Page 88 of Better Hate than Never

“Is that okay?” I ask.

“So much more than okay,” he pants.

I tug at his belt, then the top button. “Can I touch you?”

“I’ll die if you don’t.” He shifts his hips, just enough so I can slip my hand inside his jeans, curling my fingers over his erection straining his briefs. He’s so thick, so hot even through the fabric. I whimper as I stroke him, thrilled that I’ve made his body like this.

“So good, honey.” He kisses me slow and deep, his tongue stroking mine. “Keep going. Yeah, that’s it. Fuck, that’s perfect.”

My head lands against the door with athunkas his fingers change their rhythm, rubbing faster. I’m so close, trying so hard not to scream with pleasure on each thrust of his hand, as it brings me right to the edge.

“You gotta come for me, Kate,” he grits out. “Come on, honey. Give it up.”

“So close,” I whisper, working myself on his fingers, making a fist with the fabric of his shirt as I crush my mouth to his.

That’s when we hear voices coming closer again.

We freeze, our breathing so ragged and loud, I don’t know how they don’t hear us.

But then the front door eases open again, then shuts; the lock engages with a click.

And then we crash down on each other. The door thumps as Christopher thrusts into my hand, as my hips roll with him, banging into it.

“God, Kate.” He throws his head back when I bite his neck and chase it with my tongue. He starts to work his thumb over my clit in fast, expert circles, his fingers still pumping inside me.

I gasp as heat pools, a white-hot flash flood that tears through my limbs, washes between my thighs, through my breasts, making my toes curl. “Gonna come,” I beg. “I’m gonna—”

“Yeah,” he grunts. “That’s it, honey. Ride my hand. Come all over it.”

I slam my head against the door as pleasure pounds through me in seismic waves. A low, pained groan tears out of Christopher as he punches his hips into mine, as warmth and wetness seep between us and he comes against my waist.

Panting, messy, we kiss. Slowly, he lets my legs go and steadies me as I find my footing. I stare up at him, touching him, cresting my hands over his shoulders, down his arms, while he holds me tight to him, his hands savoring my ass, kneading it as he kisses me, reverent and deep.

And then the real world begins to seep into my awareness. The softplink-plinkof water dripping from the faucet. The muffled sounds of traffic outside, a siren wailing.

Christopher stares at me, his expression unreadable, chest heaving. He cups my face and presses one last soft kiss against my lips, breathing in. Exhaustion sweeps through me. Between paintball and the most intense orgasm of my life, my eyes feel heavy, my limbs heavier.

I want to drag him down the hall and make him fall on me like we did on the couch, for his big, heavy body to weigh me down. I want to sleep for a week. My legs wobble.

“Easy,” he says quietly. He paws around for the light switch and turns it down, until it’s low and dim.

Then he sweeps me up in his arms, making me squawk. “What are you doing?” I ask.

“Putting you to bed.”

Then leaving, is the unspoken remainder of that sentence.

I can tell by the way his expression turns serious and focused, its playful, passionate fire dimmed; the way that he walks me to my bed and lays me on it, then drags the blankets up.

“Stay,” I whisper, brave in the darkness, in the raw need that I feel. No one’s ever touched me like this, made me feel free and weightless and known, a fire billowing in the air that feeds it, hot, wild, alive. I don’t want to be left alone in that. “Please.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, his hand on my hip, his thumb sweeping tenderly against the skin beneath my shirt.

Then slowly, he stands.

My heart plummets. He’s leaving.

Except, he isn’t. He stops at my bedroom door and pushes it shut, bathing the room in darkness.

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