Page 76 of Wide-Eyed
Home. I’d been in Aotearoa New Zealand a few weeks but already it was natural to think of his place this way.
Mike didn’t say anything as he drove but kept one hand curved over my thigh, passenger princess style. He held the door to his house open for me and I thought—hoped—he might jump my bones the second we were inside.
Instead he asked, “Your room or mine?”
“Yours.”
Kev had dropped me here after collecting me from the airport, and I’d torn through my biggest suitcase to find a perfect outfit for the fair. Consequently, my room looked like a tornado had ripped through Saks.
Mike took my hand and led me to his room. I braced myself for the onslaught of color, but it still stopped me in my tracks. Everything was yellow. The walls, the rug, even the wooden furniture and gold frames. I knew such aggressive color blocking wasn’t his personal style, nor was the decidedly 1970s bent of his whole house, but I couldn’t waste mental spoons on it. I was busy staring at the large king bed in the center of the room with a looming pine headboard.
It was intimidating.
This was the space of a man who had sex so much, he was known for it. Known fondly too—his reputation literally preceded him.
On one hand, this was reassuring. He knew what he was doing so it didn’t matter that I didn’t. On the other, I was literally doused in self-consciousness.
“After you.” Mike gestured to the bed.
I ignored the instruction, reaching for his belt loops and tugging him toward me. His eyes roamed my face. I didn’t know what he was looking for, but he either found it or gave up, because he swept me into his arms.
Thus commenced the ravishment of Lyssa Luxe.
Mike kissed me hungrily and I welcomed it. I’d missed him. He pushed his tongue into my mouth like it belonged there and there was no need to feign modesty I didn’t feel. I angled my head to meet each pass of his lips and probe of his tongue as his mo’ brushed my top lip.
He hadn’t called me baby or mate when I’d surprised him at the fair, or done any other posturing designed to keep me at a distance. This had led to an excited, hopeful feeling uncurling in my belly.
Not to mention the balloon thing. That was hands down the most thoughtful, loving thing anyone had ever done for me. So he had to like me for real. At least a little bit. He’d seen me at my most high-strung, my most selfish, and had still bought me balloons. That meant something, I knew it did.
His hands slid over my hips before taking fistfuls of my ass and squeezing. I wrapped my arms tighter around his neck and shamelessly ground my body into his. He was so big and cuddly—to be embraced by Mike was to be enveloped by his warmth, his burliness, and right now, his hardness. His cock throbbed against the crook of my leg as it thickened, forcing space between our bodies. When I whimpered, Mike pulled my leg up over his hip and the press of his cock to the junction of my legs made my breath hitch. With each press of our lips, I made a plea: a plea for more, a plea for him to stop holding back. Mike wasn’t known for his restraint. He said he wanted me, and I was ready to know exactly what it meant when Mike Holliday wanted you.
He gripped my hips and tugged me into him with a low grunt before using that same grip to push me back, forcing space between us.
I whined.
“Clothes,” he breathed, cheeks uncharacteristically flushed.
“Go ahead,” I gestured.
I meant for him to strip. Instead, he reached for the buttons on my waistcoat. I dressed for impact, not convenience, so undressing me took a while. When I finally stood in my lace bra and frilly panties, Mike made quick work of his row of buttons.
As he unbuckled his belt and popped his jeans, my thick swallow made him grin.
I couldn’t stand there patiently when there was something I wanted badly right in front of me. I batted his hands away and pushed his shirt off his shoulders myself. Mike’s husky frame was incredibly sexy. So strong, so fucking big and protective and mouth-watering. Loser men on the internet always thought women only wanted guys built like dehydrated bodybuilders, but they were as wrong as they were bitter. Mike was sexy as hell.
Greedily, I ran my hands over his shoulders and torso, letting my nails rake over him. He shivered and I slid my hands into his jeans and squeezed his ass over his briefs.
“Easy girl,” he said, pulling away with a wince. I was offended until I saw him adjust the front of his jeans. “Just give me a second, or I’ll shoot like a geyser. You lie back.”
He gestured to his two flat pillows.
I looked from the yellow pillowcases to him, confused. How was I supposed to prop myself up with those pancakes? What did his other sex guests do? Did they roll them like a hotel towel? Or just toss them away? Nothing said bachelor like flat pillows.
It wasn’t specifically the pillows that gave me pause (although their buttercream yellow was all wrong for Mike, he needed deep greens and oaky accents) it was that laying back so a man could climb over me and rut had never brought me satisfaction. I was resolved to never again fake an orgasm, but I didn’t want to be a woefully lackluster lay compared to Mike’s other guests in this room.
I tried to hide my sudden apprehension, but he noticed.
“Do you trust me, Lyssa?”
