Page 79 of No Hope of Rescue

“You are too beautiful to look at,” I whisper, almost not believing I’m saying this to him, and I push down on his chest, feel his heart throb under my fingers. When his head rolls backward and his throat is fully exposed, another shudder runs through me, and I can’t help but lick his erect nipples.

I grip him hard with my other hand and peer down into his face. His eyes are closed, lips parted. He tries to hang on to the headboard, but he loses his grip. I kiss him on the lips, and his eyes open. He releases the headboard, and the T-shirt slides from his wrists.

“Are you ready now?” he asks.

I nod.

Without moving, he reaches over to the nightstand and slips on a condom.

“You’re prepared,” he says.

“Always.”

I adjust my weight on top of him and kiss him again, then scoot lower, sitting on his groin. I take a hand in each of mine, lay them on either side of his head, and then dip for another kiss.

When he raises his head so his lips can press mine, I marvel at how smooth his skin is—flawless. The V of his side clenches as I ease myself on top of him, teasing his tip with my sex.

“Riley. . .”

“Yes?” I move in small circles and slide slowly down his shaft.

His eyes close, and words are drowned by the moan that parts his lips. “I want—”

I slide up, gripping him as hard as I can.

“Yes?”

Another garbled sound, and then he tries to shake himself. He swallows as I move again around his tip. This, alone, is enough to send a ripple the length of his body.

“Jesus!” His head comes up and slams down on the pillow.

“Yes?” I repeat, keeping my voice low.

I slowly, incrementally, slide down him, so wet and warm that I’m afraid I might come.

I grip his hands harder and focus on his face. His lashes fan against his cheek, then his eyes open and that liquid brown reaches to my core. His mouth parts as he gasps.

“What do you want?” I rise up again, but he can’t speak. “What do you want?” I repeat, then move down him, rise and move again, then faster, with strokes I didn’t know I could manage.

And then he is truly, ultimately lost, and I can’t bring him back. Or myself. I don’t know how long I slide up and down before we come, but every movement is exquisite, every pass leaves him gasping even harder, and I am almost delirious. Watching him surrender to himself, to me, is what finally makes me come.

I swear we come together, rare for me, rare in life, but he’s so gone, I can’t ask to be sure.

It doesn’t matter.

΅

It’s dark when I wake, twilight-ish, and I’m confused. I don’t know where I am. Someone’s arms are around me. I scoot under that warm arm and turn—Brock is still asleep. His dark hair lies flat and is lit by fading moonlight. I gently touch his cheek with my hand, and he stirs. I’m afraid if I kiss him, some spell will be broken. I can feel his breath, smell him.

Salty.

He always smells like soda crackers to me. Unable to resist, I give him a damp, swift kiss on the cheek. He grunts and rolls to his back. I marvel at how his bicep tucks neatly into his armpit.

“Hey, you,” he says. He reaches up an arm, and I take his hand. I lay my head on his chest and fall back asleep.

The second time I wake, I’m sharing the bed with empty sheets.

“Brock?” I manage, licking my lips. He’s gone, but I can hear water running in the bathroom. In a moment, he’s returned, a washcloth in hand.