All Played Out (Rusk University #3) (21 page)

When we both need air, I break away from the kiss and push her backward until she lies flat on the bed. Her arms fly out to her sides, and the rise and fall of her chest makes my mouth water, and as much as I love her in that bra, I want her out of it. Leaning over her, I slide my hands beneath her back to the clasp. She parts her legs around me, hooking her ankles behind my back.

The hooks of her bra come undone at the same time that she lifts her hips, arching her body up so that her center rubs against the muscles of my abdomen. She wants the friction she found that night in my truck, and it would be so easy to shift a little higher, lay myself on top of her, and align our hips. But there’s something beyond sexy about the needy way she writhes against me. I can feel her damp underwear against my skin, and I want to just stay where I am and glory in her uncontrolled actions. Before, I had to work to get her loosened up, to get her to give herself over to the pleasure, but not anymore.

I had intended to taste her, to bring her to the edge that way so that the rest might be easier for her, but now I have a different idea. If I can survive it.

I tell her to move back on the bed, up toward the pillows, and then I crawl onto the mattress beside her. I pull her onto her side to kiss her, and I feel her naked chest crushed against mine for the first time since our night in the pool. It had been good then. Incredible really, but it’s nothing compared to this. Reaching down, I trail my fingers down her thigh until I get to her knee, then with one swift pull, I drag her leg up and over my hip. She gasps and digs her fingernails into my bicep, but I’m not done. Not by a long shot. Slowly, I roll to my back, gripping her hips to bring her with me until she’s astride my hips.

“Sit up,” I say.

She looks nervous, but she complies. And
fuck,
she looks good on top of me. Her hair is wild, and her tits are flushed a pretty pink.

“Put your hands on my chest.”

She does, laying her palms flat against my pecs. Holding her hips, I shift her until my cock is trapped between her and my stomach, the length pressed against her pussy. The only thing between us is a pair of black silky underwear, slick with her arousal.

Guiding her hips like I did in the truck, I whisper, “Move.”

Tentative at first, she flexes forward, sliding along my length.

“I want to watch you,” I tell her. “I want to see you take what you want. Don’t think. Just react. Listen to what your body tells you. Move any way that feels good.”

This time she’s bolder, leaning her weight into her hands so that she can grind her hips down into mine. The pressure on my cock hurts so fucking good, and I have to struggle to keep my breaths steady. She arches her back, pushing herself down the length of me before rocking back up. Faster, she does it again. And again.

Her breasts swing with her movements, and I reach up to cup them in my hands. She cries out, increasing her pace, until the friction of her dragging against me is almost more than I can bear.

But she’s too gorgeous like this. I can’t stop her. I won’t. Not when she’s so completely lost to her desires. I roll her nipples between my fingers, and her movements become erratic, her thighs flexing on both sides of me, and she whimpers something too low for me to hear.

“What, beautiful? What is it?”

“Please,” she whines, her dilated eyes meeting mine. “It’s not enough.
Please
.”

I drag her down for a kiss, and she clings to me, her hands wrapping around my shoulders and squeezing tight. Then, while her mouth is against mine, I reach down and rip the seam on the hip of her underwear. I throw it away, and then the head of my cock brushes against her slick center.

She breaks away from the kiss with a gasp, resting her forehead against mine as she pants against my mouth.

“It’s going to hurt,” I tell her. “But you’re in control. You want to stop. You stop. You want to move. You move.”

She nods, and I guide myself to her opening.

“Wait!” she cries. “Condom.”

Fuck.
Fuck.
I have never in my entire life forgotten a condom. It’s always at the forefront of my mind. Something about her throws me completely off my game.

“Sorry,” I say, at a loss. “I didn’t mean to . . . I just . . . Jesus, Nell, you’re so fucking glorious to watch, I lost my head.”

I start to shift her off to the side, but she stops me. “There’s some in the drawer of my nightstand.”

I lift an eyebrow, and she shrugs. “I like being prepared.”

And it’s a good thing she is. Because the last thing I want to do is climb off this bed to rummage through my jeans. She leans over to open the drawer, and then pulls out an entire box.

“I wasn’t sure what kind to get, so I did some research on the Internet.”

I groan. I can only imagine the kind of research she’s done, knowing how thorough she likes to be.

“They’re perfect,” I say, impatiently tearing open the box and removing a packet. She shifts back onto my thighs, and her eyes watch, fascinated, as I roll the rubber down my length.

I never could have predicted how good this would feel with her. I knew I liked her, I knew my attraction to her was off the charts. But it’s the little things, the way each moment holds interest for her. Each new touch, each new experience . . . she soaks it all up, and it turns my head around. I can’t help but feel like I need to imprint every moment of this evening on my memory, too, to make sure I remember how perfect she was, how much joy there is in her. I don’t want to forget one second of what it’s like to be her first.

I drag her back into place and up to my mouth and whisper against those plump lips, “You’re beautiful, Nell. Thank you. Thank you for this.”

And then for the second time, I guide myself to her wet heat and begin the slow, torturous slide inside her.

She’s tighter than I could have imagined, and even though she’s practically melting around me, it’s not easy to push forward. I dip my head to pull her nipple into my mouth, and she rocks back a little, drawing me a little farther inside.

“That’s it. Push back while I push forward.”

I suck at her breast again, before trapping it between my teeth. Her hips bear down against mine, and she cries out. I push my hips up, driving forward a little harder, and our combined movements push me almost all the way inside.

I collapse back on the bed, stunned into stillness for a moment at the mind-numbing pleasure of being clasped inside her. She sits back, and the last inch of me slides inside, until I can feel our bodies press together.

I force myself to look for her reaction, even though my instinct is to thrust, to pull her down against me and drag myself back through that exquisite tightness.

Her eyes are closed, and her hands are back to resting on my chest. Her expression is pulled tight, and I know she’s in pain.

“Talk to me,” I tell her. “Tell me what to do.”

She shakes her head, her expression tensing even more, and I can feel my stomach drop right through the mattress. She’s shutting me out again. I should have known the pain would be enough to undo all the easiness in her. It’s hard enough for her to let go when all she’s feeling is pleasure.

I sit up, intending to hold her and talk her through it, but she gasps at the movement.

“That felt good.” She sounds surprised.

I wrap my arms around her middle and kiss the corner of her mouth. “It will all feel good. Just give yourself some time to adjust.”

But as usual, Nell doesn’t know how to take things slow. She only knows how to move forward, and I’m grateful for that particular attribute when she rises up on her knees a few inches before sinking back down against me.

Somehow, in the time between that first thrust and now, my memory of how tight she was dimmed, but now it’s back in full force as her body squeezes around me.

“Fuck. You feel so good.”

“I do?”

“Yeah, girl genius. Better than anything I’ve ever felt in my life.”

And it’s true, not just an in-the-moment utterance. This . . .
this right here
. . . is the best I’ve ever felt in my life.

She does it again, lifting a little higher this time, dropping a little faster, and I groan. “How do you feel?” I ask.

“Strange.”

“Good strange?”

“I think so.”

I run my hand up her spine to thread my fingers through her hair. I tilt her face down to mine so I can see her expression. Our gazes meet, and she swirls her hips experimentally, and
fuck,
I lied.

This
is the best I’ve felt in my entire life.

Looking into her eyes, seeing the way they glaze over as she rubs her clit against me, feeling her chest brush against mine, all while being held so perfectly inside her.

I must think that phrase a dozen times, two dozen, as she loosens up, and we begin a slow and steady rhythm. Each moment sends pleasure tearing through my limbs, eclipsing the moment that came before.

Eventually, the position is too restricting for our mutual need to go faster, harder, so I roll, pressing her back against her pillows, and brace my arms on either side of her body. Then I’m slamming into her while her nails score my back and she throws her head back in pleasure. I can feel her getting tighter around me, and I speed up my movement, watching the way her body absorbs my hard thrusts.

She says my name, and that alone nearly drags me over the edge, but I manage to hold on, pausing while I’m buried deep inside her.

I reach between us, rubbing at the sensitive spot between her legs, and am rewarded with the bucking of her hips. I drag myself out, slow and steady, rubbing harder against her. I know she’s close when her legs start to move at my sides. Her hips twist and lift, like she’s reaching for something.

“Mateo,” she says again, and I press my thumb down hard as I slam back into her.

Then her body clutches impossibly tight around me, pulsing and rippling, and I’m gone with her. The pleasure jerks at the base of my spine, and then roars through the rest of me. It burns through my blood, swallowing me up whole, and my last thought as I collapse against Nell’s soft form and take her mouth in a kiss is that I’ve told my final lie.

This
.

This is the moment
.

Chapter 21

Nell’s To-Do List

I
wake up hot. And sweaty. And sticky. Exhausted, I start kicking at my covers, but the muscles in my legs are sore and heavy.

Hold on.

Hot, sweaty, sticky, and sore are
definitely
not part of my normal morning routine. I don’t do anything that can make me sore on a normal basis. (Work out?
Please
.) And I sleep with the air-conditioning set low because I
hate
waking up hot and sweaty. I continue trying to wiggle out from under the covers, pondering these four oddities, and I become aware of a fifth.

I can’t kick the covers off properly because there’s a heavy weight over my legs—and over my waist, too, now that I think about it. I try to lean up onto my elbow, but when I move, the weight around my waist squeezes so tight that I’m abruptly awake.
Very
awake. And there’s a bare chest inches away from my nose.

“Stop moving,” a deep voice growls above my head.

I do stop. I stop so fast that my sore muscles spasm momentarily when I freeze up.

Torres. In my bed.

“And she freaks out in three . . . two . . .”

I push the arm off my waist and sit up straight. That’s about the time I process my nakedness, when I feel the cool air of the bedroom fan over my sweaty skin. It feels good, but I’m more concerned with just how very bright the morning light has made my room. Scrambling, I pluck at the sheet and pull it up to cover my breasts.

Torres groans behind me. (Torres? Mateo? God, why are names so stupid?)

I feel the barest touch low on my spine, just above the curve of my bottom that I know is entirely visible to him. He begins dragging his fingernail up the length of my spine, and I straighten, resisting the urge to squirm under that small exploration. But I can’t control the goose bumps that pebble over my skin or the breath that catches in my throat when the bed shifts and I feel his mouth begin the same trek up my back.

I clutch at the covers, needing something to ground me, and instead I end up gripping his calf. He chuckles, and the puff of his breath in the middle of my back tickles, and I break my resolve to stay still.

“Did you know you squirm when you’re about to come?”

I don’t know how to answer that. My brain is still too foggy from sleep. Do I stay silent? Tell him that yes, I noticed it last night, or no, I’ve never done “that” before him, so I don’t know if it counts? Or do I just tell him to shut up because he’s embarrassing me?

I
don’t
like being embarrassed.

I tell myself I shouldn’t be. What we did last night, it was . . . brilliant. Better than I ever could have imagined. And he’s made no move to rush out of my bed, so that has to be a good sign. But I can’t get over the fact that I’m sticky in places I shouldn’t be sticky, and the sheets against my skin are damp with sweat, and
dear God,
was that his tongue on my back? Doesn’t he know I’m sweaty and gross?

Just when I’m about to bolt for the bathroom, his mouth reaches the nape of my neck, and I feel his tongue and then teeth graze the side of my neck.

“Should I assume your silence is a yes? That you know your arms and legs flail when you’re right on the edge, as if you’re about to fall over an actual cliff?”

I shrug. That’s what I’m reduced to. Master of intellect right here.

His mouth trails along my shoulder, and then I feel the graze of his stubble as he lays his cheek against my back.

“Come on, girl genius. Answer me. It’s important.”

Then, finally, I find my voice. Scoffing, I say, “How could that
possibly
be important?”

“Because I want to fuck you in the shower, but I’m worried you won’t be able to stay standing when you come.”