The Good Chase

by Hanna Martine

  Yes, I want it all.

  And when he lowered his mouth to hers again, he whispered that word as well.

  The kiss that followed was filled with yes, and it was the most luscious word in existence.

  For someone who’d been so insistent at keeping Byrne at a careful arm’s distance, she couldn’t get close enough to him now. The pressure of his kiss wasn’t enough, the entirety of his weight wasn’t enough, her hands weren’t full enough.

  He rolled off her, holding a fistful of her dress on her belly. Forget what she’d thought about going at whatever pace he wanted. He was killing her. She conveyed her frustration with a little nip of her teeth on his bottom lip.

  “Patience, patience,” he murmured.

  “Don’t have any anymore. For the love of God, please touch me.”

  He grinned against her lips, and then nipped back. “Slowing things down, remember?”

  But just as she rolled her eyes and moaned in disappointment, he yanked her dress up higher, skimming a hand over her breast. Fingernails scraped lightly over the nipple that pushed against her bra, sharp as a blade.

  “I want to know you,” he whispered, moving his mouth to her neck, her ear. “I want to test you. To figure you out.”

  Peeling back her bra, he pinched her nipple. Light and teasing, and she sucked in a shaking breath.

  “Yes.” And this time it was Byrne who said it. The one word, full of satisfaction and longing, slithered into her ear and down her spine.

  “I want to know you, Shea. What makes you crazy. What makes you wet. What makes you beg.”

  This. This was what made her crazy. His deep voice in her ear, the length of him pressed against her body, the feel of his hands on her, and the absolute, desperate need for more.

  But what she said was, “It’s you.”

  He went completely still the same second in which she realized what she’d admitted.

  It was a key in his engine, though, because when he moved again, it was like she’d revved him up and released him on a free track.

  With a low, feral groan he pressed even closer, consuming her mouth with his. Grabbing her hip, he rolled her to her side so they were face-to-face, mouth to mouth, and then, with complete skill, silent and stealthy like a ninja, he had her bra undone.

  She was a doll in his arms, letting him bend her and move her as he pushed her dress over her head and peeled the bra down her arms. The arch in her back was involuntary, an offering for him.

  “Figured something out,” he murmured as he bent his mouth to her nipple and licked it, “that we both love this.”

  She loved it so much she thought she might be able to come just from that.

  “Harder,” she said, the syllables spread out.

  He bit her, lightly closing his teeth. It bowed her off the bed, and he held her down. Did it to the other nipple. And again.

  “Okay, okay,” she panted.

  He looked up at her between her breasts, and maybe she’d been expecting a look of the devil, of mischief, because the intense focus and dreamlike desire on his face almost undid her.

  “Okay what?” His voice was like campfire smoke.

  “Okay.” She licked her lips, felt the quiver in her thighs as she spoke the words he wanted to hear. And that she wanted to say. “I’m wet.”

  Just a slight tic of his eyebrow. Just the gentle roll of his lower lip as he briefly gnawed on it. And then he moved, nudging his body up higher on the bed. One hand found the top elastic of her underwear, a wonderful threat.

  His tongue dipped in her ear. “I need to make sure.”

  She whimpered. Actually whimpered.

  Achingly slowly, he slipped his fingers beneath the satin. The wait for him to touch her, for him to finally feel the proof of her arousal, to know what he did to her, made her shake beyond any measure of control. Still, he didn’t touch her.

  Pushing up to kneel, he held her eyes with his as he drew off her underwear. She lifted her hips to help him.

  His gaze slowly meandered over her naked body. She’d never felt so exposed and so beautiful at the same time. He looked huge and unbearably hot above her, his jeans-clad thighs bracing hers, his shirt pulled tight over a pumping chest. She deliberately stretched her arms above her head, making her back arch and her legs part.

  “I learned something else,” he murmured. “You like me to look at you.”

  Yes, she did. Very much. Because to be that wanted, to know she was that desirable and that attractive to another person, was the greatest turn-on she’d ever experienced.

  Then he leaned forward again but didn’t give her his weight, didn’t cover her. Supporting himself on one arm, hand planted on the mattress by her shoulder, he slipped his other hand between her legs. No warning, no pausing. Just a quick, easy slide into where she wanted him most.

  His gorgeous blue eyes squeezed shut. He turned his face away. “Fuck.”

  She opened her legs a little more and he went in a little more, then dragged his fingers out, bringing her wetness with him. Over her.

  His eyes shot open and he faced her again. Came down a little closer. His fingers slid up and down, over and inside her. So easily, so perfectly.

  “My God,” he kept whispering in what she could only categorize as awe. “My God.”

  He was making her twitch, her whole body spasming, and it wasn’t even an orgasm. Like she was a marionette, and every tiny, wonderful movement of his fingers created a greater, more exaggerated movement somewhere else inside her.

  Had he figured it out yet? That all he had to do to make her come was touch her and look at her as he did it?

  He must have, because he kept doing what he was doing, rubbing her with increasing intensity. And she kept opening for him, kept rocking her hips, encouraging. Showing him that she loved it all.

  And when she did come, a spiraling crescendo that seemed to take forever to rise, he was still staring at her, whispering, “There it is. There it is.”

  Keeping her eyes open was nearly impossible, her eyelids heavy, wanting to close under the weight of the pleasure shuddering through her center, but she wanted to look at him more. Wanted to see how her orgasm looked through his eyes. And just when she thought it was over, that she’d reached the top of the wave and that the pulse inside her couldn’t get any more intense, Byrne’s lips parted, he increased the pressure and speed of his hand, and she exploded.

  No keeping her eyes open anymore. But the second they fluttered shut, her cries got louder. She felt him cover her again, and then his mouth swallowed her sounds. She let her screams go, releasing them into the kiss, and her throat went raw from the force.

  When she finally came back down, finally fell over the back side of the wave and into the gentle lull of the dip, he removed his hand and his mouth, and she opened her eyes.

  He was smiling, his eyes brilliant. The more crooked his smile, she was learning, the happier he was. And, baby, that thing was cocked so far to the left it was practically in his ear.

  Her thighs shook as she lowered her ass to the bedspread, her quads tightening up.

  “Oh my God,” she said, and then laughed, because that’s what you did sometimes when you were too overwhelmed to say or do anything else.

  He kissed her again, still wearing the smile, and laughed against her mouth. “Never been called anyone’s god before.”

  “Was that slow enough for you?”

  He pretended to consider it, pursing his lips. “Not sure. The real test comes now.”

  Impossible that she still didn’t feel fulfilled, but sometimes fingers just weren’t enough. Sometimes you needed a much bigger part of a man than his hand and his grin and his ultrasexy words.

  She stretched up to kiss the column of his throat at the same time she reached down for his belt buckle. Slow, she had to remind herself. Pa
infully slow. As she tugged the leather out of the buckle and let the faint clink of metal upon metal fill the room, he pushed back up to his hands and knees above her, staring her down. The smile gradually faded.

  Shea pulled the buckle loose and wrapped the metal square in her fist. Byrne’s shirt hung down, ballooning off his chest, and the knuckles of her free hand grazed his bare belly. The touch made him suck in a breath, his stomach muscles contracting. Flipping her hand over, she pressed her palm to all that smooth skin over hard rugby muscle. She pushed her hand up his chest as she pulled out his belt from his jeans.

  One plodding, prolonged belt loop after another.

  Throwing the belt to the side, she took fistfuls of his soft cotton shirt and pulled him down against her. When she kissed him, opening her mouth and giving him her tongue, she made sure it was nice and unbearably slow.

  The erection that rose behind a wall of denim and a too-cold zipper called her name. A deep undulation of his hips made her a wordless promise.

  First, he needed to get naked. Releasing his mouth, she pushed his shirt higher, toward his chin.

  In a movement that definitely couldn’t be considered as “taking his time,” he shoved off her. Knees on either side of her thighs, rising above her like the dark god he was, he stripped off his shirt and threw it down to keep his belt company.

  Before, in the other hotel room, she hadn’t taken the time to appreciate how he looked without a shirt. That night had been about satiating a driving need, about finishing something that had been building between them for days and days. Now, however, she was starting to understand what he meant by taking it slowly. If it weren’t for the wet emptiness between her legs, she could’ve lain there all night, just staring up at the round, strong shoulders, the sculpted shape of his pecs, and the firm lines of his waist.

  Taking her hand, he pulled her out from under him to join him in kneeling on the bed. When he slid a hand around her head again, fingers pushing into her hair, she could feel how tangled he’d made the fine mess, and she couldn’t care less. The sensation of the gentle tugs against her scalp, mixing with the careful, soft strokes of his lips on hers and the feel of his jeans’ snap and zipper in her fingers was . . . well, worth it.

  Making it last, drawing everything out so she didn’t miss a sensation or a sigh, ensured that she would remember absolutely every detail about right now tomorrow or next week or, hell, when she was eighty. She couldn’t ever recall another sexual experience like this—when she wasn’t so much as interested in the end, the big finish, as all the little tiny stuff in between.

  She couldn’t recall ever having a partner with whom she’d wanted to.

  She opened Byrne’s fly and skimmed his jeans down and around his ass.

  She’d always loved guys’ underwear, how their pants had give and bagginess to them, but that they sometimes wore those ass-hugging boxer briefs underneath that showed everything. She wondered if this was what men liked so much about seeing women in little underthings—peeling off that tiny, last barrier for a perfect revelation.

  The tightness of his ass as she shoved down his underwear—slowly, Shea, slowly—elicited her own smile. And when she moved her hands to the front and finally felt him, enveloped him, knowing that incredibly smooth, iron length was all for her, she felt her own smile go crooked.

  His breath stuttered. Though she adored the feel of him in and against her palm, she knew she’d adore it even more someplace else. So she folded her legs beneath her and lay back down, slipping her legs on the outside of his this time, opening herself up. He looked away from her face, all the way down her body, and the sound he made was like he’d been punched in the chest.

  The flurry of movement that followed—the awkward shifting of his body as he tried to roll off the bed and shuck his pants and underwear, and then get back on the bed with grace, taking out a small square of “stuff” from his bag, no less—had her smiling with satisfaction and amusement and pure joy.

  “Patience, patience,” she murmured as he inserted his knees between hers again.

  He glanced over at his hurriedly discarded clothing. “That doesn’t count. I wasn’t touching you.”

  “Hmmm. You owe me a striptease. A nice, long one.”

  He came down over her again. “You really want that?” he asked.

  “No.” Again, she reached between them, taking his cock and giving it a nice, long pull. “I want this. I just want you.”

  All teasing dissipated, just left the room on silent feet. Shea lay there, staring up at a suddenly very serious but always exceptionally gorgeous Byrne. A breathtaking want filled her, pouring from her heart and streaming into every available space in her body, digging in to make room where there wasn’t before.

  She reached up to skim fingers across his cheek and around his chin, then raked her nails through his hair. It was a powerfully intimate caress, and he closed his eyes against it.

  Then he rocked forward, the bed releasing a creak underneath them that echoed the deep, gradual movement of his body. The tip of his cock grazed her wetness and they both gasped, eyes locking with the meaning of what was to come. And there was definitely meaning. Something far beyond just getting off. Something more than scratching an itch.

  She let him see that on her face, tried to let him know how much further than fucking he’d taken her, and hoped that he would understand.

  He reached down between them, fitted himself into the perfect, slippery spot, and . . . pushed. Not even all the way in, just the beginning, but he was staring deep into her eyes, and then she saw it, too, what he was feeling.

  All that this could be.

  Another push, a longer thrust, and then another and another, until he found a stroke that was utter perfection in fluidity, in timing, in the way it filled her. And then she had to close her eyes and just feel. Just let it all go.

  Her arms dropped from Byrne’s shoulders, going limp at her sides. She dug her heels into the bedspread and lifted her hips, angling them in a way that had him voicing his appreciation. God, he was going sooooo slowly, and the desire for more—more power, a faster pace, no concentration whatsoever—made her absolutely insane for the want of him.

  She wrapped the bedspread around her hands, holding on like it was rope. She cracked an eye, caught a glimpse of his gritted teeth and shadowed eyes, and knew that his vow to take it slow was wearing him down.

  With a groan and a little sag of his torso, he bent down to slam his mouth against hers. Such a brief, powerful kiss, and it broke something in him. Pushing back, he took her legs over each of his arms and pushed her knees up into her chest. The power of him inside her pulled a sharp cry out of her throat and sent her hands flying involuntarily above her head.

  He was really moving now, a crazy, driving rhythm and force dragging deliciously inside her, and she needed something to hold on to. Something better than sheets or pillows. Something she could grab.

  Her fingers scraped along the underside of the fake headboard that was attached to the hotel wall. There was a little bit of lip to the wood, like it had been made for this exact purpose, for women like her who were being driven out of their minds with pleasure. She grabbed the wood, fingers curling under it, held on tightly, and just felt.

  It seemed impossible that anyone could be fucking her this well, but then all she had to do was slit open her eyes, watch Byrne’s body move in and out of hers, watch the serious ecstasy turn his face flushed and intense, and then she was lost all over again. When she looked at him, her physical pleasure slammed into her emotions and they got all tangled up. And yes, it was more than a little scary, but it was also, hands down, the greatest feeling in the world.

  He shifted a little, just a nudge of his knees closer, just a slight change in angle, and then he hit some phenomenal spot inside her. She gasped, a great sucking in of air that made her lungs ache. He pulled out, did it agai
n, and her hands clenched on the headboard, her arms bursting with a brand-new strength. She yanked hard on the board, an involuntary reflex, holding on for dear life.

  And then the headboard came off the wall.

  With a crack of cheap wood, it just peeled off. One whole side of the thing thumped down onto the mattress, which at sometime had been swept clean of pillows.

  Startled, she craned her neck backward toward it and laughed. “Whoa. That’s never happened before.”

  Byrne was grinning again, still inside her. “Love it. That’s the way it should be.”

  Slapping a hand to his shoulder, she dug in her fingernails. “Don’t stop. Keep going.”

  The smile took on an impish curve, and he began to move again. Slowly at first, working back up to his previous pace. The little break did wonders for her ability to feel, and it was like the first thrust all over again.

  When he moved, the mattress jiggled the broken headboard against the wall, and the soundtrack couldn’t have been more perfect.

  She watched in awe as he came, realizing she’d never seen it before. He’d been behind her the last time. She loved the clench of his teeth, the deep lines that gouged between his eyebrows. But she especially loved the way he said, “Oh, fuck,” like he’d been thrown from a cliff and was falling into nothing, elated and excited and terrified about what was to come.

  Because she knew exactly how that felt.

  Chapter

  15

  The whole week after Philadelphia, Byrne kept trying to find the perfect word to describe the connection between him and Shea, but the best he could come up with was awesome. He was a numbers guy, so he didn’t sweat it too much. Because everything about it had, indeed, been awesome.

  He’d even stopped covering up his emotions when he thought about her and just let the shit-eating grin take over whenever it felt like it. Sometimes it appeared in the office, and he didn’t even care. Sometimes the laughter that came out of him during client dinners or on conference calls was actually genuine. Even Dan called him out on it, but Byrne wasn’t about to open up to him.