Page 82 of Well, Actually
With a groan, Rylie pulls his mouth away, glasses askew as he looks at me. Gently, reverently, I reach out and slide them from his face, and his smile carves a tattoo of happiness across my heart. Moving us again, Rylie grips my hips, stepping us fully into the bathroom as he lifts me a few inches, seating me on the edge of the counter.
“This dress has been driving me wild all fucking night,” he mutters, eyes staring murderously at the sheer material draped over my legs. He drags his hands through the gossamer fabric as he kisses my neck, placing a bite at my collarbone, then licking the spot.
“Well, actually it’s not a dress. It’s matching separates,” I explain through a gasp. “Bustier and a skirt.”
Rylie pauses, forcing his lust-hazed eyes into a bland look, muscles coiled with tension and his lips wet and swollen from kissing me.
“Eva,” he says evenly, but there’s a warning charge to his voice, his patience a fraying thread. “I adore you, but I cannot tell you how little I give a shit about the specifics of this outfit right now.”
I laugh at the deep frustration in his voice. Rylie catches my amusement, and there’s a hunger so desperate and wild in his expression, the laughter dies in my throat, all air leaving me on a fractured sigh.
Rylie fists the skirt, dragging it up my thighs. “Hold whatever this is,” he says gruffly, taking one of my hands and curling my fingers around the balled-up fabric.
“It’s chiffon, it’ll wrinkle,” I protest weakly out of habit. Because I know he loves it.
“Shut up, Eva,” he growls, pinning my hand holding the fabric against my stomach. He drops to his knees, ripping my thong down my legs and leaving it tangled at my ankles. I hear a seam rip as he jerks open my thighs, and I honestly couldn’t care less because Rylie’s fingers tighten into the skin of my hips, his breathing jagged and lips parted as he stares at the center of me.
Pink crests his cheeks and across the bridge of his nose, his hair wrecked from my relentless grip moments ago, and I feel my pulse in every inch of my body. After what feels like a lifetime, he drags his gaze up my body like he wants to memorize every piece of me, until his eyes finally lock with mine. The only sound in the room is our ragged breathing.
Then, with a smile that destroys me, he whispers, “God, you’re fucking pretty,” and presses that wicked mouth against my aching pussy.
I arch, the back of my head hitting the mirror, fingers clawing for purchase on the marble countertop, anything that can anchor me so I can press closer against that perfect mouth. Without lifting his head, he hooks my legs and drapes them over his shoulders, my feet resting on his back.
With two sure, clever fingers, Rylie presses into me, rubbing and caressing against a spot that makes me see stars, forget my own name, scream out his.
It doesn’t take long until I’m crying and begging and being way too loud but I don’t fucking care because Rylie has me. Rylie wants me. He wants me messy and lost and needy and telling him exactly what I want.
He tells me in the grunts against my aching clit, the grip of his free hand around my thigh, the rough, elated sound from low in his chest when he feels me clench around his fingers. Desire is like the turn of a screw, burrowing deeper and deeper into every cell of my body until I’m bucking against his mouth, wave after wave of pleasure capsizing my body.
With something almost like worship, Rylie kisses my throbbing, pulsing center through the aftershocks, nuzzling his cheek against my thigh as I slump against the bathroom mirror, boneless and satisfied to an unholy degree. He kisses his way up my leg, then arm, neck, jaw, until he’s sipping at my lips with gently coaxing kisses.
“Let me take care of you,” I say, somehow finding the strength in my woozy state to reach for him.
I don’t miss the fresh flush of pink across Rylie’s cheeks. “That’s okay, Kitten,” he whispers, intercepting my hand and lacing our fingers together. He lifts my arm so it’s wrapped around the back of his neck.
I frown at him, old insecurities of past relationships dying hard. Does he… Did he just give me one of the best orgasms of my life and not want me enough to get off himself? Rylie must read some of the panic in my face, because his eyes flash wide, his mouth crashing against mine in a messy, dirty kiss like he wants to embed his need on my skin.
“Believe me, I always fucking want you,” he rasps against my lips.
“So have me,” I say, voice wobbly.
He pulls back an inch, dropping his forehead to mine and closing his eyes. He lets out a rough, sheepish chuckle. “I, uh, wanted you a little too much during all that.”
I blink at him for a moment, our eyes so close together mine cross as I try to process what he said. With a start, I rear back, focus bouncing with delight to his crotch, the outline of his softening erection still visible in his fitted slacks, a dark stain confirming his statement.
Sweet Jesus. Rylie Cooper gets off just from eating pussy.
I grab his face, kissing him hard, and we both start giggling into it. With infinite care, Rylie slides me from the counter, taking his time to undress me, kissing every inch of newly exposed skin. I turn in his arms, doing the same for him. He reaches around me, turning on the shower and letting it warm up, a thick fog hugging around us as we step in.
We hold each other under the hot water, his hands coasting over me in gentle circuits as he murmurs soft, lovely words into my ear, my cheek pressed to his chest as I memorize his heartbeat. We wash like we’re one being, never getting further apart than necessary. Only when the water starts to get cold do we reluctantly get out and dry off. We’re in sweatpants in no time, and I covertly steal one of Rylie’s crewneck sweatshirts.
He stares at me for a moment in his clothes, lips parted, eyes glinting. I can’t read everything in his expression because he turns coy, dragging his knuckles across his mouth, hiding a delighted smile.
“Get over yourself,” I say, pushing him toward the bed. He falls into the sheets without a fight, pulling me down with him. Settling me so I’m leaning against the headboard, he lays his head on my lap, and I luxuriate in the simple pleasure of playing with the thick locks of his hair, the drag of them through the sensitive skin between my fingers.
Without having to ask, Rylie turns on the TV and pulls up where we left off on my favorite true-crime show.
It’s all so simple. So easy. So perfect.
