Love Song(87)

I feel bad for the driver, or at least I would if I was capable of feeling anything other than horny, because anytime Wyatt is kissing me, I can’t concentrate on anything but the ache between my thighs.

It takes us three tries to punch in the gate code. We stagger out of the Uber a few minutes later, and then it takes us four tries to get the alarm code right. Finally, the front door swings open and we stumble inside, laughing our asses off. Which lasts about two seconds because suddenly we’re kissing again. Wyatt pushes me up against the wall, his greedy mouth latching on to my neck. My head spins as he kisses and explores my heated flesh, dragging his tongue up the side of my throat.

When he reaches my ear, he growls, “Need to fuck you.”

Somehow, we make it up to his room, which smells like fresh citrus and pine cleaner. “The house mouse was here,” I mumble between kisses. “I mean mouse. No, I mean man. The houseman was here.”

“Harry,” he mumbles back. “I mean Herny. Horny?”

Laughing hysterically, we fall onto the bed in an alcohol-induced sex fog, and then he’s peeling off my tube top, my shorts, my underwear, his pants. It all comes off and he’s kissing his way down my body until his mouth finds me. Devouring. Licking and sucking and moaning against my clit.

“I could eat this pussy for the rest of my life,” he mutters as I rock my hips against his eager mouth.

It takes me a record-breaking two and a half minutes to come, the unexpected orgasm blowing through me in a gust of ecstasy that makes me tremble. With one last lick and eyes burning with satisfaction, he climbs up my body and pushes his cock inside me.

When he fills me to the hilt, his groan is one of relief and utter appreciation. “So tight, baby. So perfect. Want to be in here forever.”

God, I want him here forever too. I wrap my legs around him, my heels digging into his ass.

“Faster,” I beg.

He quickens the pace, plunging into me, over and over and over again, while I rake my fingernails down his back and sink my teeth into his shoulder. I don’t know what’s happening, but I’m like a feral animal. I think I drew blood with my nails.

Wyatt grunts in pain, and then he’s grinning down at me, grabbing both my hands with one of his. He locks my wrists together and thrusts them over my head.

“Enough of that,” he chides.

“Can’t handle a little pain?” I taunt.

“I can handle pain. Just rather make you scream.”

He withdraws until only his tip remains at my opening while my pussy tries to cling tight and not let him escape. Then, without warning, he slams back in and fucks me hard enough to make me see stars. The bed is shaking, headboard banging against the wall. It’s raw, unfiltered, pure animal heat.

“Why does this feel so good?” he moans in dismay.

“I don’t know,” I answer helplessly, and then I squeeze my eyes shut and come.

Wyatt curses as I spasm around him. “Oh Jesus. That’s gonna make me come too.”

He drives into me one last time, pressed deep inside as he finds his release. Groaning, he collapses on top of me, and I wrap my arms around him, and we both start laughing, because holy shit, that was intense.

I glance over at the clock, only to find there’s no clock. I blink, disoriented all of a sudden. Then I say, “This…isn’t the blue room. I think we’re in the mountain room,” and Wyatt laughs even harder.





Chapter 30


WYATT





I WAKE UP IN AN unfamiliar room on an unfamiliar bed to a familiar voice speaking in the doorway.

“We might have a problem.”

I look at Blake and squint in agony against the morning light. Christ. It feels like knives stabbing me in the eyeballs. I dig the heels of my palms into my eye sockets and groan.

“Yeah, a very big problem,” I mumble. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this hungover. How are you standing in the sunlight and not dying a slow death?”

“Oh, I’m dying. There is literally a hamster running around in my brain and smashing against my skull.”

“Literally a hamster?”

“Yes, literally. But we have a bigger problem than that.”

“All right, hold on. Let me open my eyes really slowly.”

I try it, a fraction of an inch at a time, until finally I manage to crack open my eyelids and not collapse in excruciating pain.

“So I thought maybe I peed my pants,” she starts.

“Okay, not where I thought this conversation was going.”

“Because I woke up in, like, a puddle—”

“If you’re trying to turn me on, this is not the right strategy.”

“I’m trying to say we didn’t use a condom last night, and all your…um…offerings were everywhere.”

I freeze. “Everywhere, like I came on your stomach?”

She shoots down the hope. “Nope.”

“Shit.”

“I know.”

“And you’re not on the pill.” It’s not a question. That’s the first thing she told me when we started hooking up. She went off the pill two years ago because it gave her migraines, so we’ve been using condoms. Diligently. Until last night, it appears.

“Nope, not on the pill,” she confirms before offering a sliver of hope. “But I did check my app, and I’m ninety-five percent certain we’re out of the danger zone.”