Page 48 of Neat
I rolled us, maneuvering until I was on top, and I pushed up onto my knees with my hands braced on her thighs. With each pump of my hips, I pulled her toward me, reaching a new depth that made her eyes roll shut. Her fists twisted in the sheets, yanking until one corner popped off the mattress.
She moaned and writhed under my pulses, her beautiful breasts bouncing with each new thrust. I fell down over her so I could suck each mound into my mouth, tongue circling her nipples, hands kneading the flesh. She was everywhere — her nails on my back, her ankles locked behind my ass, her breasts in my mouth, my hands, her pussy tightening around my cock.
I sucked in a breath when she pulled my mouth to hers again, kissing me hard, and I pumped once, twice, a third time before I pressed so deep into her I saw stars.
She cried out, her moans living and dying in my mouth as I found my release inside her. Everything was still except for where I pulsed between her legs, and for that moment in time, I’d found the kind of ecstasy I thought only drugs could produce.
Maybe I blacked out.
Maybe I traveled through time, to another universe, another dimension.
I couldn’t be sure, but when I came to, I was on my back, panting, my fingers tangled in Mallory’s hair. Her leg was draped over my stomach, her arm over my chest, both of us riddled with such a fierce exhaustion that we couldn’t open our eyes.
For a while, it was just us breathing, fingers gently moving — mine in her hair, hers trailing a path from my pecs to my abdomen and back again. When our breathing smoothed out, I could hear the distant sound of the music still playing on the speaker downstairs, and the soft whiz of a car driving by on Main Street.
Mallory lifted her head, balancing her chin on my chest as her eyes searched mine. She quirked one brow. “I think you ruined my pants.”
I barked out a laugh, and I wasn’t sure if it was because of what she’d said or because I’d just realized that it was real. What had only happened in my dreams before tonight had just happened in reality.
I had a naked Mallory Scooter sprawled across me, and it was so much sweeter than anything I’d ever dreamed.
“Well, paybacks are a bitch,” I said, nodding toward my paint-stained shirt on the floor. “Told you that was one of my favorite shirts.”
Mallory smiled, her eyes heavy and sated. She climbed up my chest, pressing her lips to mine, and when she pulled away, she watched me with questions and concerns dancing in those blue irises of hers.
But she didn’t speak any of them out loud.
Instead, she rested her head again, wrapping herself around me even tighter as I pressed a kiss to her forehead.
And in the arms of denial, we both fell fast asleep.
I didn’t know what time it was when I finally woke the next morning, only that the weight of Mallory’s head was still resting on my chest.
It was warm, even with the comforter kicked down to my feet and the sheets covering only half of my naked torso. My body ached as I stretched my toes, flexing my calves, feeling the muscles in my quads protest at the movement after last night.
Sometime in the middle of the night, I’d woken up to Mallory’s ass pressed against my groin. I didn’t remember what time, or how long we’d been out. If anything, it felt almost like a drunken dream, like something I’d imagined — spooning her, kissing her neck, feeling her nipples harden under my touch, her back arch as I pressed my erection between the gap of her thighs.
Neither one of us had rested again until we were both spent, and then we’d curled back up easily, like we’d been together for years, like me being in her bed was the most natural thing in the world.
I ran my fingers through Mallory’s hair, ready to gently wake her, but when the silky strands ended abruptly, I peeked one eye open.
Dalí flicked his tail from where he was curled up on my chest, croaking out something between a meow and a yawn as he watched me with lazy yellow eyes.
“Well, hello there,” I murmured, scratching behind his ear.
I looked around the rest of the studio apartment for some sign of Mallory, but found nothing. It was just a series of messes everywhere I gazed — the wad of paint-stained sheets on the bed, our clothes littering the floor. I couldn’t help but let my eyes wander over her own mess that had existed before I’d even been there, too — the dishes in the sink, the half-empty glasses and mugs on the coffee table, the wires from her curling irons and straighteners falling over the cabinet of the bathroom sink, the dozens of paintings and sketches and framed photographs leaning against the base of nearly every wall.
I smiled, feeling completely surrounded by her.
And in the next instant, my stomach dropped so violently I nearly puked.
I shot up in bed, causing Dalí to scamper off much the way he did the night before. He hid under the couch as I had my heart attack, and I pressed a hand to my chest, feeling the hard pumping of the frantic organ beneath.
Holy fuck.
I slept with Mallory Scooter.
I ran a hand back through my disheveled hair, cursing under my breath when I couldn’t get my fingers through the matted paint. All the thoughts swirling around in my head now felt just as sticky and complicated.
