Page 58 of Faking It
The song changes.
The crowd shifts.
“Let’s go,” I murmur against her lips, her hand in mine, leading her off the dance floor before she even says a word.
The request of an Uber. Another kiss. The sliding into the backseat. My hands skimming up her bare thigh. My lips are on the underside of her neck. Her fingers digging into the muscles of my back.
We don’t speak the short distance back to the coach, just kiss and touch, continuing to fray the thin rope holding my restraint with each and every second that passes. Not when I open the door to it. Not when we step inside and stand a few feet apart, our desire eating up all the air in the room.
“This is a bad idea,” she whispers although there is no one else in the room.
“Okay.” I pull my shirt over my head.
“Like we shouldn’t do this”—I unbuckle my belt—“you’re my boss”—toe off my shoes—“we have to work together”—unbutton my jeans—“us sleeping together would complicate things”—let them drop to the floor.
“You’re right.” I take a step toward her, my only thought as I stand there in my underwear is where are those goddamn condoms and why is she still dressed? “About all of it, you’re right.” Another step closer. “But sometimes, Harlow, being wrong can feel oh-so-good.”
I reach out and rub my thumb over her lips. My body begs me to take and claim and own, but her eyes and words stop me.
“This is a mistake.” Her words are barely audible.
“We’ll learn from it then. We can figure out if it’s one we want to make again or if we want to part ways.” She could tell me the sky is green right now and I wouldn’t argue.
My lips are on hers. My hands sliding up the hem of her dress so that perfectly round ass is in my hands.
“But that’s the thing, we can’t part ways,” she murmurs against my lips.
“You’re talking, Harlow.” I pull her against me so my dick hits her between the thighs and shows her what all this talking is depriving her of. She sighs while I groan and it allows me to dip my tongue between her lips and welcome her back to my side of desperation.
“Zane.”
“We’re just here for the sex.” I chuckle against her lips as her fingers on my shoulders tense, only to fall lax when my hand snakes beneath the elastic band of her panties. I part her. Slide my finger down into her pussy and can’t help the groan that falls from my mouth when I find her wet and slick for me.
“Just the sex,” I whisper over her gasp as my finger enters her. The throb of my cock as it begs to be the one doing the fucking. The scrape of her nails up my back. Her moan as I tease her.
My lips are back on hers. My tongue demanding just like my fingers are. “Glad you see things my way.”
And with those words, it’s like a switch has been flipped. Every ounce of hesitancy on her part is gone. She lifts her dress over her head. She undoes her bra and my mouth can’t wait to suck those perfect pink nipples.
Her skin—toned and supple—smells of shampoo and perfume and sex . . . god does it smell like sex. I take her nipple in my mouth and roll my tongue over it before my teeth scrape its tip. My hands shove down her panties and then my underwear all the while doing that stumble-grope-fumble walk backwards to the bed.
When she lies down . . . when I get the full effect of Harlow Nicks nude, it takes my breath away. There are women . . . and then there are women. Harlow is long with curves in all the right places and a tight strip of brown curls atop her pussy, pointing like an arrow to exactly where I want to be. Her thighs glisten with what I’ve already coaxed out of her and her tits are the perfect handful.
Images of what I want to do to her—with her—flicker through my mind as she taunts me with a teasing smile that says she’s waiting. She’s ready. She’s willing.
Every part of me aches to touch and taste and fuck her pussy into oblivion. We’ve had our foreplay in a sense—nights on end sleeping next to each other but not touching—and while I’d be the first guy to volunteer when it comes to dipping my tongue in her well, right now all I can think about is having her, wrapped around me.
It’s going to be brutally painful to take it slow when it comes to her considering how tormented I already am.
But I’m up for the challenge, in more ways than one.
I start with her ankle. Kiss her shin up to her knee. Trace a line with my tongue to her inner thigh. She squirms beneath me, her legs tensing and hands gripping the sheets as my name falls breathlessly from her lips.
And if that’s not enough to make me harder than a rock, her fucking scent does me in. It’s sex—pure goddamn sex and when I breathe her in as I press a kiss to that strip of curls. The hold I have on my restraint snaps.
“Christ, Harlow,” I groan as I cra
wl up her body, the head of my cock brushing against her skin as I go, its own subtle form of torture.
