All I Want
Page 35
Christ. Get your shit together, Tessa. It’s not like he dropped the L bomb. He simply looked at you with unashamed honesty, and confessed… what? That he’s doesn’t want to get his mind off me anymore? That he’s done hooking up with other women? Or did he just mean he doesn’t want to have sex with Jolene again?
I let my head fall into my hands with a heavy sigh.
Shit. You’re overthinking things. Knock it off.
I walk over to Luke’s dresser, grabbing a pair of boxer briefs and one of his worn T-shirts to slip into. As I’m popping my head through the top, I spot a glass container sitting next to his bedside lamp, full of guitar picks. I sit on the bed with it, holding it up and staring at the contents. I don’t remember ever seeing this in Luke’s room before, but most of the picks in the jar look used. The logos are faded, the designs barely visible, and some of them are even chipped along the edges. As I’m fishing through the jar, letting the picks clink against the glass, something else catches my attention.
A guitar case, black and covered in stickers, is leaning against the wall in the corner. I place the jar down and move across the room, crouching down to examine it. The stickers on the case are peeling off, and I run my finger over the edge of one, pressing it down to try and reattach it. My curiosity becomes too much to ignore, and I lay the case down and pop the snaps, flipping the lid back.
“What are you doing?”
The unexpected sound of Luke’s voice sends me falling back onto my ass, striking my upper back against corner of the dresser. “Ow. Son of a bitch.”
“You okay?”
I reach back and rub my shoulder, looking up at him just as he takes a bite of something he’s holding between his thumb and finger. “Yeah, I’m fine.” I push to my feet and glance between the open case and him. “Do you play the guitar?”
He shakes his head, takes a few steps toward me, and kicks the case closed. “No. Here, they dropped your car off.”
I take the keys and set them on his nightstand next to the jar of picks. “Why do you have all these, then? Do you like collecting them or something?” I turn my head when he doesn’t answer, just in time to see him pop the last bite of a cookie-dough square into his mouth. His attention is on my outfit, with raised brows and a brazen smile twisting across his lips.
“Luke.”
“Babe,” he replies after swallowing his bite.
I roll my eyes at the title he always used to label me with. In private. “Can you look at me please?”
“I am looking at you. Are you wearing my boxers?” He lifts the hem of the T-shirt I’m wearing, exposing my left hip. “That’s fucking hot.”
I’m quickly tossed onto the bed, and the moment my head crashes down on the pillow, a cloud of Whores-R-Us perfume surrounds me. I cover my nose and mouth with my hands, rolling to the edge, and wiggling off. “Ugh, gross. Your sheets smell horrible.”
Luke bends down and grabs a handful of his sheet, bringing it up to his nose. He gathers them up, mumbling something under his breath, and takes them out of the room, returning moments later with a clean set. “Sorry,” he says, meeting my eyes.
I shrug, watching as he makes the bed, leaving the covers turned down before looking over at me for approval. I scramble back onto the bed and lean against the headboard as he reaches for the button on his jeans.
“So, why do you have a guitar here and all those picks if you don’t play?”
His eyes go to the floor where the case remains closed but unlatched. “I just do.”
“Why?”
“Tessa…” His chest heaves with a deep breath as his eyes reach mine. “I just fucking have them, okay? People accumulate all kinds of shit that doesn’t mean anything to them. It’s just here.”
I stare, unconvinced, arms crossing over my chest. “Nobody collects things, like guitar picks, if they don’t mean something. Why would you have more than one if you didn’t want to?”
He slides his pants and boxers down, stepping out of them. “I don’t want to talk about this.”
There’s a finality to his words. That familiar hidden warning Luke always projects when I touch on a subject that is too personal for him. Twelve months ago I would’ve backed off, changed the subject, not dug for answers to things I desperately wanted to know about. But I can’t be like that anymore. Not when I know how it ends for me.
I hold my hands out, palms facing him as he crawls toward me. “Wait. I want to talk.”
“So talk.” He grabs my ankle and pulls me ’til I’m flat on the bed. “Nothing’s ever stopped you from being vocal before. You know I get off on that.” He presses my legs apart, and I flatten my hands against his head, keeping him inches away from where I know he wants to be.
I wait ’til he lifts his eyes to mine before I explain. “That’s not the kind of talking I mean, and you know it. You gotta give me something. If you don’t want to tell me about the guitar, fine, but I want to know who Sara is.”
He presses his lips to my inner thigh, trailing higher on my skin, pushing into my hands. “Stop fighting me.”
“Tell me who she is,” I repeat, tilting my head to read the name scrolled across his ribcage. I push harder against him, meeting his resistance. “Luke, I’m serious. I… oh, God. Don’t do that.” I keep one hand on his head, reaching between my legs and grabbing a hold of his wrist as his finger slides along the front of the briefs I’m wearing. I close my eyes when I feel his lips press against my hip, and suddenly my hands go limp, falling in surrender to the mattress. “I want to talk. Please talk to me.”
“Go ahead and talk, babe. Nothing’s stopping you.” He blows against my clit, cooling me through the thin material separating us as his hands slide under my ass.
I need to be strong right now. To demand answers. To reach down and grab the briefs he’s sliding down my legs. Why does he do this to me? Why can’t I block him out and focus on anything but the rough grip of his hands? The sound he makes when he bites my skin, or the urgent slide of his tongue? Practiced. Familiar. But never routine. The only predictable facet regarding the way Luke Evans eats pussy is that he’s getting at least one orgasm out of you. Most likely several, and good fucking luck saying anything but his name while he’s doing it.
I bunch the sheet I’m lying on in my hands. “Goddamn it. Why can’t you just wait a couple minutes before you… Oh, God, just wait… That’s… fuuuck.” I take in a shaky breath, then sigh. “I hate you right now.”
“Yeah?” he asks, stroking my clit with his tongue. “What do you hate? This?” He tilts my hips up, slides his tongue inside me, and fucks me with it. “You hate this?”
“Yes,” I answer through a moan.
“Tell me everything you hate. Make me feel it.”
I arch my back when two fingers replace his tongue. “I hate that you know I like that.” I scratch along his scalp when he sucks on my clit. “I hate… mmm, I really hate when you use your—” I gasp. “Teeth, right there.”
“What else?”
I go to open my eyes, to stare down at him ’cause I know he’s looking at me, but they just roll farther back into my head the moment he pinches my nipple. “I don’t know. I hate a lot of things.”
I let my head fall into my hands with a heavy sigh.
Shit. You’re overthinking things. Knock it off.
I walk over to Luke’s dresser, grabbing a pair of boxer briefs and one of his worn T-shirts to slip into. As I’m popping my head through the top, I spot a glass container sitting next to his bedside lamp, full of guitar picks. I sit on the bed with it, holding it up and staring at the contents. I don’t remember ever seeing this in Luke’s room before, but most of the picks in the jar look used. The logos are faded, the designs barely visible, and some of them are even chipped along the edges. As I’m fishing through the jar, letting the picks clink against the glass, something else catches my attention.
A guitar case, black and covered in stickers, is leaning against the wall in the corner. I place the jar down and move across the room, crouching down to examine it. The stickers on the case are peeling off, and I run my finger over the edge of one, pressing it down to try and reattach it. My curiosity becomes too much to ignore, and I lay the case down and pop the snaps, flipping the lid back.
“What are you doing?”
The unexpected sound of Luke’s voice sends me falling back onto my ass, striking my upper back against corner of the dresser. “Ow. Son of a bitch.”
“You okay?”
I reach back and rub my shoulder, looking up at him just as he takes a bite of something he’s holding between his thumb and finger. “Yeah, I’m fine.” I push to my feet and glance between the open case and him. “Do you play the guitar?”
He shakes his head, takes a few steps toward me, and kicks the case closed. “No. Here, they dropped your car off.”
I take the keys and set them on his nightstand next to the jar of picks. “Why do you have all these, then? Do you like collecting them or something?” I turn my head when he doesn’t answer, just in time to see him pop the last bite of a cookie-dough square into his mouth. His attention is on my outfit, with raised brows and a brazen smile twisting across his lips.
“Luke.”
“Babe,” he replies after swallowing his bite.
I roll my eyes at the title he always used to label me with. In private. “Can you look at me please?”
“I am looking at you. Are you wearing my boxers?” He lifts the hem of the T-shirt I’m wearing, exposing my left hip. “That’s fucking hot.”
I’m quickly tossed onto the bed, and the moment my head crashes down on the pillow, a cloud of Whores-R-Us perfume surrounds me. I cover my nose and mouth with my hands, rolling to the edge, and wiggling off. “Ugh, gross. Your sheets smell horrible.”
Luke bends down and grabs a handful of his sheet, bringing it up to his nose. He gathers them up, mumbling something under his breath, and takes them out of the room, returning moments later with a clean set. “Sorry,” he says, meeting my eyes.
I shrug, watching as he makes the bed, leaving the covers turned down before looking over at me for approval. I scramble back onto the bed and lean against the headboard as he reaches for the button on his jeans.
“So, why do you have a guitar here and all those picks if you don’t play?”
His eyes go to the floor where the case remains closed but unlatched. “I just do.”
“Why?”
“Tessa…” His chest heaves with a deep breath as his eyes reach mine. “I just fucking have them, okay? People accumulate all kinds of shit that doesn’t mean anything to them. It’s just here.”
I stare, unconvinced, arms crossing over my chest. “Nobody collects things, like guitar picks, if they don’t mean something. Why would you have more than one if you didn’t want to?”
He slides his pants and boxers down, stepping out of them. “I don’t want to talk about this.”
There’s a finality to his words. That familiar hidden warning Luke always projects when I touch on a subject that is too personal for him. Twelve months ago I would’ve backed off, changed the subject, not dug for answers to things I desperately wanted to know about. But I can’t be like that anymore. Not when I know how it ends for me.
I hold my hands out, palms facing him as he crawls toward me. “Wait. I want to talk.”
“So talk.” He grabs my ankle and pulls me ’til I’m flat on the bed. “Nothing’s ever stopped you from being vocal before. You know I get off on that.” He presses my legs apart, and I flatten my hands against his head, keeping him inches away from where I know he wants to be.
I wait ’til he lifts his eyes to mine before I explain. “That’s not the kind of talking I mean, and you know it. You gotta give me something. If you don’t want to tell me about the guitar, fine, but I want to know who Sara is.”
He presses his lips to my inner thigh, trailing higher on my skin, pushing into my hands. “Stop fighting me.”
“Tell me who she is,” I repeat, tilting my head to read the name scrolled across his ribcage. I push harder against him, meeting his resistance. “Luke, I’m serious. I… oh, God. Don’t do that.” I keep one hand on his head, reaching between my legs and grabbing a hold of his wrist as his finger slides along the front of the briefs I’m wearing. I close my eyes when I feel his lips press against my hip, and suddenly my hands go limp, falling in surrender to the mattress. “I want to talk. Please talk to me.”
“Go ahead and talk, babe. Nothing’s stopping you.” He blows against my clit, cooling me through the thin material separating us as his hands slide under my ass.
I need to be strong right now. To demand answers. To reach down and grab the briefs he’s sliding down my legs. Why does he do this to me? Why can’t I block him out and focus on anything but the rough grip of his hands? The sound he makes when he bites my skin, or the urgent slide of his tongue? Practiced. Familiar. But never routine. The only predictable facet regarding the way Luke Evans eats pussy is that he’s getting at least one orgasm out of you. Most likely several, and good fucking luck saying anything but his name while he’s doing it.
I bunch the sheet I’m lying on in my hands. “Goddamn it. Why can’t you just wait a couple minutes before you… Oh, God, just wait… That’s… fuuuck.” I take in a shaky breath, then sigh. “I hate you right now.”
“Yeah?” he asks, stroking my clit with his tongue. “What do you hate? This?” He tilts my hips up, slides his tongue inside me, and fucks me with it. “You hate this?”
“Yes,” I answer through a moan.
“Tell me everything you hate. Make me feel it.”
I arch my back when two fingers replace his tongue. “I hate that you know I like that.” I scratch along his scalp when he sucks on my clit. “I hate… mmm, I really hate when you use your—” I gasp. “Teeth, right there.”
“What else?”
I go to open my eyes, to stare down at him ’cause I know he’s looking at me, but they just roll farther back into my head the moment he pinches my nipple. “I don’t know. I hate a lot of things.”
