Lessons in Letting Go (Study Abroad Book 3)

by Jessica Peterson

  I was never in control of how I felt about sex—before, during, after. I let the world tell me how to feel, what I should and shouldn’t do, what I should like.

  This semester, I’m determined to find out what I like. To take control of my sex life. To take control of how I feel about it.

  I want to call the shots. I also want to stop being so self-conscious about my tiny boobs and tinier nipples—seriously, they’re like the size of a pencil eraser.

  Calling the shots sounds awesome in my head. For weeks I’ve been giving myself mental fist bumps, assured in the knowledge that I shall rule the (sexual) world now that I’m single and ready to mingle.

  But here, staring down the barrel of my first encounter as this new, somewhat-sexually-empowered woman, it dawns on me that I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing. Where do I even start? I thought I had started by masturbating eleven times a day to my super hot celebrity crush, Rhys Maddox.

  Yet here I am, shivering in the penthouse suite as the real Rhys Maddox pours me a drink. I never imagined in a million years my fantasy would become reality. I am so not prepared for this.

  I am also so turned on.

  “How do you like it?”

  I start at the sound of his voice, turning to see Rhys set a gorgeous bottle of vodka on a nearby table, along with two cut crystal glasses filled with ice.

  “Like what?” I ask.

  He smirks. “Your drink, love. How do you like your drink? There’s soda in the fridge, tonic, juice…”

  For a minute I’m too stunned by the fact he called me love to even blink. His accent dipped again as he said it, curled around the word to make it lusciously casual: luv.

  Holy Jesus, it’s so hot I might fall over and stroke out right here on the plush silk carpet. It sounds so much hotter in real life than it did in my head.

  “Um.” I clear my throat. “However you take it is fine.”

  Damn it. That is not the answer my empowered self would make. But Rhys makes me too…too hot and bothered, too self-conscious, to think empowered thoughts. He’s too sexy. Confident. Overwhelming.

  Hot.

  He is unbelievably hot.

  “On the rocks?” he says, uncorking the bottle.

  “Yeah. Yeah, that’s fine.”

  My voice trembles. It’s embarrassing. I gotta get it together, stat.

  This is not my first rodeo. And this is not how I promised myself I would behave this semester.

  I want to call the shots. Right now, I’m giving Rhys all the power, just like I gave my boyfriends back home control over me. I hated how it made me feel then, and I’m going to hate how I feel tomorrow—unless I make a change.

  Unless I make my move now, and do what I want to do.

  The only thing is, what do I want to do?

  I look at Rhys, my gaze trailing down the masculine lines of his profile to land on his hands as he pours the vodka. He’s got enormous hands, blunt-edged fingers.

  Longing gathers between my legs, in my lips.

  I want to fuck Rhys Maddox, that’s what I want to do.

  “Screw the drink,” I say.

  Rhys looks up from the glasses on the table, bottle poised in midair, and furrows his brow. “Screw the drink? Laura, please tell me you’re not leaving. I’d really like you to stay.”

  “Screw the drink.” My heart pounds as I move toward him. “I want to screw you instead.”

  The lines in his forehead disappear. His blue eyes flash as he smirks a smirk so potent it knocks the breath from my lungs. My whole body pings with the awareness of his scent, the way he moves.

  Oh yeah. I definitely want to fuck this guy. Here. Now. All night, I want to claim him. Come a hundred times with him.

  “That’s awfully forward,” he says, teasing.

  “That’s what I want.”

  “You really want me to screw you?”

  “No,” I say, moving closer. “I want to screw you.”

  I’m standing in front of him now, so close our noses almost touch. Rhys isn’t much taller than me—maybe a few inches—but he somehow manages to feel overwhelmingly huge. He surrounds me, blocking out everything else, the room and the night. It’s a struggle not to fall into his eyes as they flicker with heat. Not to lose grip on what I want.

  And that is to enjoy having sex on my own terms. To let go of all my hang-ups and just have fun.

  He sets down the bottle.

  “We’ll see who screws who,” he says, his voice a low rumble.

  And then he slides his hands onto my face and looks down at me. He searches my eyes, asking for permission. His gaze is wet with heat, soft and hungry all at once.

  Like I could ever, ever say no to that gaze. That face.

  “Yes,” I say. “Please.”

  Smirking, Rhys dips his head and presses his lips to mine, opening my mouth like he owns it, sucking my bottom lip like he knows exactly what I want, curling me into the magnetic pull of his body like I am his for the taking.

  In an instant, the kiss is messy, and deep, and possessive. I’ve never been kissed like this, I’ve never been taken captive by a kiss before. His fingers are in my hair now, and he’s tilting my head, guiding me in time to his ardent caresses. He knows what he’s doing, and it’s driving me wild.

  Oh God, I think, my pulse throbbing, my mind going blank as he kisses me, and keeps kissing me, an intense, relentless kiss that gets hotter and faster and better with each frantic heartbeat, oh, fuck me, two minutes in and already I’m losing grip.

  And I don’t mind it one bit.

  Chapter 5

  Rhys

  Laura’s mouth is wet and warm and deliriously soft. I slide my tongue between her lips, begging entrance, and with a small moan she lets me in. She surrenders, her head falling back into my hands.

  I take a step closer, nudging my body against hers. Laura isn’t petite, but there’s something small, almost vulnerable about her body. I hold her closer, letting the warmth of my skin seep into hers. She’s covered in goosebumps.

  “Are those good goosebumps?” I murmur, sliding my lips to her jaw. “Or bad goosebumps?”

  Laura smiles against my mouth. “Good goosebumps. Really freaking good, Rhys.”

  My dick twitches inside my jeans, a hard, prickly rush of blood. I bite her bottom lip; she moans again; I go from half chub to full salute in two seconds flat. Laura must feel it, too, because she presses her belly against my erection. The heat and the pressure feel so fucking good I let out a growl.

  I kiss her harder. She meets me stroke for stroke, her arms twining around my neck, pulling me close. She tastes sweet, a little fruity, like that Midori she was drinking at the bar. I like the way she tastes.

  I like the way she feels even more. This girl—Christ, I needed this tonight.

  I need to escape the pressure.

  I am so fucking desperate to escape. For a little while, at least.

  What I told Olivier at training the other day—that I don’t have time for girls—is and isn’t true. My football career is (hopefully) just getting started; my current contract is puny compared to those given to the big guys. Those filthy rich bastards can make upwards of fifty million euros a season. I make way, way less than that. Way less.

  Which is still a lot, granted. Growing up as poor as I did, I recognize that I’m very well off. But by the time I pay taxes, an agent, a publicist, a manager, a financial manager, and an assistant, I don’t have nearly enough money to support my family the way I want or need to. My sponsors make up for some of that. But to make the big bucks like the big guys, I need to up my game, and start playing like a superstar. I need to focus on footy, not on a serious relationship.

  That doesn’t mean I can’t have a little fun with a girl every now and then—so long as it’s the no-strings-attached sort of fun. I’ve beat myself up for months now, my thoughts a constant refrain of you’re rubbish you’re rubbish you’re total rubbish. I’m under a lot of pressure to make my career work. Sex is
in some ways a mute button; it gets me out of my head and into my body. It allows me to live in the moment. Which is huge, considering I spend basically all my time sweating the future.

  And who better to help me live in the moment than a gorgeous, whip-smart American who laughs at my pick-up lines? Already my heartbeat is scrambling the well-worn rhythm of my thoughts, drowning out the negativity, the doubts, the fear.

  It never happens this quickly with a girl. Usually it takes me a solid chunk of time to unwind from my worries. But tonight—tonight it’s happening fast. Maybe because I’m all too eager to escape the crushing reality of where I am right now with my footy. Maybe because I’m so bloody attracted to Laura.

  Maybe it’s because I haven’t had fun, just for fun’s sake, in a long time. I had fun with Laura at the bar, and I hope to have even more fun with her, the naked kind, in the very near future. It’s Sunday night—the night after a match—the only night of the week I can let loose. I’ll never, ever be caught drinking the night before a match like my dad (that little stunt cost him his career), so I tend to be quite tame during the week. But tonight—tonight, I don’t plan on wasting a single moment.

  Laura slides her hands beneath the lapels of my blazer. I roll my shoulders back, helping her to take it off. Her palms whisper against the fabric of my shirt as she goes for the buttons. I laugh as she fumbles with the first one, and I cover her fingers with my own, guiding them as we unbutton it together.

  “Sure you’re all right, love?”

  “Yes.” She pulls back, just a little. She meets my eyes. “And. Um. No. I’ve never really hooked up with a celebrity before. The closest I ever got was my boyfriend in high school. He was the varsity lacrosse captain and was, like, this huge deal on campus. But that’s seriously small beans compared to you. You’re…you, you know? Eleven-million-Instagram-followers you.”

  I laugh again. “Wait ’til I get to twenty.”

  “Good thing I nabbed you when I did,” she says, biting her lip. Her hazel eyes, green in this light, dance. “I have a shot with Rhys Maddox the famous footballer. But I don’t have a chance in hell with Rhys Maddox the super famous footballer-slash-Instagram-god.”

  I hook my arm around her tiny waist and crush her against me, nuzzling into the inviting curve of her neck. I inhale the smell of her perfume, something floral, a little sweet. She smells fucking delicious.

  “I thought I was the one who nabbed you,” I say.

  She digs her fingers into the hair at the nape of my neck. My blood warms, tightens. “Not with those pick-up lines, you didn’t,” she says.

  “Hey. They weren’t all bad.”

  She tilts her head, spearing me with a look.

  “Fine,” I say. “They were terrible. But I did make you laugh.”

  “You did.” She smiles. “Hard.”

  Straightening, I take her face in my hand, run my thumb along her bottom lip. Her eyes darken. “You’re gorgeous when you laugh. You’re gorgeous, period. This body…” I look down, devouring the curve of her breasts. “It’s ridiculous.”

  “You’re ridiculous.” She fingers another button on my shirt. “But thank you.”

  I pull at her lips with my mine, a long, slow, lingering kiss. My body feels plugged in, lit up with the need to bury myself in her cunt that’s probably as sweet as her perfume. I glide my hand underneath her shirt, skimming the smooth skin at her hip before I grab the hem and begin drawing it up over her belly. Her head falls back and she lets out a pant when I trail my mouth over her neck, my hand making steady progress up her side. Her skin is warm and soft, silky almost, so silky it makes me fantasize about how silky and warm and soft she’ll be between her legs.

  My dick pulses, straining against the fly of my jeans. My hand reaches her breast. I finger the lacy cup of her bra, and Laura arches into my touch.

  “Rhys,” she breathes.

  “Hands up, love,” I say, nipping at her earlobe.

  Laura does as I tell her. I slip her top over her head, her long hair fanning out over her shoulders, covering her chest. I drop the shirt to the floor, ducking to kiss her, my hands roving over all this fucking skin. I circle my hands around her waist, my thumbs trailing over her bellybutton, the soft outline of her ribs. They come to rest at the waistband of her jeans, toying with the button of her fly. The throb between my legs heightens, starts to scream.

  I begin to slowly back her up, toward the bedroom, our legs tangling as she works feverishly at the remaining buttons of my shirt. With a grunt of satisfaction she tugs it over my shoulders. I untangle my arms from the sleeves, and then I pull her close again, reveling in the feel of skin against skin, bare flesh against bare flesh. I bury my hands in her hair and cover her mouth with mine, swallowing it whole. Thrusting my hips into her groin—gah, the friction, it’s killing me—I keep urging her backward. For the first time, I wish this suite wasn’t quite as big; it’s a bit of a hike from the living area to the bedroom, and I am bloody impatient to get this girl naked and get her in my bed.

  Laura places her palms against my chest, like she’s overwhelmed, like she’s trying to shield herself from my onslaught. I hesitate, pull back. But then she’s slowly moving those palms lower, exploring as she goes. She digs her fingertips into the ridges of my abs and teases her pinkies along the hard angles of my hips, dipping a questioning finger into the waistband of my jeans. I jump; she grins, making this perfect, throaty-grin-sound as her eyes flick to meet mine.

  “I mean, seriously,” she says, coming back to my abs. “This—these muscles—they’re ridiculous. Who are you?”

  “I’m a bloke about to go mad if I don’t get you naked in the next fifteen seconds.”

  “Dude. Ditto.” She pops open the button on my fly.

  I reach around, pop open the hook on her bra.

  “Whoa!” she says, clapping an arm across her chest in an attempt to catch her bra. She only half-succeeds, her bra dangling from underneath her forearm.

  I hold up my hands. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

  Laura swallows and shakes her head, blond waves falling across her chest. “No. No, I just—um…”

  “Listen, Laura, if you don’t want to…you know. We don’t have to—”

  “No,” she says, more firmly this time. She closes her eyes, squares her shoulders. Still holding her arm across her chest, she looks up at me and hooks her finger back into my pants, working the zipper down one centimeter at a time as she slowly begins to back into the bedroom. “I want this. I want you, before you get those twenty million followers and become completely unattainable. I gotta strike while the iron is hot.”

  “Oh, this iron’s hot, all right.”

  She rolls her eyes, playfully. “You and the lines.”

  “They keep getting worse, don’t they?”

  “They really do.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” Laura smiles. The gathering, stretching heat low in my belly throbs.

  We cross the threshold into the bedroom at the same moment my jeans slip from my hips. I pluck at Laura’s lips as I shimmy them to my knees. I toe out of my sneakers and kick off my jeans, leaving them at the door. It feels so good to press the head of my dick against her belly, separated from her skin by just the flimsy jersey of my boxer briefs, that I suck in a breath.

  “Christ, Laura,” I say. I tug down the zipper of her jeans, kissing her hard. Kissing her like I mean it, drinking her in, running my tongue along the slick, hot inseam of her willing mouth.

  I slip my hand into her open fly, her lacy underwear warm against my palm as I cup her sex. I roll my hips, impatient, as I finger aside that maddeningly tiny underwear. My finger parts her folds and meets with—fuck, oh, God, yes—the center of her wet, swollen pussy.

  It’s Laura’s turn to suck in a breath. I pull back from her mouth, and watch her eyes get hazy and dark as I press that questioning finger into her wet heat. She clenches around my finger, and for a second I think I’ll blow my load.
She’s small and tight and so wet my hand is already drenched.

  I close my eyes and blow a breath through my nose. I’m going to devour this girl.

  “Am I—is it—all right?” Laura stutters.

  I open my eyes and look at her. Her face is flushed; her eyes glitter, her lips swollen and very pink.

  I dip my head, nose her throat, her jaw. I trail my finger up the length of her slit, pressing my fingertip to her clit. She cries out.

  “All right?” I murmur against her skin. “Love, you’re fucking gorgeous.”

  I slide my other hand to her hip and begin to guide her further into the room.

  “Wait,” she breathes, pulling back. Her eyes flick to the door. “Hit the lights.”

  My eyes land on her chest; she’s still clutching her bra, covering her breasts. I don’t get why she’d be self-conscious about her body; I feel like I’ve told her ten times tonight how beautiful she is.

  “What if I want to see you?” I say. “All of you. I hate having sex in the dark.”

  Laura ducks out of my grasp, my hand falling from between her legs, and a second later the lights overhead go out, followed by the lamps on either side of the bed. It’s dark; the only light comes from faint glow of the city outside the windows at the far end of the room.

  “I don’t think you’ll hate having sex with me,” she says, turning back to me. “Even in the dark.”

  I grab her—I don’t know how, I can’t see shit, it must be instinct—but I grab her and pull her to me. Desire flashes like lightning, white-hot and loud, between our bodies. It’s almost elemental, the attraction that my body feels for hers. We may only have known each other for a few hours, but the chemistry we have is insane, instinctual.

  I am going to devour this girl.

  I wrap my fingers around her arm. The faint, salty scent of her arousal fills the small space between us. “Drop it,” I say, nodding at her bra. “If I can’t see all of you, then I’m going to feel you. Every inch of this fucking incredible body of yours, I want to feel it.”