Page 154 of Go Luck Yourself
“Okay,” is all I can get myself to say, high and a little squeaky. “That’s—yeah, okay.”
He sucks a mark on my collarbone, and I scramble to anchor on him, lips moving in a soundlessfuck fuck fuck.
“And do na pretend,” he growls into the skin there, “that getting screwed proper nice in a library does na turn you on.”
I laugh, head arched back. “And they say romance is dead.”
His hands are on my belt, pulling, freeing it.
But the energy dips. Doesn’t extinguish, just slants.
He backs away, hands gripped in the open edges of my pants. My shirt is parted, chest heaving, hair falling in my face.
A hundred romantic, sweeping speeches rush through me. All the things I should have said in the ballroom. All the things I’ve written about for years, the fairy tale endings and romantic stories that circled my fantasies. They collide against every moment I’ve spent with him—how I’m terrified but it’s a good terror; how I’m anxious but it’s a good anxiety.
In some alternate version of me, I weave such a poetic sonnet that it brings us both to our knees.
But all I can say, in the dimness of this starlit reality, is “I love you.”
Loch’s hands still.
He leans in and kisses me again, and it’s sweet and we’re both smiling.
“You’d better,” he says into my mouth, “interrupting my coronation like this.”
I tug at the waistband of his pants. “I had an invitation, asshole. I didn’t interrupt shit.”
“Arrivinglatethen.” His lips drop to my earlobe and he bites down. “Dragging me away from a very important conversation.”
“I didn’t drag you away. I was standing there, minding my own goddamn business.”
He leaves a trail of sloppy kisses across my jaw, to my mouth, and we’re both hard when I work us free of our pants and boxers, breaths devolving into matching groans.
He holds my gaze, raises his hand, and spits into his palm.
Every nerve in my body throbs.
“You come in looking likethat.” He takes both our cocks in hand and thrusts into that tunnel, rubbing against me, and I croon. “Sex walking—what hope did I ever have, boyo? This was your plan all along. Distract me,teaseme.”
My mind goes to static blankness, all needy pounding, his hand tightening as he twists and thrusts at the same time andoh fuck.
I wail deep in my throat. “Oh, yeah, this was just to mess with you,” I say through a wheeze, fingertips digging in where his neck meets his shoulder. “I’m not getting anything out of it at—fucking hell,Loch—”
He fits his lips over mine, not kissing, just connected. I can taste his smile, can feel the joy in him winding up as he tightens his grip and rolls his hips and we don’t need poems to bring us to our knees—I’m only upright because of the door and my hands on him.
His thrusts quicken, our breathing intensifies. He wraps his free hand around the back of my neck and plants his temple against mine, bracing, building us to the edge at ravaging speed.
And when a growl pulsates in the back of his throat, when he turns that growl into “Kris,Kris,” I rocket over that edge with him, sweat-slicked ecstasy, a fierce unwinding.
I collapse against the door and he’s there with me, forehead to my shoulder, both of us trying to catch our breath as hands continue to touch and grope, rememorizing curves.
Gently, he uses the edge of his jacket to clean us off and tucks us both away before tossing it to the floor. He stays as close as he can the whole while.
“Kris,” he says against my neck. “I have so much to make up to you.”
“You don’t have to make up anything to me.”
“Like hell I don’t.” He kisses my cheeks, my eyelids, like he’s trying to brand every inch of me. “I do na even deserve to have you here with me right now, butyoudeserve every second of me proving how amazing you are. I love you too, and I—”
