Page 51 of Bad Crush
I climb onto the bed, forcing her onto her back. “It doesn’t, huh?”
Instead of answering, she pulls my face down to hers. It’s a lot easier to shut down my brain when she’s touching me.
Her kisses are as hungry as mine. You’d think it would be easy to slow it down. I’m good at following rules, especially my own. But where Reagan is concerned, I’m turning into a loose cannon. I let go of my worry about going too fast. Slow is dumb… and, well, slow.
I undress her fast and drop my pants even faster. Damn, she’s beautiful. Blonde hair tumbling past her shoulders, brown eyes the color of cinnamon. And those dimples. They knock the air out of me when she flashes a big smile that makes them appear. And somehow, below the neck, it just gets better.
Why would anyone want to deny themselves this? They wouldn’t. I really am an idiot.
I turn her onto all fours and latch on to her pussy from this angle until she writhes and moans. While I rip open the condom packet and then cover myself, she hums impatiently. “I need you.”
“Yeah?” I ask, nudging the head of my cock at her entrance.
I get an unintelligible response as she pushes into me, driving me farther inside of her slick heat.
Sliding my hand up her back to the nape of her neck, I bury myself as far as I can go then still. “Does it feel like I want to date other people?”
She shakes her head.
I tangle my fingers in her hair and gently tug. Her graceful neck twists until she’s looking me in the eye.
“No one else, baby. This pussy.” I pull out, slowly, letting her squeeze me all the way to the tip before driving back in. “It’s mine.”
Words aren’t necessary, or possible, after that. I take her hard and fast, showing her the only way I know how that I want her. There’s nothing I can say to make her believe doing things differently with her isn’t purely selfish. She knows me and my patterns. I keep forgetting that. I settle for leaving us both panting and limp against the mattress. Actions speak louder than words, baby.
I discard the condom and fall beside her.
“I hope you don’t mind if I sleep over because I don’t think I can move.”
I wrap an arm around her waist and bring her closer. “Nah, I don’t mind at all.”
* * *
I’min the kitchen the following morning, cooking oatmeal and downing a Gatorade. Reagan’s sitting on the countertop next to the stove, sipping coffee and watching me. Looking damn good doing it too. She pulled on one of my T-shirts earlier, and it hangs off one shoulder and leaves her legs bare. My closet has become her new wardrobe, and I’m not mad about it.
I drop a kiss on her lips. “You want some?”
“Uhh, no. I’m good.”
Rhett stumbles out of his room in sweatpants with his phone in hand.
“‘Morning, sunshine,” I quip. His hair sticks up all over his head, and his eyes are barely open. “Are you expecting a call from Carrie, or are you just used to carrying that thing with you at all times?”
He stares down at his hand as if he’s just realized he’s holding it. “Habit, I guess.” He places it on the counter and takes a seat at one of the barstools. “What’s for breakfast?”
“Oatmeal,” Reagan says and makes a face over her mug.
“I was hoping your presence had inspired something more flavorful.” He grimaces.
I’m used to the guys ribbing me and then eating it despite their complaints. I look to Reagan. “You don’t like oatmeal?”
I add blueberries and turn the heat down.
“It’s so boring and healthy,” she says.
“Right?” Rhett chuckles.
I didn’t even think to ask her. Before Reagan, I always stayed at my girlfriends’ places instead of having them stay here. I’d get up, usually before them, and be gone before breakfast. I eat the same thing almost every day, but my boring oatmeal never came up.
