The Hating Game
Page 79
“If we do this tonight, I’m not going to let you get weird on me.” His eyes are solemn as he braces himself up a little. “Are you going to have one of your infamous freak-outs?”
“I don’t know. Very possibly.” I try for a joke but he’s not remotely amused.
“I wish I knew how much I have of you. How much do I get?” He’s kissing me on the throat again, fingers tightening on mine.
“Until the interviews, you get it all,” I say into his skin, and he lets out a shaky breath, like I’ve offered him forever, not a few days.
We begin kissing again, and the friction of my thigh against his groin is spurring him into a slightly heavier rhythm. His mouth is wet, soft, delicious. The moment he stops, even to take a proper breath, I tug him back.
After an eternity, he tangles his hand in the strap on my shoulder. He runs it lasciviously through his fingers pulling it taut, releasing it with the faintest snap, and then does it again.
“The zip’s at the side,” I tell him. Technically I think I begged him.
He ignores me completely and instead slides his finger down to the bow between my breasts. “The smallest bow I’ve ever seen.” He dips his head and bites it.
We’re going so slowly, I wouldn’t be surprised to open my eyes and see daylight. He’s always completely different from what I expect. Soft instead of hard. Slow instead of fast. Shy instead of brash. My previous boyfriends and any of their egg-timer foreplay attempts are distant memories now that I’m experiencing the intense pleasure of lying underneath Josh.
He slides a hand into my hair and the scrape of his nails against my scalp makes my skin break into goose bumps. He licks them. He coils up smoothly to kneel between my feet, seemingly just for a better view. It works for me. I watch his stomach flex, and I make a sound like ohhgah.
“How do you even look like this?”
“I don’t have anything better to do than go to the gym.”
“You do now.”
I sit up too and drag my mouth across the muscles, and I do what I’ve always wanted to. I get my hands on his ass, and it is fabulous.
His hands slide into my hair and I begin making out with his stomach. I can’t help myself. I find a little bit of hair, and look up to see he’s got a light dusting on his chest, in a line down, disappearing beyond the waistband of his suit pants.
“Horny eyes,” he tells me shakily.
“No kidding. I want to snort you. You always smell amazing.” I press my nose into his skin and breathe in as hard as I can, and he begins to laugh. I look up at him and grin.
His fingers are resting on the zip at my side.
“I’m completely covered in bruises,” I say by way of a disclaimer. I suck my stomach in, looking at his abs.
“You’re cute when you get shy. I’ll go slow.” He eases one strap down, lets it rest against my arm. He does the same with the other one. He bites his lip. “I’m going to sit down. I feel too tall.”
There’s a brief reshuffle when he leans against the headboard and I settle between his legs and rest back against him. His hands spread over my shoulders, and my eyes close as he begins to rub, the sweetest, most strangely timed massage. Most men would be unzipping and feeling by now, but he’s not most men.
“You sat like this when you were sick.”
He continues to massage, the friction between us blooming outward. He scoops my hair away and presses his mouth on the side of my neck. I’ll barely be able to remember my own name at this rate.
He slides his hand into the satin and weighs my bare breast in his hand. Slowly, gently, his fingers pinch.
“Oh, yeah,” he groans, and presses his mouth back to my neck.
I hear the sound I make. The kind of harsh intake people usually make from extreme pain. Except I feel like I’m halfway to orgasm.
“Imagine all the things we’re going to do,” he says, almost to himself.
“I don’t want to imagine. I want to know.” My feet are scrambling uselessly against the sheets, like I’m being electrocuted.
“You will. But tonight isn’t enough, I can already feel it. I’ve always told you, I need days. Weeks.”
I barely notice the zipper sliding down. He’s easing me out of the stretchy satin, because the feeling of his big palms smoothing over me is sublime. I’m being coddled and patted, skin warmed, everything admired. When I manage to open my eyes, his breath is steaming hot underneath my ear and the cream fabric is puddled at my waist. He unclips my stockings and leans over my shoulder to look at me.
“Mmm.” He hooks his fingers into the sides of the fabric at my hips, tugs it down my legs and I’m naked except for my stockings.
I see the leg of his suit pants, which makes my nudity feel even more vulnerable. I bring my knees up, trying to hide myself, but there’s no point. He makes kind, soothing sounds against the back of my ear. His huge hand strokes down my hip, my thigh, then clasps my waist. The other hand follows suit.
“Lucy,” is all he can seem to say. “Lucy. How am I going to walk away from tonight? Seriously. How?”
I get goose bumps. I’m wondering the same thing. I let my head drop to one side, and we kiss.
I’m hoarse and breathless. “I’m gonna die tonight. Please take your pants off.”
“I want that embroidered on a pillow,” he says, and I laugh until I’m gasping.
“You’re so funny. I’ve always thought so. I could never laugh, but I wanted to.”
“Ah, so that’s one of your rules.” He slides off the bed, hand on the button at his waistband. “So the aim of the game is to not laugh?”
“The aim is to make the other person laugh. Come on. I’m getting cold.” I’m getting impatient, more like. He pulls the sheets and blankets over me when I shiver and I watch him like a lecherous creep as he manages to ease the zip down on his pants.
“I have my own rules. And the aim of the game is different for me.”
Watching Josh take off a pair of suit pants is on another level. He’s in these stretchy black trunks. They’re badly bent out of shape in front.
“Do tell. Come on.”
He slides those shorts down, and my mouth drops open. Seems that even my fevered imagination was woefully inadequate. I’m about to tell him that he is glorious when he snaps the lamp and we are plunged into darkness.
“I don’t know. Very possibly.” I try for a joke but he’s not remotely amused.
“I wish I knew how much I have of you. How much do I get?” He’s kissing me on the throat again, fingers tightening on mine.
“Until the interviews, you get it all,” I say into his skin, and he lets out a shaky breath, like I’ve offered him forever, not a few days.
We begin kissing again, and the friction of my thigh against his groin is spurring him into a slightly heavier rhythm. His mouth is wet, soft, delicious. The moment he stops, even to take a proper breath, I tug him back.
After an eternity, he tangles his hand in the strap on my shoulder. He runs it lasciviously through his fingers pulling it taut, releasing it with the faintest snap, and then does it again.
“The zip’s at the side,” I tell him. Technically I think I begged him.
He ignores me completely and instead slides his finger down to the bow between my breasts. “The smallest bow I’ve ever seen.” He dips his head and bites it.
We’re going so slowly, I wouldn’t be surprised to open my eyes and see daylight. He’s always completely different from what I expect. Soft instead of hard. Slow instead of fast. Shy instead of brash. My previous boyfriends and any of their egg-timer foreplay attempts are distant memories now that I’m experiencing the intense pleasure of lying underneath Josh.
He slides a hand into my hair and the scrape of his nails against my scalp makes my skin break into goose bumps. He licks them. He coils up smoothly to kneel between my feet, seemingly just for a better view. It works for me. I watch his stomach flex, and I make a sound like ohhgah.
“How do you even look like this?”
“I don’t have anything better to do than go to the gym.”
“You do now.”
I sit up too and drag my mouth across the muscles, and I do what I’ve always wanted to. I get my hands on his ass, and it is fabulous.
His hands slide into my hair and I begin making out with his stomach. I can’t help myself. I find a little bit of hair, and look up to see he’s got a light dusting on his chest, in a line down, disappearing beyond the waistband of his suit pants.
“Horny eyes,” he tells me shakily.
“No kidding. I want to snort you. You always smell amazing.” I press my nose into his skin and breathe in as hard as I can, and he begins to laugh. I look up at him and grin.
His fingers are resting on the zip at my side.
“I’m completely covered in bruises,” I say by way of a disclaimer. I suck my stomach in, looking at his abs.
“You’re cute when you get shy. I’ll go slow.” He eases one strap down, lets it rest against my arm. He does the same with the other one. He bites his lip. “I’m going to sit down. I feel too tall.”
There’s a brief reshuffle when he leans against the headboard and I settle between his legs and rest back against him. His hands spread over my shoulders, and my eyes close as he begins to rub, the sweetest, most strangely timed massage. Most men would be unzipping and feeling by now, but he’s not most men.
“You sat like this when you were sick.”
He continues to massage, the friction between us blooming outward. He scoops my hair away and presses his mouth on the side of my neck. I’ll barely be able to remember my own name at this rate.
He slides his hand into the satin and weighs my bare breast in his hand. Slowly, gently, his fingers pinch.
“Oh, yeah,” he groans, and presses his mouth back to my neck.
I hear the sound I make. The kind of harsh intake people usually make from extreme pain. Except I feel like I’m halfway to orgasm.
“Imagine all the things we’re going to do,” he says, almost to himself.
“I don’t want to imagine. I want to know.” My feet are scrambling uselessly against the sheets, like I’m being electrocuted.
“You will. But tonight isn’t enough, I can already feel it. I’ve always told you, I need days. Weeks.”
I barely notice the zipper sliding down. He’s easing me out of the stretchy satin, because the feeling of his big palms smoothing over me is sublime. I’m being coddled and patted, skin warmed, everything admired. When I manage to open my eyes, his breath is steaming hot underneath my ear and the cream fabric is puddled at my waist. He unclips my stockings and leans over my shoulder to look at me.
“Mmm.” He hooks his fingers into the sides of the fabric at my hips, tugs it down my legs and I’m naked except for my stockings.
I see the leg of his suit pants, which makes my nudity feel even more vulnerable. I bring my knees up, trying to hide myself, but there’s no point. He makes kind, soothing sounds against the back of my ear. His huge hand strokes down my hip, my thigh, then clasps my waist. The other hand follows suit.
“Lucy,” is all he can seem to say. “Lucy. How am I going to walk away from tonight? Seriously. How?”
I get goose bumps. I’m wondering the same thing. I let my head drop to one side, and we kiss.
I’m hoarse and breathless. “I’m gonna die tonight. Please take your pants off.”
“I want that embroidered on a pillow,” he says, and I laugh until I’m gasping.
“You’re so funny. I’ve always thought so. I could never laugh, but I wanted to.”
“Ah, so that’s one of your rules.” He slides off the bed, hand on the button at his waistband. “So the aim of the game is to not laugh?”
“The aim is to make the other person laugh. Come on. I’m getting cold.” I’m getting impatient, more like. He pulls the sheets and blankets over me when I shiver and I watch him like a lecherous creep as he manages to ease the zip down on his pants.
“I have my own rules. And the aim of the game is different for me.”
Watching Josh take off a pair of suit pants is on another level. He’s in these stretchy black trunks. They’re badly bent out of shape in front.
“Do tell. Come on.”
He slides those shorts down, and my mouth drops open. Seems that even my fevered imagination was woefully inadequate. I’m about to tell him that he is glorious when he snaps the lamp and we are plunged into darkness.
