Deep End(93)

Thing is, I don’t think he can wait to be inside me. Because he is guiding me down onto his cock right now.

The first few inches glide in all at once. I close my eyes, let out a small, breathless whimper of adjustment, arching to make him fit.

“Lukas,” I moan.

It’s smooth sailing—until it’s not. His eyes on me are wild and soft. “You are very beautiful. Have I told you?”

No idea. I can’t even remember my own name. “I . . . maybe?”

“I was watching you dive the past few days.” He starts moving, and I whimper into his neck. It’s as always, with him. A little painful. Unbelievably good. Annihilating the possibility of any other thought. “And I was thinking . . .” A particularly hard thrust, and he stuffs himself deeper. His mouth exhales against mine. An almost kiss. “I swear, Scarlett. I think about the ways I’ve fucked you all the time. Replay them in my head so much, I’m afraid they’ll wear off.”

One more inch. He’s just big enough that this is never going to be easy. The pressure of him, impossible to breathe around. I feel feverish, too hot, pliant, and it’s just nice, the way he holds me and fills me. Concentrating on his words is more effort than I can spare.

“But I can’t remember whether I told you how beautiful you are. And it’s been driving me crazy.”

Deeper still. For a split second, it’s too much, and I almost push him away. Then it passes, and . . . “Oh my god, Lukas.” I think I could—it’s insane, I must be losing my mind, but I think I could easily come just from the drag of him inside me. I roll my hips, trying to get closer, but the hand under my bottom stops me. My other wrist is still pinned to the wall, and I let out a restless groan. “Please.”

“Hush.” He kisses my cheek calmly, like his cock is not throbbing inches deep inside me. “Did I? ”

“W-what?”

“Did I tell you how beautiful you are?”

I’m fluttering around him, ready to burst. I think—I remember—I’m almost . . . “Yes. Yes, you did.”

His mouth twitches in satisfaction. “Good,” he says, pulling out and then filling me again. “My brilliant, beautiful girl.”

He fucks me like he’s thought of nothing but this since the last time we touched. We both come like avalanches in less than a minute.



“Isn’t there a party somewhere?”

Lukas gives me his best Why would that matter? look and spoons an indecent pile of fried rice on my plate. “More?”

I shake my head. I should feel embarrassed at the way I have to lean against the counter, boneless and dripping, cotton-brained and flushed all over. I can’t, though, not when he moves around my kitchen like he’s been cooking in it for months, not with the lingering glances he sneaks at me every few moments.

He takes both our plates to the table, and must notice my post-orgasm uselessness, because he returns to pick me up, his palm firm under my ass, my legs wrapped around his waist. He’s a wonderful means of transportation—safe, timely, comfortable. I want a yearly pass.

“I was going to let you eat first,” he says, taking a seat next to me. “Couldn’t, though.” He shrugs and dives into his rice.

“Is this an apology?”

“Come on, Scarlett,” he chides. “You know it isn’t.”

Good, I think.

“Now that I got a better look, it’s not as bad as I thought,” he adds.

“What?”

“Your apartment. I expected muddy shoe prints and sentient mold.” He glances around like a judgmental landlord. “This is livable. ”

“High praise.”

“Moderate praise. I might still do some breaking and entering while you’re at practice.” His gaze warms. “How do you feel?”

“You know when something that’s unexpected but good happens? You should be happy about it, and you are, but also terrified, and the anxiety drowns everything else?”

“According to my psych prof, winning the lottery is one of the most stressful things that someone can experience.”

I tap my index finger against the table. “That’s exactly what I feel. Like I won the lottery. On average, Emilee was a million times better than me—”

“A million.”

“—but because of one mistake, I get to represent my country. Seems like bullshit.”

His hand reaches to cover mine, and I stop fidgeting. “And you think that whoever perfected the national team qualification process over decades never considered similar scenarios?”

“I’m sure they did. But in my case—”

“If the situation were reversed”—his fingers twine with mine—“would you think that you deserve to go to Amsterdam?”

“I . . . no, but—” Lukas’s eyebrow quirks and I fall silent—which seems to please him a little too much. “I hate that smug ‘checkmate’ expression.”

He smiles like he could not give less of a shit. “You’re beautiful when you dive.”

I flush. Look away. “Yeah, you mentioned.”

“That’s not what I mean. I always respected divers, but never found real pleasure in watching them.” His eyes are dark in the dim kitchen light. “Until you.”