Good at Being Alive(74)

He winces as if the memory pains him, the muscles of his back bunching as he dives in farther. “Jesus, I’d kill to see that look on your face when I’m inside you.”

His tongue slides faster and faster over my clit. I’m groaning, tugging his hair…and then he works a second finger inside me and I arch upward, eyes squeezing shut, coming before I can even warn him I’m close.

“Fuck yes,” he hisses, riding me through it until I finally stop clenching around him and manage to open my eyes.

The look on his face is everything. It’s feral, avid, starved. He’s a predator about to lunge. I’ve seen shades of it before, but never this intense—and never when I knew exactly what that look meant.

His tongue flickers out again. “No more,” I say, pulling him toward me. “You’re procrastinating.”

“We’ll try,” he says, his dark lashes brushing his cheekbones as his eyes fall closed. “But if I’m hurting you, we stop. Agreed? You’ll tell me?”

I nod quickly, desperate to watch him let go the way I just did.

His mouth presses to mine, his breathing tight and fast, his muscles rigid. “Do I need anything?”

I’m breathless with anticipation. All I can manage is a shake of the head.

He grasps himself, dragging his cock against me until he’s slippery and I’m whimpering with need—he’s so hard I could come just to the thought of what it’d be like to have him inside me—and then he presses against me.

He’s merely begun to push, and it’s already a stretch, already too much. I pull air into my lungs, half desire and half trepidation.

“Relax for me, Bex,” he begs, his chest rising and falling fast as his lips press to mine. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

I swallow as my brow starts to sweat. “I know. It’s fine.”

He presses again and pops inside me at last, not even an inch, and that stretch turns into a full-fledged burn.

“Oh god,” he whispers, flinching. The hand beside my head is gripping the sheet. “Is it okay?”

It’s a lot but I’m not going to say a fucking word. I nod and he withdraws a millimeter, then pushes in another inch. I gasp again and this time…I don’t know if it’s good or bad. It burns and I also think I’ll die if he leaves even a hint of empty space inside me.

His teeth tug on my earlobe, then move to my neck, as he continues those tiny pulses, working his way in. He’s doing his best to be patient, but his muscles are coiled and his breath is coming faster, and I suspect it’s taking all the restraint he possesses.

“More,” I whisper, and his thrusts get deeper, sweeping inside me, hitting something that…

“Ohhhhh,” I groan, long and low as he hits that spot again. “That. That.”

My nails dig into his ass and he inhales—sharp and pained—as he finally bottoms out. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, holding still, looking down at me with drugged eyes to make sure I’m okay.

“I’m good,” I urge him, my hands on his hips. “Don’t stop.”

“Oh god,” he whispers, burying his mouth into my neck. “The way you look right now—and it feels…”

He drives in deep and I moan, pulling his face to mine with my hands on his jaw, kissing him hard, biting his lip, wrapping my calves around his back to meet his thrusts.

“Jesus, Bex,” he gasps. “It’s too fucking good. I’ve got to slow down or I’ll come.”

“Don’t stop,” I plead, and we are a frantic cacophony of clashing tongues and fingers digging into hips and panting breaths and his control slipping, his movements wet and rough and unpredictable and perfect. “I’m close,” I chant. “I’m close, I’m…”

With his arms under my thighs, he lifts me off the bed and drills into me hard and fast until I cry out, squeezing him tight as I come, only vaguely aware of the sounds he’s making too.

It’s a long minute before he gently puts me back down and collapses beside me.

“Is this when you say ‘Avada Kedavra’?” I whisper.

He laughs. “Not bloody likely. Not until we’ve done it again, anyway.”



* * *



? ? ?

We do it again, obviously, though he’s worried I might be sore. And then he tells me how miserable he was in the catacombs, and I admit that I’ve wanted this for a long time, at least since that kiss in Amsterdam.

“That recent?” he replies. “I’ve been thinking about it far longer than you, apparently.”

He admits that he was jealous when he saw Brian’s texts. I admit to an elaborate fantasy involving him and the table in Lars’s conference room and he demands we try it out.

The topic of what does this mean is never broached. Nor is the topic of what about the girl you’re seeing in London? It’s enough, just having this night with him. It’s enough, getting it out of our systems. I’m not about to ruin this moment with a conversation that couldn’t possibly end well.

And I’m certainly not going to ruin it by suggesting I could stay in London with him once my interviews here are over. He knows perfectly well I have nothing to do in New Jersey and could spend the nine days before Norway lounging in his flat instead of going home. Sure, he’d make me go for some god-awful run along the Thames, and I’d probably have to see his terrible friends at least once, but I’d forgive him for both.