Page 88 of Mixed Signals
I cup her breasts through her t-shirt and rub my thumbs over her nipples. Her head drops back against the wall and she drapes her arms over my shoulders, watching me with lazy eyes.
“What kind of dreams were you having on my couch?” she sighs out.
I smile and slip my hands underneath her shirt, the fabric bunching at my wrists. I don’t move them, I just feel the warmth of her skin against my palms. I try to memorize this moment, when she’s looking at me like I’m someone she could want.
“Good ones,” I answer.
“Hm, feel free to elaborate.”
“Well.” I pull us away from the wall and move in the direction of what I assume is her bedroom. “There were thumbprint cookies.”
She laughs as I open the first door on the left side of the hall and almost dump her into a collection of winter coats. She drags her teeth across my collarbone and I can feel her smile against my skin. “That’s oddly specific. Anything else happening in that dream of yours?”
“Marmalade,” I tell her. She laughs again, husky and rich. “Shortbread.”
I try another door and I’m greeted by a pale pink shower curtain—a tidy row of plants on a low shelf below a frosted window. My gaze snags on an interesting piece of lace dangling from the curtain rod. Something with straps and the smallest bow I’ve ever seen, right in the middle.
I stare at it for one second, two, as Layla sucks at my neck. Her clever hands sneak into the waistband of my jeans and my patience evaporates.
“Layla.” I readjust her in my grip and cuff her wrists with one of my hands. I need her to stop touching me or this is going to end the exact same way it did last time. Horrifically quick and embarrassing, if not also wildly satisfying.
A heavy glint of interest shines in her eyes and I arch an eyebrow, squeezing her wrists just the slightest bit tighter. Her back arches with the angle and her cheeks flush crimson.
I brush a kiss over the curve of her jaw.
“I need you to tell me where your bedroom is.”
“Last door on the right,” she pants.
I release Layla’s hands and charge in that direction, both of her arms wrapped tight around my shoulders. We’re kissing again, her hungry sounds caught on the tip of my tongue, pressed against my teeth. I slip one of my hands up the back of her shorts, nothing but smooth skin and the thinnest strap I’ve ever felt in my life greeting my touch.
Desire burns like a wildfire through me and I practically kick in the door to her bedroom. It bounces off the wall where she has another collection of mismatched frames. A picture of her and Stella and Beckett that I barely glance at. While her living room was a collection of color, her bedroom is simple and welcoming. A big bed with a fluffy comforter, a small mountain of pillows stacked neatly against the headboard. White and cream and taupe and oatmeal. We tumble into the bed together and it’s like falling into a cloud. Like twisting around and around in one of those cotton candy spinners, sticky sweetness clinging to my skin.
I brace myself with my arms planted by her shoulders, her smile wide as she beams up at me. She is the most lovely thing I’ve ever seen. I finger a lock of her hair and tuck it behind her ear.
“What do you want, Layla?”
I tell myself that by asking her, I’m trying to hold on to the safety vest of our relationship. This is supposed to help her vocalize what she wants and needs in bed. But really I just want to watch desire paint colors over her skin. I want to watch her lips form the words and hear in detail all the things she wants me to do to her.
“Well.” Her hands slip under my shirt, nails scratching lightly at my torso. “I liked what you asked me in the living room, to start.”
When I asked if I could make her come. My whole body flushes hot and I give in to her pulling on my clothes and let her drag my shirt up and over my head. She throws it somewhere in the corner of her room, palms tracing up and down my torso. Her tongue licks at the corner of her mouth and her eyes shine like twin gemstones.
“How do you want to come?” I urge her chin up and press a kiss to her bottom lip. I suck it into my mouth and I drag my thumb down her throat and hook it into the top of her oversized t-shirt. “My hands?” I slip my whole hand inside the collar of her shirt and palm her bare breast. “My mouth?”
A deep breath rattles out of her and she shifts her legs wider beneath me until I’m cradled between her open thighs, my erection thick and heavy where she’s soft and warm.
“Time for another confession,” she gasps as I pinch at her nipple, legs shifting against my hips. “No one has ever—I’ve never had someone go down on me before.”
I drop my forehead against her collarbone with a groan. The thought that I could be the first to know her like that—the only one to ever make her come with my head between her legs, I’m—
I’m breathless. Mindless. Overwhelmed with the need to touch and taste.
My hands flex. “Is that something you want?”
“I’m not sure,” she whispers. “I think I do.”
I push up until I’m on my knees in front of her, hands at her hips and my thumbs dipping below the waistband of her tiny, distracting shorts.
