My hands slide down his back, pushing his hoodie and shirt up, so I can run my palms across his damp, warm skin. Spencer's hard, hot body is between my thighs, dressed in sweats and unlaced boots. He grinds his pelvis against mine as we kiss, and I groan against his mouth.
There are so many emotions in the air right now that I know I should probably step back and evaluate things. My logical brain seems to be going one way while my emotional side is pulling in the opposite direction.
When he tangles his fingers in my hair, I really lose my shit, yanking his hoodie and shirt up and breaking our kiss just long enough to toss the items aside.
Spencer maintains this undulating rhythm against my core that has me squirming and digging my fingernails into the muscles of his back. He fumbles around with something in the nightstand, and then comes back with a condom.
He lifts up just enough to look down at me, silver-ash hair falling around his face. I can see all the delicious variation in his turquoise eyes, those flecks of green and blue and teal, as he searches my expression. That white-hot chemistry we’ve been entertaining for months is thick and heady in the air between us, my breath coming in sharp pants. It’s almost too much, all this feeling inside of me; I need an outlet.
“What are we doing?” Spencer whispers, but he's got the condom in his hand, so he must have some idea. Looking up at him, I feel the tears again and wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him close again.
Relief mixes with lust, creating this potent potion of emotion that takes over my whole being. My only thoughts are about getting as close as I can to him, to reassure myself that he's really here.
We work together in a frenzy to shed my pants, leaving my underwear in place. Spencer's hand frees his cock easily from his sweats, and there's this tense moment where he's opening the condom wrapper and struggling to get it on.
I pull my panties aside, heart thumping, and realize that I'm not nervous at all, not like I was when Cody and I fooled around. With him, I felt tentative, unsure, almost scared. It's not like that with Spencer. There's no hesitation, no fear.
He looks me right in the face and then opens his mouth to ask something that I cut off with a kiss, curling my fingers against the back of his neck, feeling the fine hairs tickling my skin. Spencer lines himself up with my opening and slowly works himself him.
A gasp escapes me, stifled by the hot press of his lips, as my body adjusts to the new sensation. It's a little tight, a tad uncomfortable, but it feels so good. Doubly so when he begins to move, slow but strong movements of his hips pushing us closer and closer together.
Spencer's right hand slides up under my shirt, and finds my bare breast. I didn't bother with a bra tonight; it didn't seem to matter that much in the face of his possible death.
“Holy shit, how did you hide these for so long?” he whispers against my mouth, making me shiver. The sound of his voice is surreal, like a dream made reality. I've never wanted anything so badly in my entire life.
“A wing and a prayer?” I whisper back, but I could care less about the secret girl issue right now. All I want is his lips on mine. With a firm but gentle grip, I put pressure on his neck and bring his mouth down to mine, tasting the faint burn of mint, like maybe be brushed his teeth before stumbling in here.
Spencer kneads my breast with his hand, rubbing his thumb over the hardened point of my nipple. It's like he's lit a sparkler inside of me, sending these bright, beautiful colors shooting through my body.
A sound escapes my lips, half-whisper, half-groan, as I wrap my legs around him, holding him as close as I can get him. Being together like this, it makes me want to never be apart again. I told you, Chuck, that you’d fall for all these guys. I warned you, didn’t I? Day one. Day one I warned you. My subconscious calls out to me, but I push it aside, tangled up in lovesick heartbreak and new hope.
Spencer Hargrove is alive.
It’s not often that life throws a curveball, and then lets you hit a homerun.
I’m reveling in it.
“Spence,” I whisper, calling him by a nickname that doesn’t rightfully belong to me. But … it feels like it does. It feels like he does. He responds by groaning against my ear, this soft, sweet sound of male satisfaction. We’re fucking, maybe, but I think we might also … you know, be doing something else, too.
