Page 50 of One Pucking Secret
“We can stay here as long as you’d like.”
I sweep a pair of hooded eyes at him. “I’m good.”
“Should we get out of here?” His voice is low, intimate.
I nod, feeling the weight of fullness in my stomach and the lightness of laughter still on my lips.
The drive back is a blur of passing headlights and shadowed streets, the night wrapping around us like a cloak. He turns to me, a question hanging in the air.
“Want to go back to my place?”
I smile and nod.
The moment the door to Wyatt’s apartment clicks shut behind us, a sense of warm familiarity wraps around me, like sinking into a well-worn armchair. He slips my coat from my shoulders with an ease that speaks of a thousand such nights, though we haven’t reached nearly that many evenings together. Not yet, at least.
“Would you like something to drink?” Wyatt offers.
“Sure,” I say. “Sparkling water is fine.”
“Here,” he says, handing me a bottle from the fridge.
Our fingers brush, and it’s like striking a match. Heat flares between us, and I barely manage to set down my bottle after my first sip before his lips find mine.
We fall into a rhythm on the couch, a dance of lips and tongues, and I’m lost to the sensation.My hands roam across the expanse of his chest and the solid muscles under his shirt until I can’t bear the barrier of fabric any longer. With a boldness fueled by desire, I strip him of his shirt, revealing the familiar topography of his torso—the ridges and valleys I’ve explored before but crave to discover anew.
His touch follows suit, peeling away my sweater with a gentleness that belies the hunger in his eyes. My jeans join the growing pile on the floor, and the sudden chill of the room makes me acutely aware of how exposed—and how wanted—I am.
His lips travel across my skin, igniting paths of fire wherever they land. I’m captivated by the contrast of his mouth—soft and inviting—against the hard lines of his body. When he unclasps my bra, his breath hot against my sensitive flesh, I shiver not from the cold, but from sheer need.
“Stop teasing me like that. You’re going to make me come,” he murmurs against my ear, his voice rough with want.
“Sorry, you feel too good,” I breathe out, my fingers tracing the waistband of his boxers, feeling him throb beneath the thin material.
“I could say the same.” There’s a grin in his voice, a playful challenge that I’m all too eager to accept.
He shifts me effortlessly so I’m seated on the couch, its cushions soft under my palms. My heartbeat resounds through the room, or maybe it’s just in my ears, hammering a frantic rhythm. He slides my panties down my legs, and they join the rest of our discarded clothes in silent testament to the urgency of our desire.
“Let’s see how wet you are,” he says. In one smooth motion, he spreads my legs wide. “Ah,” I moan involuntarily as his fingers run over my core, exploring with a tenderness that belies their strength. “So wet.”
“I want to see for myself,” he replies, his voice laced with a dark promise that sends another shiver coursing through me.
Sensations flood me as he touches me more intimately, fingers slipping into my slick warmth, and my cry fills the room, a raw sound of pleasure and vulnerability.
“Does that feel good, baby?” His question is whispered into the nape of my neck, his breath hot against my skin.
“Yes,” I gasp, clinging to the couch as if it’s the only thing grounding me while his touch threatens to send me adrift on waves of ecstasy.
“What if I do this?” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through me. A finger slips inside, and the sensation is so sudden, so intense, that all I can do is moan.
“More,” I manage to say, my voice hitching with need.
He chuckles, a sound that’s both warm and devilishly knowing. He adds a third finger, stretching and filling me in ways that send sparks of pleasure skittering up my spine.
I tighten around him, my body singing with tension as he moves within me. His fingers thrust in and out, in a delicious rhythm that has me moaning and gasping, my hands clawing at the couch for something to hold on to. Then his other hand finds me too, rubbing my clit in slow, purposeful circles. It’s like he knows exactly where to touch and how much pressure to use to unravel me.
“Oh God, Wyatt. You’re going to make me explode.”
“That’s the plan,” he growls against the skin of my neck, his breath hot and his erection pressing through his boxers against my thigh. His lips find my collarbone, kissing along my shoulder, each touch lighting fires under my skin.
