.

  And not just because she's so incredibly, indelibly beautiful I am compelled by some inexorable force to just stare at her when I'm near her. Not just because she's so sharp, so smart, so sweet. So eager. Jesus, not just eager, but fucking ravenous. She was a tiger, insatiable, literally snarling like an animal as she came apart beneath me. And I want that, I want to make her do that over and over and over, infinitely.

  That, right there, is why I'm terrified.

  That word, that concept: infinitely.