Page 17 of Sweet (Chicago Underground 7)
Chapter Six
As dawn streamed in through the window, I heard a car pull across the cobblestone and come to a stop. Drew had texted me last night to let me know he was coming over. At least, that was how I interpreted eight hours until I see you.
I stretched in bed and rubbed the sleep from my eyes. No doubt Philip would commandeer him the second he walked into the house. He was still in the dark about us, and that ticking sound was the countdown to when he would surely find out and explode.
Leisurely, I took a shower and dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, wondering how I could sneak a few minutes alone with Drew. I was drying my hair with a damp towel when I heard the sound of an engine starting outside. Oh, shit. Was he leaving already?
At the window I watched Philip’s car roll down the driveway. Perfect.
Tossing the towel on the bed, I hurried downstairs and found the office with the door open. Drew’s sleeves were rolled up, and he was knee deep in work at seven in the morning. He looked up when I came in.
He stood immediately, coming to stand in front of me, reaching out as if to touch me. In the moments before his hands met mine, he pulled back, uncertain or maybe just prolonging the inevitable.
The heat of his body seared me, his breath tickled my forehead. We were both adrift, floundering softly in the sea, slowly drowning. I hazarded a small smile—a soft current to propel me closer.
His face was solemn, intent. “Hi,” he said, his eyes searching mine.
We may not have much time, I thought. Now, I thought. But all I said was, “Hi, I—”
And like a wild chase, an abrupt collision, we crashed. His han
d reached for my waist, the other at the back of my neck. He pressed a kiss to my lips, infusing me with heat from the plump of my lips all the way down to my toes.
My body hummed with a satisfaction borne of completeness, of finally, of finding the missing piece of myself. He fit against me as if he belonged there, and though I knew it was only physical, I sighed into him, melted into him until I couldn’t tell where he ended and I began, accepting him places deeper than my body.
I clung to him with my arms, my legs, my lips as we toppled to the floor. My legs straddled his body, my arms rested on either side of his head. My hair formed a dark curtain around us. He must have felt overwhelmed by me, but instead he licked at my mouth, angling deeper. At the press of my tongue against his, he surged up and flipped us over. He knelt over me, pushing farther, trying to climb inside me, but God, he was already there. At my core, in my heart, he filled me and surrounded me all at once. It was a sweet suffocation, running out of air and finding peace in the ether.
He pulled back slightly. “Can this one be fast?”
I struggled to the surface. He sounded urgent, a bit desperate, and I hardly knew what he was asking. “What?”
“Either that, or I need to come first,” he muttered. “No way am I going to last.”
“Oh.” I ran a palm over the curve of his jaw, set so tightly. He was tense, and I wanted to ease him. “It’s okay. It can be fast.”
“Are you sure?” He pressed urgent kisses along my jaw in answer.
We were always like that, in symmetry. I offered, and he accepted. He asked, and I acquiesced.
Was I sure? No, not really. I felt heat and dampness at my core. I wanted him, so that should be enough. It would have to be. I trusted him.
I didn’t bother to answer this time, just shimmied myself so that I was centered under him. I spread my legs, and his hips fell effortlessly into the cradle of mine. His erection felt thick and impossibly hard where it pressed against me, but I knew it could work. It had done so when I cared far less than now.
He snagged a condom from his wallet. I watched him while he opened his pants and put it on with jerky movements, his fingers flying too fast to see more than hard, flushed skin. His cheeks were ruddy with a flush of arousal, his whole body taut. I recognized the look from the first day in the car, moving slowly, rigid—a man in pain. Touching himself gingerly, wincing as my helpful fingers rolled it down his length.
I matched his movements, pushing down my pants, my underwear. When I was naked, he slid two fingers down to my sex. I had expected roughness from his earlier blunt movements, but this was soft, probing.
“You’re so wet,” he said, slipping one inside. “Just like you said. Slippery smooth. Jesus. Are you ready?”
The question circled above me, not landing. Ready, ready—was I ready how? I had already agreed to fast, to sex. “Yes,” I murmured. “Now.”
Like pulling up the floodgates, he was on me, pushing a broad head inside me, nudging farther, deeper, until I felt a burn. It surprised me after so much pleasure, and I let out a small cry before my lips closed around it.
He froze. “Oh shit, you’re tight.”
He was worried about hurting me, because he was. My inner muscles rippled around him, struggling to adjust. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t sound fine,” he said, strained.
