I trace a finger over the tattooed clouds that cover the rounded bulge of his right shoulder, the looping script that trails along the inside of his bicep. I stop at the tattoo just above his elbow—another heart, this one with mum written in the center.
“This one’s my favorite,” I say.
Rhys looks down. “Mine too.”
I move my hand to his torso, tucking my pinkie and fourth finger into the thick black waistband of his underwear that rides above his jeans. The muscles here are flat and hard as rock, thick, sinewy veins snaking across his taut skin. My pinkie slips into Rhys’s “porkchop”— that’s what I call the delicious slice of bone and muscle just above his hip—and his whole body tenses, the muscles hardening beneath my touch.
He is so freaking perfect. This body, these muscles, his skin—there’s not a single flaw to be found.
I, in comparison, fall far short in the area of physical perfection. Especially now that I’m eating real people food. You know, things other than nuts and lettuce. Carby things.
I swallow. Close my eyes. Steel myself against the doubt that worms its way through me. What would Monica Cruz do?
Monica would say it’s time to fucking come already.
She’d say that I have nothing to lose.
I open my eyes and meet Rhys’s.
“Take off my shirt,” I say, my voice trembling.
He smiles. “I’ll get the light.”
“No,” I say. It comes out more sharply than I mean it to. I close my eyes again and shake my head. “I want—I want to do this with the light on.”
Rhys is quiet for a beat, then another.
“You’re gorgeous, Laura. I’m glad you don’t want to hide in the dark anymore.”
“Trust me,” I say, “I still want to hide.”
“But?”
But I have nothing to lose, I say to myself.
“But I’m trying to be brave,” I say to him.
If my heart was racing before, it’s taken off at a sprint now.
“I like this brave new Laura,” Rhys says. “Hold up your arms.”
I do as he tells me. I sense him moving closer, the clean, warm scent of his skin surrounding me. And then he’s pulling my shirt over my head and it falls to the floor with an almost silent whoosh.
He sucks in a breath.
“What next?”
“Um. Uh. My bra, I guess—take that off, too.”
His gentle touch sends a wave of longing through my body as he reaches around and unhooks my bra. With my eyes still closed, I begin to unbutton my jeans. I so badly want to do the opposite, to put my clothes back on, put the focus back on Rhys and his ridiculous footballer bod. It’d be easy, and quick, and I wouldn’t have to face this horrible fear that I’m ugly or undesirable.
That I’m unlovable, because I’m not perfect anymore. I’m just me. Or trying to be, anyway.
But just when my fingers hesitate on my zipper, Rhys is covering my hand with his and tugging that zipper all the way down.
“Don’t stop,” he murmurs, cupping my bare breast with his free hand. “You’re doing very well, love.”
My nipple hardens against his palm. My breath stalls in my throat. I am hugely nervous, hugely aroused, too. I try to focus on the feeling of his hands on me instead of what he might be thinking about my half-handful boobs.
“Off,” I stammer. “Take my—it, my jeans—take it all off, please.”
My eyes are still closed, but I can tell by the satisfyingly masculine sound he makes that he’s smiling.
“This too?” he asks, running a thick finger inside the lace band of my underwear.
“Yes.”
He makes that sound again. He slides both palms inside my underwear. In a single, urgent motion, he coaxes my jeans and undies down to my knees. I raise one leg, then the other, helping him take them all the way off.
And just like that, I am completely, utterly naked in front of Rhys Maddox.
I let him see me like he never has before—I’m always hiding in the dark, or diving under the covers when we hook up. I struggle not to flinch as heated silence stretches between us. This is horrid—he’s probably thinking how small my boobs are, how hairy my crotch is, he’s thinking I’m not up to snuff—
Why do I care what he thinks? We’re over anyway, Rhys and I. We were over the moment we met. He’s a super famous, super hot footballer chasing after titles, and I’m a student with five months in Madrid. He lives to impress the world with his playthings, and I don’t want to be a plaything anymore. I want to be me, freely, without shame.
I’m going back to Meryton next semester. And Rhys definitely isn’t coming with me.
I have nothing to lose.
Rhys sucks in a breath. I steel myself for the rejection that’s coming.
When he finally speaks, his voice is different. Lower. A bit hoarse. “Jesus Christ, love, I can’t believe you didn’t want to turn on the lights sooner.”
My heart skips a beat. “So it’s not bad?”
“Bad?” he scoffs. “Are you fucking kidding? Quite the opposite, love. Open your eyes and see for yourself.”
I pry open one eye, then the other. Rhys is looking at me, his gaze hard and focused—it’s the face he wears when he’s in the thick of a match—an enormous erection straining unabashedly against the fly of his jeans. His chest rises and falls with each hot, fast breath he takes.
He looks like a man possessed.
My body goes up in flames.
He takes my hand and spins me against him, my back to his front. He takes a couple steps to the side, bringing me with him, until I can see our reflection in the mirror above the bathroom sink.
My eyes go right to my boobs, and the pale bit of flab that sticks out on my stomach. What the hell is that shit? I ran hundreds of miles to get rid of that flab, and it’s already back five days after I start eating carbs?
I knew learning to love my body wasn’t going to happen overnight. But at the very least I thought I’d loathe myself a little less now that I’m making a real effort to love me for me.
That loathing, it seems, is worse than ever. The only things I seem to notice about my body are its flaws.
I swallow, meeting his eyes in the mirror so I don’t have to look at myself anymore. “I don’t see it.”
Rhys holds up a hand. “May I?”
I nod.
He takes a step closer, plastering his bare chest against my back. His skin is warm and smooth, his nipples hard against my shoulder blades. My pulse flutters. I love the feel of him against me, love the safety of being curled into his body like this.
He puts his hand on my waist.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs in my ear, his fingers tickling their way across my stomach.
Something about him telling me that—that I’m beautiful—makes me feel exactly the opposite. There’s already too much focus on my body as it is right now. It’s overwhelming, and not in a good way.
“Stop,” I say.
His hand goes still against my skin. “You all right?”
“Yeah.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “Sorry. I didn’t mean stop touching me. I meant stop…um. Complimenting my body, I guess? I don’t mean to sound like a douche, but it’s making me feel, uh, a little self-conscious. Um?”
“Okay,” Rhys says slowly. “All right. Might I compliment you on something else then?”
I laugh. “If you want. But you know I’m a sure thing at this point, right? You don’t need to get all Shakespeare on me to get in my pants.”
“I know,” he says. “But it might help you relax, no?”
“Maybe.” I sigh. “Probably not.”
“It’s at least worth a try.”
I watch in the mirror as his broad, thickly veined hand makes its way lower, oh, he’s going lower—
“You’re brave.”
My breath catches when his middle finger slips between my legs.
“You’re ambitious.”
With hi
s other hand he reaches up and brushes my hair off my shoulder, planting a kiss there.
“You’re not afraid to forgive.”
His middle finger parts my folds.
“You’re free.” He says it with such reverence, such longing, my heart skips a beat. I don’t even know what that means—I’m free? free to do what? free from what?—but the way he says it makes me believe it’s true.
I’m really wet—like, really—and Rhys grunts in appreciation, his breath hot on my neck.
“I don’t know if you’ve ever been so wet for me,” he says. “Tell me what you want me to do, Laura—tell me what feels good. Or better yet, show me.”
He glides his finger back and forth, back and forth, catching on my clit each time.
“There.” I grab his hand. “Stay right…oh, God, right there.”
He puts his mouth on my shoulder as his finger works a lazy circle around the front of my pussy. My whole body seems to tighten and throb in time to his movements, my lips parting as I watch him touch me. He begins to rub his erection against my ass, slowly, baby thrusts that incite the heady beat between my legs.
I grab his other hand and bring it to my breast. “Here. Touch me here, too.”
His teeth are in my shoulder now, and he’s circling his thumb against my nipple in tandem with the circles he draws against my clit. Sensation ripples from the hard point of my nipple down to my sex, making me clench around his finger. He slips another finger in, both fingertips swirling, teasing, pressing.
“That okay?” he asks softly.
“Yeah,” I breathe. “Fuck, Rhys, that’s better than okay.”
His lips twitch. “Good.” He curls one finger inside me. “And this? Is this better than okay?”
I can’t even speak as he glides his finger against the front wall of my vagina. For a minute I think my knees are going to buckle.
“Good,” Rhys repeats.
He presses me tightly against him, using his forearm to roll my body in time to his increasing thrusts. His skin is damp with sweat; his smirk disappears, a mask of pained concentration taking its place. I can tell he’s trying to hold back. He’s never had to wait like this, not with me. I was always quick to fake my orgasm so we could just get to his.
“Look,” he says. “Look at yourself, Laura, in the mirror. Watch what your body can do.”
I close my eyes, turning my head. “I don’t want to. I can’t.”
“Try it,” he says. “I think it will make you come harder, love. You’re so fucking se—I mean you’re so fucking smart.”
I laugh and so does he, and I love the feel of his rumbling chest against my back.
His hand moves to my other breast, cupping it, working the nipple to hard point. My eyes fly open at the searing pulse of need that tears through me and land on the mirror. I’m flushed, my cheeks and chest pink, my bottom lip caught between my teeth. My hair is everywhere. Rhys is looking at me over my shoulder, his glacier blue eyes clouding with lust as my body responds to his touch. One of his thick forearms is strapped across my hips; the other rests between my breasts, holding me in place. He’s so much stronger than me, so much bigger, and yet I’m the one calling the shots.
My sex clenches.
This—watching us, watching my body come alive—it is kinda hot.
I cry out when Rhys runs both of his fingers up the length of my slit. He presses his dick against my ass, he keeps pressing, keeps touching.
Screw this. Dry humping is for high school.
My eyes glued to the mirror, I watch Rhys’s face as I reach behind me. With impatient fingers I unbutton his jeans and make quick work of his fly. His mouth falls open, his eyes dark and a little unfocused. I reach through the fall of his boxer-brief things and grab his dick. He’s huge, and hot; he fills my hand, pulsing with frustration.
Rhys literally growls as I guide him out of his underwear, placing the tip of his dick at the small cleft where my butt cheeks meet, just beneath my tailbone.
“Stop,” he says through gritted teeth. “Stop touching me. Tonight is about turning you on.”
“This.” I press my ass against him, his dick sliding up and down that cleft. His precum makes him slide a little easier, a little faster along my butt crack. “This is turning me on, Rhys.”
He growls again, pressing the tips of his fingers hard against my clit. “I think it might be turning me on more.”
I see stars. My legs begin to shake. “I’m coming,” I breathe. “Holy shit, Rhys, I’m actually coming.”
He slips one of those probing fingers back inside me. “I want to feel it. Don’t rush, love. Take all the time you need. Just take, Laura.”
He squeezes my nipple between his thumb and forefinger and he circles his hips, wincing as he presses the head of his cock harder against me, the veins and muscles in his arms popping against his skin. I watch him in the mirror, my gaze roving from my body to his, his body to mine, the two of us writhing against each other, our skin glistening with sweat in the low light of the desk lamp.
I forget about my flab, and my tiny tits. My self-consciousness melts away in the face of the overwhelming sexiness in front of me. I can’t stop watching us, watching me, my nakedness only making the tightness between my legs spiral higher, harder. This is so dirty, watching ourselves like this, telling him to touch me like this, and I like it.
Rhys is relentless, enveloping me in the heat of his body, the smell of his skin. I am drawn tight in his arms, the painfully sweet throb of my impending orgasm filling me up, making me feel weak with the need for relief.
His finger is frantically stroking my clit now, the other curled inside me.
“Oh my God,” I say, my hair falling in my eyes. I shake it away. “Oh my God, Rhys.”
He ducks his chin into the crook of my neck, and my head falls to the side as he digs his teeth into the skin there.
I come with a strangled cry, my eyes flying shut as wave after wave of release moves through me. The orgasm is so potent it leaves me boneless, but Rhys holds me tight against him, supporting my weight as it keeps coming, and coming, holy fuck I am coming harder and longer than I ever have. I feel myself clench around his finger, the tremors quick and tight.
“Christ, love,” he pants. “You’re coming hard. Keep coming.”
And I do, the shockwaves strong enough that they’re almost painful. My heart is popping around in my chest, the scent of my arousal surrounding us. I finally relax against Rhys, breathing hard. I open my eyes.
Rhys looks—I can’t describe the look on his face. Ferocious hunger? Pain?
He meets my eyes in the mirror. “Are you able to stand up?”
“Um,” I say, settling my weight back onto my feet. “Yeah. Yes. I’m okay.”
“Good. That was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen—felt. You coming. I am so fucking turned on it hurts, Laura. I’m sorry, but I’ve got to take care of this.”
“Take care of—?” I turn around and see him take his dick in his hand, giving it one, two vicious tugs. He turns toward me.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats. “And no, I don’t need help. Lay down. You’d probably like to rest after coming like that.”
“Oh—oh, okay,” I say, my gaze moving over him as I crawl into bed. Maybe I’m still floating in the afterglow of my giant O, but watching Rhys masturbate—knowing I turned him on, I’m the one who’s got him strung out like this—is making my body begin to throb again.
It’s lewd, how hard he’s stroking himself, sweat rolling down the plane of his chest, his handsome face tight and flushed. Lewd and very sexy.
“Laura.” He’s breathless, focusing his eyes on me. They flick down my body, flick back up, lingering on my shoulders, then my neck, then my face.
I offer him a small grin. “You gonna make it?”
He slams his palm on the desk in reply, grunting. He bends over, supporting himself on one arm. He winces.
And then he comes, pumping one last time before he cups the he
ad of his dick in his hand. The orgasm hits him hard, the muscles in his shoulders and neck bunching.
A beat passes, then another. Rhys is breathing hard, his head tucked against his arm as his body rises and falls, rises and falls.
“Laura,” he says again.
He raises his head and meets my eyes. His are so blue, so soft. The intensity is still there, the hunger. But that hunger is different, somehow, from the sharp-edged lust I saw in his eyes two minutes ago.
My stomach flips, a funny lightness taking shape inside my chest.
I don’t think Rhys has ever looked at me like this before.
I tell myself that it’s just the magical orgasm talking. The post-O endorphins or whatever making the world take on a rosy, romantic glow.
I’ve been naked with Rhys hundreds of times. Sure, I never actually came with him before. But there’s no way a single orgasm could change anything between us. Could make me feel so much more raw and vulnerable and turned on than I ever have in my life.
I swallow, hard. Rhys made me feel like I was cherished, important, irresistible. It’s a heady sensation, being in someone’s arms and knowing they’ll take care of you. Knowing they care as much about your pleasure as they do about their own.
“I did,” I say. “Thank you, Rhys. For letting me, um…do the taking, I guess.”
He shakes his head. “You should do the taking more often. I like it. I like making you come.”
I like when he makes he come, too. I like the way I feel when he says these things, when he looks at me like I’m the only thing he sees. And it’s suddenly starting to scare the hell out of me.
Rhys and I were over before we began. I’m leaving, I’m going back home—
“I know you’re exhausted,” I say, reaching for my shirt. “You should probably get going, huh? Rest up for practice tomorrow?”
The wounded look Rhys gives me makes my heart contract. But he can’t stay. Not after what just happened. The way he’s looking at me, the way it’s making me feel…
It’s one thing to use this super delicious, super intense orgasm/hook-up thing as a means of learning to accept or even love myself as part of my bucket list experiment. It’s quite another to start feeling something deeper, something more, for Rhys Maddox. That would be just plain stupid. I’m leaving Madrid soon. I’ve already started brainstorming a whole new bucket list for my semester back at Meryton. I want a fresh start there, a new beginning that definitely won’t happen if I start pining away for Rhys again.
Lessons in Letting Go (Study Abroad Book 3) Page 16