Crushed
Page 43
“Hey,” I say to his chest. My arousal is rapidly turning to embarrassment. Sort of.
“Hey.” His voice is husky with sleep. Or something else? Never mind. My arousal is definitely still firmly in place.
His arms move again, I assume to pull away, but then his hands are on my back. Not caressing, quite, just resting there. I can feel the heat of all ten damn fingertips against the thin fabric of my swimsuit cover-up.
My eyes close.
“I should probably go find Kristin,” I say. “Make sure she’s okay.”
Kristin isn’t going to want to talk to me. But I have to say something.
“Yeah,” he says in that rough voice.
But I don’t move. Neither does he, and those damn hands are still hot against my back, his cock (because, I’m sorry, but what else can you call it when it’s nestled against your belly?) still hard and compelling.
Oh my God.
My head tilts up, my eyes finding his, hot and sleepy as they meet mine.
I open my mouth to tell him that I should go. To tell him that I’m sorry my fingers are tangled in his shirt, and that I’ve pressed myself against him, and that I want him just like all those other sex-crazed hussies downstairs, but before I can say any of it … Michael kisses me.
Not a “for show” kiss like earlier in the day when he was trying to prove a point.
Not a brother-to-sister aren’t you so adorable kind of kiss.
It’s a man-to-woman I want you kind of kiss.
Hot, openmouthed, and delicious.
And although my brain is screaming at me that this is a mistake at a million different levels, I kiss him back.
His mouth tastes familiar. And the way we kiss is familiar, too. Like we’ve done it a hundred times, as though we belong here. Belong to each other.
I moan.
So does he.
My fingers tighten on his shirt before creeping up to his neck and his face, and then my arms wind around his neck.
He responds, his arms still wrapped around me. One arm moves up to cup the back of my head, the other moves down to cradle my hips, and he leans into me, rolling me beneath him as his tongue claims mine.
Michael.
Somehow we’ve gone from a harmless cuddle to a harmless nap to curious touching (okay, that part was just me) to him fully on top of me, cradled between my thighs like he owns them (maybe), our mouths fused so tightly I’m not sure how we’re even breathing.
My fingernails dig into his hair, his in mine, and I don’t want it to stop. Not ever.
The hand on my hip slips downward, over my hip bone before moving back, cupping my butt and pulling me up toward him.
My cover-up has long ago ridden up around my waist, so now it’s just his swim trunks against my bikini bottoms, and it’s both too much and not enough.
Our matching groans are drowned out only by the first pop pop of fireworks.
Michael’s head pulls up, and he stares down at me, breathing heavily.
I put a hand over my mouth to stifle my laugh.
“Fireworks?” he says, his voice tortured. “Seriously?”
“Well,” I say around a snicker. “At least it didn’t happen during, you know … climax.”
I realize my mistake as soon as I say it. His smile fades and his eyes turn downright stormy as his gaze roams my face and then downward.
“Chloe—”
I put a hand over his mouth. “If you want to stop, just tell me. No BS about not wanting to hurt me, or this not being right, or whatever. Either you want me or you don’t.”
His eyes flick back to mine, but he doesn’t answer.
“Be honest with me,” I say.
“I want you,” he says, the words muffled behind my fingers.
His voice is husky and my heart soars.
“But—”
My heart plummets, and my hand drops.
His eyes go soft, and somehow that’s the worst thing that can happen.
“I’m not Devon.”
My hands reach up, cupping his face. “I know. I know. I just … I want you. And I want to be wanted. I want to be the kind of girl that guys can’t help themselves around. I want to be irresistible.”
His hand finds my face, the heel of it brushing my cheek as his fingers touch my crazy hair. “Chloe.”
Then it’s my turn to touch. My fingers roam over his eyebrows, his cheek. His lips. “Please? I won’t ask for anything more than a night to remember. I want a story to tell, Michael. I want at least one crazy thing in my twenties to go with my boring degrees and my Harry Potter obsession. I want to lose myself in someone, in a carnal, dirty kind of way.”
He closes his eyes. “Jesus, Chloe.”
Acting on instinct and hoping to God I’m not getting it wrong, I lift up just slightly to kiss the underside of his jaw.
His fingers tighten in my hair.
I trail my lips along the rough stubble until I find the spot just below his ear. I suck.
“Fuck.”
Encouraged by his increasingly ragged breathing, I start to move my hands over his shoulders, but he moves quickly, his hands finding mine and lifting them over my head, pinning them against the pillow.
“Chloe. No.”
I’m already braced for the embarrassment, so that doesn’t sting too much, but the hurt I feel at his rejection surprises me.
“Yeah,” I say, shaking my head, and hoping the sound of the fireworks drowns out the sound of my pride splintering. “Right. I’m sorry, I should have figured you wouldn’t—”
“Hey.” His voice is husky with sleep. Or something else? Never mind. My arousal is definitely still firmly in place.
His arms move again, I assume to pull away, but then his hands are on my back. Not caressing, quite, just resting there. I can feel the heat of all ten damn fingertips against the thin fabric of my swimsuit cover-up.
My eyes close.
“I should probably go find Kristin,” I say. “Make sure she’s okay.”
Kristin isn’t going to want to talk to me. But I have to say something.
“Yeah,” he says in that rough voice.
But I don’t move. Neither does he, and those damn hands are still hot against my back, his cock (because, I’m sorry, but what else can you call it when it’s nestled against your belly?) still hard and compelling.
Oh my God.
My head tilts up, my eyes finding his, hot and sleepy as they meet mine.
I open my mouth to tell him that I should go. To tell him that I’m sorry my fingers are tangled in his shirt, and that I’ve pressed myself against him, and that I want him just like all those other sex-crazed hussies downstairs, but before I can say any of it … Michael kisses me.
Not a “for show” kiss like earlier in the day when he was trying to prove a point.
Not a brother-to-sister aren’t you so adorable kind of kiss.
It’s a man-to-woman I want you kind of kiss.
Hot, openmouthed, and delicious.
And although my brain is screaming at me that this is a mistake at a million different levels, I kiss him back.
His mouth tastes familiar. And the way we kiss is familiar, too. Like we’ve done it a hundred times, as though we belong here. Belong to each other.
I moan.
So does he.
My fingers tighten on his shirt before creeping up to his neck and his face, and then my arms wind around his neck.
He responds, his arms still wrapped around me. One arm moves up to cup the back of my head, the other moves down to cradle my hips, and he leans into me, rolling me beneath him as his tongue claims mine.
Michael.
Somehow we’ve gone from a harmless cuddle to a harmless nap to curious touching (okay, that part was just me) to him fully on top of me, cradled between my thighs like he owns them (maybe), our mouths fused so tightly I’m not sure how we’re even breathing.
My fingernails dig into his hair, his in mine, and I don’t want it to stop. Not ever.
The hand on my hip slips downward, over my hip bone before moving back, cupping my butt and pulling me up toward him.
My cover-up has long ago ridden up around my waist, so now it’s just his swim trunks against my bikini bottoms, and it’s both too much and not enough.
Our matching groans are drowned out only by the first pop pop of fireworks.
Michael’s head pulls up, and he stares down at me, breathing heavily.
I put a hand over my mouth to stifle my laugh.
“Fireworks?” he says, his voice tortured. “Seriously?”
“Well,” I say around a snicker. “At least it didn’t happen during, you know … climax.”
I realize my mistake as soon as I say it. His smile fades and his eyes turn downright stormy as his gaze roams my face and then downward.
“Chloe—”
I put a hand over his mouth. “If you want to stop, just tell me. No BS about not wanting to hurt me, or this not being right, or whatever. Either you want me or you don’t.”
His eyes flick back to mine, but he doesn’t answer.
“Be honest with me,” I say.
“I want you,” he says, the words muffled behind my fingers.
His voice is husky and my heart soars.
“But—”
My heart plummets, and my hand drops.
His eyes go soft, and somehow that’s the worst thing that can happen.
“I’m not Devon.”
My hands reach up, cupping his face. “I know. I know. I just … I want you. And I want to be wanted. I want to be the kind of girl that guys can’t help themselves around. I want to be irresistible.”
His hand finds my face, the heel of it brushing my cheek as his fingers touch my crazy hair. “Chloe.”
Then it’s my turn to touch. My fingers roam over his eyebrows, his cheek. His lips. “Please? I won’t ask for anything more than a night to remember. I want a story to tell, Michael. I want at least one crazy thing in my twenties to go with my boring degrees and my Harry Potter obsession. I want to lose myself in someone, in a carnal, dirty kind of way.”
He closes his eyes. “Jesus, Chloe.”
Acting on instinct and hoping to God I’m not getting it wrong, I lift up just slightly to kiss the underside of his jaw.
His fingers tighten in my hair.
I trail my lips along the rough stubble until I find the spot just below his ear. I suck.
“Fuck.”
Encouraged by his increasingly ragged breathing, I start to move my hands over his shoulders, but he moves quickly, his hands finding mine and lifting them over my head, pinning them against the pillow.
“Chloe. No.”
I’m already braced for the embarrassment, so that doesn’t sting too much, but the hurt I feel at his rejection surprises me.
“Yeah,” I say, shaking my head, and hoping the sound of the fireworks drowns out the sound of my pride splintering. “Right. I’m sorry, I should have figured you wouldn’t—”
