Page 69 of What If It's You?

“Mmm…” I couldn’t stop the moan that escaped as he pressed himself against me, a long slow movement over my center, every delicious inch of him teasing me, the thin cotton of his pajamas doing nothing to hide the intensity of his arousal. I loosed one wrist to reach for his waistband, but he swatted my hand away, grabbing it again and putting it back on the pillow.

“Someone’s eager,” he growled against my throat, his lips burning a trail over its tissue-paper skin. He ground his hips over me again and I wriggled against him, craving the friction, wanting more, wanting all of him,now.

“You’re not?”

“Good things come to those who wait, Lo.”

“You should know quoting aphorisms in the middle of sex only makes me hotter, Ollie.”

“Andyoushould know that working you up to the point where you’re practically begging me for it is the goal for the morning.”

“I’d never give you the satisfaction.”

“Oh?” he said, moving my wrists into one hand and dropping the other between our bodies, rubbing me roughly over the silky fabric of my underwear. I bucked against his hand unconsciously, body taking over as the insistent pulse of blood crested in a growing ache between my legs, started to cloud my thoughts. “See, I thought I was the one givingyouthe satisfaction.” He moved his fingers over me in a slow circle, years of practice with each other’s bodies—the kind of intimacy you can only create with time, and love—perfecting the movement and the pressure, his muscle memory of me almost as flawless as my own. I let out a strange, breathy little sound and I felt Ollie grin against the top of my breast. “If I was wrong, though…”

Then he pulled back, hand slipping out from between us, the absence of his touch leaving a vacuum of need that was almost painful. I whimpered.

“What was that, Lo?” He blew lightly across my nipple. I could feel it harden, straining to reach his lips.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, voice heavy with my desire.

“Oh?” His tongue flicked over me and my back arched toward him against my will.

“No clue,” I ground out, loosing a hand again to reach between us, cupping him lightly, then squeezing, my first finger flicking back farther, whispering over the skin behind. I could feel his body tighten. He groaned.

“See, I have no problem with begging,” he said, moving his hand over mine, guiding me along his length and back to the base. “Pride is overrated. Please keep doing this”—he squeezed his hand over mine. “And this”—he moved me over him again, circling my hand over the head with his own. “And anything else you can possibly think of.”

“You know what?” I gripped his wrist, moving him back onto me, pressing his fingertips into the exact right spot, moving them over me once, twice, the pleasurable ache rolling outward from mycenter all the way to the roots of my hair. I shivered slightly and guided his hand over me again. “When you’re right, you’re right.”

“Not sure I heard you.” He arched his fingers away and I grinned at him through my half-closed eyes, the dark fringe of lashes blurring him to an impressionist version, dark twists of hair, the strong line of his stubble-darkened jaw, the curve of his body as he held himself above me.

“Please,Ollie.”

“Please what?”

“Please fuck me,” I said, drawing out each word, opening my eyes fully to take in their effect. “Now. Hard.”

“Jesus,” he growled, freeing himself from his pants with one hand and tugging aside my panties, the words turning his need too urgent to linger over niceties like removing them.

He thrust into me hard, hand moving over me roughly with each movement of his hips, his own desire too overwhelming for soft or slow. But I was right there with him, my entire body pulsing with hunger for him, formore. I rocked my hips up to meet Ollie’s, forcing him deeper, the guttural groan when I felt him thrust home escaping one or both of us. I couldn’t tell anymore where he ended and I began, whose pleasure I was feeling build within me with each movement, floodwaters rising higher and higher, threatening to breach their flimsy barriers.

For just a second Ollie paused, body tense with the effort to hold himself back, his peak approaching too quickly.

“It’s okay, Ollie,” I whispered, voice breathy. “Just go.”

He caught my eye. When he spoke, his voice was rough.

“You go first.”

“It’s fine, I can—”

“Please, Lo,” he ground out. His stomach muscles tensed as I started moving again, more slowly this time, intensifying the sensation with my fingers, feeling the heat of Ollie’s watchful eyes bank the fire starting to flicker over my skin. I could almost feel the effort of his restraint.

“I’m close,” I whispered, eyes closing, the intensity of the pleasure starting to overtake me making me a little dizzy. I arched up against Ollie, and with a groan his body responded, hips flexing against me hard, again.

“Hey. With me,” he murmured, voice so soft it startled me more than a yell.

I felt the gentle pressure of Ollie’s hand on my cheek and my eyes flicked open, locked on his. And the tenderness I saw there—all of him open to me, his trust in me, and love for me, so complete that it didn’t matter how vulnerable it made him—was so vivid, so intense, that it simultaneously pushed me over the edge and drove a stake through my heart, pleasure and pain mixing and swirling through me in wave after wave, the current so strong I had to dig my nails into his back to keep from losing myself in the whirlpool. Distantly, I felt him pulse into me, felt his pleasure like an echo of my own, and as I wrapped my arms tighter around him, pulling him against my body, I couldn’t push down the voice sounding in my head.

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