Page 57 of Well, Actually
I close the space between us, throwing my arms around his neck. I feel him suck in a breath right as I seal my mouth to his, kissing him hard.
Everything else dissolves. There’s only the warmth of Rylie’s mouth, the initial surprise and the instantaneous hunger. One large palm cradling my jaw, coaxing me to open for him, the silky heat of his tongue finding mine. The growl in the back of his throat as he pushes his body closer to mine. His free hand slides to my lower back, under my clinging wet shirt, hitching me against him.
I’m feral, fisting my hands in his hair, wrapping my thigh around his hip, threatening to push him down right on his stoop. Rylie has the audacity to laugh, a smug, delighted sound, and I almost manage to protest his enjoyment, but he’s turning us, pulling me the rest of the way in, kicking his front door closed behind him. His touch is everywhere—lips at my throat, teeth at my collarbone, palm under my skirt and cupping my ass—and I gasp in a few fractured breaths, head spinning.
“What is this?” he says, more to himself than to me. His expression is dazed, eyes mapping a wild course down my body. He grips the hem of my T-shirt, pulling the soaked fabric up and over my head. “What’s happening?”
“Bed,” I pant against his mouth, only breaking apart to similarly remove his shirt. “Take me to your bed.”
I have the briefest thought that I hope his roommates aren’t home, or are at least sequestered in their rooms, but then Rylie’s bare palms are at my waist, firmly guiding me toward the stairs, and I realize I don’t much care who’s home. His eyes are fever bright, color high on his cheeks and lips parted as he stares at me like he’s a starving man. Like he wants to devour me.
“Whatisthis?” he asks again, question steadier, but he continues to walk me up the steps, both of us clumsy and desperate, tripping more than progressing.
“One night,” I gasp out as Rylie takes matters into his own hands and lifts me, wrapping my legs around his waist and carrying me up the final steps. I’m a tall girl, and I’ve often been denied the soft luxury of being made to feel dainty by a partner, but Rylie cradles me against his body like I’m something delicate he’s so glad to hold.
“One night?” he echoes, letting me slide from his arms when we make it to his floor, using his hands to frame my face, kissing me harder.
“Just one,” I emphasize, somehow getting the words out over the bubble of protest in my throat. “You better make it good.”
We bounce our way down the hall, slamming against walls and skewing picture frames as we claw at each other, mouths and teeth and tongues never leaving the other’s skin. We crash through his bedroom door and there’s nothing but his hands in my hair, at my neck, my fingers tearing at his sweatpants, my shoes kicked toward his bed, the…
“What the fuck is on your bed?” I pant out, rearing away from him. My sudden movement throws Rylie off balance, and his face lands against my chest with a groan. He takes longer than necessary to lift his head, dragging his face side to side. I tug roughly at his hair. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Even in the low light, Rylie’s blush is luminous, and he straightens, righting his crooked glasses as he follows my look of horror to the…thingcovering his bed.
“It’s… it’s a jomforter.”
“Awhat?” I take a wary, but morbidly curious, step closer toward it. A giant navy… I guess you could call it a comforter is stretched across his mattress. I realize with a gasp of horror that it is in fact made of denim, a giant back pocket taking up the majority of the space, belt loops lining the top edge. It’s stitched with gold thread.
“A jomforter,” Rylie repeats, dragging a hand along the back of his neck. “A jean comforter.”
“Why in god’s name is it on your bed?”
“I… I think it’s pretty hilarious, to be honest with you,” he says, wrinkling his nose, his chest heaving. “I can see how maybe it’s not the most, uh, alluring of bedding in this moment, though.”
Jesus. I can’t believe I’m about to have sex on a denim duvet.
“Do you curl up in the pocket?” I ask, unable to help myself.
Rylie’s laugh is rough and bright. “Once, yeah.”
I continue to stare at the hideous thing, wondering what has happened to me that I somehow find that so endearing it makes Rylie even more attractive.
“I wanted an obvious signal to visitors that I’m a freak in the jeets,” he whispers, coming up behind me and dropping his hands to my waist and his smile to my neck.
“Stop fucking talking,” I growl, turning in his arms and letting him back me up until my thighs hit the edge of his atrocious bed. “Never speak again, I’m begging you.”
“You’ll be begging for a lot of other things in a few minutes.”
“I’m gonna hold you to that.”
His eyes glint in challenge, fingers hooking into the elastic waistband of my skirt. He gives me a questioning look, and I nod, helping him shimmy it off my hips as he goes back to kissing me. He sucks in a sharp breath as his hands cup my bare ass. His eyes shoot open in surprise as he pulls his head back.
“It’s, uh, one of those built-in underwear skirts,” I explain, feeling overwhelmingly pleased with myself at his fevered look.
“The world’s best fucking invention,” he mumbles, kissing up my neck again, his hands gripping and kneading the curves of my ass.
With a roughness that shocks and excites me, Rylie pushes me onto the bed, staring at me for a heartbeat. I watch a small tremble move through him, and he shakes his head like he can’t believe I’m actually there. With a swift movement, he rips off his glasses, tossing them to the side, then plants one knee on the mattress in the space between my legs, making my weight slide toward the dip.
