“Third,” he again presses a finger into me, and my back bows as he adds another before he starts thrusting them in and out of me. On the edge of death, I squirm beneath him, and he separates them before twisting them up in beckoning. When I cry out his name, his eyes smolder.
He lifts, slowly pulling the boxers down my legs, his eyes devouring me in a thorough sweep. Legs falling open, I gaze up at him as he moves the strip of my thong to the side and spreads me, drinking in the bare sight of me. He stares at my dripping wet sex for long seconds, his expression filled with potent desire.
Blazing with need, skin flushing, he resumes his place at my side before inching his way back into my thong. Gripping his wrist, I rotate my hips and ride his fingers. The look in his eyes combined with the slow lick of his lower lip quickens my climb as he increases the pace. Drawing my nipple into his mouth, he tugs it between his teeth as I begin to soar.
“Right there!” I cry out as he works his fingers furiously just where I need him.
Staring down at me, he darts his tongue out and licks along my lips as I buck into his hand. I grip his shoulders a second before rocketing over the edge into orgasm. Completely in tune with every sensation, I feel the tug of my clit pulse against the meat of his palm, the entirety of my body shuddering as I tighten around his fingers. Unable to keep quiet, he captures my cries with his mouth as I shatter. As the wave subsides, I slowly come back into myself, staring up at him in a blissed-out daze.
“Fuck, that was so hot,” he whispers, eyes glimmering with satisfaction.
Covered in a light sheen of sweat, I soak in his expression and grin.
“You seem pretty proud of yourself—and as much as I hate to admit it—that might have been worth six hours of torture.”
“I want you too, Bee,” he whispers softly, not a trace of smugness in his tone, the tenderness in his voice like an arrow through the chest. “No one else.” His declaration has me pausing as he slowly guides his sweatshirt back down my body.
I move to straddle him. “You mean that.” It’s more of a statement than a question, but he answers the question.
“Of course, I do,” he frowns as if it’s a given. He grips the back of my head and pulls my mouth to his delivering a slow, sensual, dizzying kiss for emphasis.
“So, just for clarity,” I whisper. “Does this mean we’re a thing?”
“For me we are.”
“Me too.”
Some part of me knows I needed this, and my heart is content for now because of it. If it weren’t for his rep, I wouldn’t be nearly as insecure about his sexual history or my place with him. Oddly, behind closed doors, my libido seems raging compared to his. I’m by no means innocent.
He interrupts my thoughts when he again flips me beneath him, gliding his hand up the hoodie, squeezing my hip, and running his thumb along it. He repeats the motion, which has me putty in his hands as my nipples draw tight. He watches them pucker, and his eyes flare.
If the man is this potent with a thumb and a heated look, God help me when he finally steps up to the plate.
“Eli,” I groan, grabbing his wrist in frustration. “Let me touch you. This isn’t fair.”
“Fuck fair,” he whispers, moving his palm over my stomach before dipping the whole of his hand to cup me. “I found a new favorite thing.” Pushing the thin strip of material aside, he presses his middle finger into me. The addition of another finger has my breaths hitching as I start another fast climb.
“I’m going to chase the moon into today making you come.” My eyes flutter closed as he slides his tongue along my lower lip.
“Nope. Nope. Nope. No delving into the 95 percent, twenty-year-old Whitney,” I scold. Turning the shower nozzle to ice cold, I stand under the freezing water a full thirty seconds before shutting it off.
Stepping out, I glare at the woman in the mirror while wrapping myself in a towel. “It’s chemicals,” I remind her vehemently. “The memory of chemicals, nothing more.” After a thorough whiplashing, I retreat into the attic, coming to a halt when I see Eli standing in wait in my room, his back to me as he stares down at my open suitcase. I go to speak when he lifts a bottle in his hand.
“I come with a peace offering.”
“I’m not dressed.”
He glances back at me over his shoulder, his powder blues sweeping me from soaked head to feet. Goosebumps erupt as he drinks me in, seeming to make a decision before dipping his chin. “Come here.”
“Eli—”