Page 70 of Then You Happened
ne after another as his lips and teeth move along my collarbone and his hips and dick work between my thighs. And the noises he makes—the guttural groans and hisses of pleasure—are an aphrodisiac in and of themselves.
“You feel incredible,” he murmurs, breath heating the skin beneath my jaw as his fingers possess and grip my legs before he pushes himself up.
My eyes flash open as he brushes his thumb over my clit, a strum to ignite the embers he left smoldering there. But there’s something about meeting his eyes like this—in the dim light of the kitchen with his dick in me and fingers on me and his gaze telling me he wants more—that unnerves me in a way I can’t describe.
Too honest.
Too real.
So, I close my eyes and tell myself to let the heat building within me take hold. I want to let Jack overpower my shyness and command that surge of energy and pleasure and bliss to ride through my veins and slam into me so hard that it knocks the breath from me.
“Jack.”
And it does.
My hands grip the edges of the table.
“Jack.”
My back and neck bow.
Like a battering ram I run whole-heartedly into.
“Jack!” I moan as every part of my body is struck hard and fast by relentless lightning.
I tighten my legs around him as my body shudders, my breath turns to a pant, and my world goes white hot. I pulse around him until I hear my name on his lips . . . until it turns into a groan.
Until Jack is struck by the same damn lightning.
20
JACK
Look at me, Tate.
I grunt as I punish myself. One pull-up after another. The damn refrain a punishing cadence I keep tempo to.
Look at me.
The words that filled my mind with each grind into Tate’s body. The same one I repeated with each pull out.
Look. At. Me.
Then all thoughts were lost to the orgasm that tore through me, wave by obliterating wave.
But I think of the words now, of my need for her to see me, watch me, and connect with me. Sure, she moaned my name, but she wouldn’t fucking meet my eyes. I hate that I wonder if her eyes were closed because she was thinking of Fletcher as I was fucking her when all I wanted was for her to be thinking of me.
My hands are sore. The burn in my arms the only release as I repeat the movement. Over and over.
“Wait. You’re leaving?” The look in her eyes matched the tone in her voice—confused, uncertain . . . rejected.
I won’t be a mistake.
Those were the words that ran through my head but were so very different from the ones that I said to her. “It’s probably best this way, Tate.” A tight smile, a soft kiss on her lips, and then a step back when all I wanted to do was dive back in again. “We blurred a lot of lines tonight. You need to make sure you’re still okay with this. With what just happened.” Another brush of lips before I slid my hand over her hip and let it come to a rest on her ass. “Sleep in tomorrow. You might have a hell of a headache from the wine anyway.”
My shoulders ache, but I force myself to remember why I walked away. Of why I had to. Of what the fuck I just did.
But the ache doesn’t do shit to erase the hurt that was in her eyes or the war that waged over her features as she kissed me one last time and then closed the door.
