All the Feels, page 25
“I thought—” He coughed again, attempting to recover his stolen breath. “I thought you were shy, you infernal woman.”
A dismissive flick of her wrist. “Cautious isn’t the same thing as shy.”
“No.” He huffed out a laugh. “Evidently not.”
Her tone was matter-of-fact. “Even though I don’t have a ton of sexual experience, I’m not ashamed of my body. It may not be conventionally beautiful, but it’s strong. It’s mine. And it’s obvious you want it”—she directed her gaze at his rampant cock, still pushing futilely at the material of his boxer briefs—“so what would be the point of hiding?”
“I love your body.” He couldn’t put it more plainly than that. “I’m fucking obsessed with it.”
His poor, beleaguered brain couldn’t determine his favorite view. That bountiful ass, or the tempting puff of brown curls atop her sex, or the subtle curves of her breasts, or—
“In that case . . .” She held out her hand, her eyes warm and happy. “Let’s see who makes the most noise.”
He held up a finger. “One last thing.”
Stripping off his boxer briefs without ceremony, he straightened for her perusal. Turnabout, etc., etc.
Her harsh intake of breath was pure flattery. He drew his shoulders back and preened. And she’d said she wasn’t shy, so he slid a hand down his belly and gave his poor, aching cock the firm stroke it needed.
When she bit her lip, he grinned. “Now I’m ready.”
He intertwined his fingers with hers, and together they ventured out onto the balcony, removed the tub’s cover, and began filling it with water. The night had turned invitingly cool, and he tugged her against him while they waited, naked body to naked body at last, and ran his hands over her back and down her pliant arms.
It was like hugging the softest, warmest, most erection-inducing pillow ever. But Jesus, she was so short. The curls between her thighs tickled his leg, and her breasts nudged against his belly, and there was no way they’d ever have upright sex.
There were benefits to her lack of height, though, as he discovered almost immediately.
When she spoke, her breath wafted over his nipple, and he shuddered. “If I pull you down to kiss you, are you going to bitch about your neck and back?”
“Yes,” he said. “Do it anyway.”
He obligingly bent low, and unlike their first, desperate kiss the previous night, this one was unhurried. A kiss to court her pleasure, rather than stake a claim.
Her lips weren’t especially plump, but they were so very sensitive. When he took the lower one between his and sucked lightly, she swayed against him, her thighs parting against his leg. When he gently nipped, she made a rough sound in her throat and arched her back against his hand. When he flicked his tongue against the seam of her mouth, she gasped, and he took advantage.
Her mouth was slick and hot, her own tongue a sliding tease, and he skimmed his hands down—and down farther, because holy shit, she was a goddamn shrimp-woman—to her ass. The skin there was satiny and giving, cool until his palms warmed her.
At his silent urging, the press of his hands, she was almost straddling his leg, and there—oh, there, she wasn’t cool at all. The heat fucking seared him.
She wrenched her mouth away, breathing hard. “The tub.”
Oh. He’d forgotten about that, what with his whole Wren-is-naked-and-hot-and-kissing-me-thank-fucking-Christ preoccupation.
The tub was more than halfway full, and comfortably sized for three or four people. Perfect. With a flick of his wrist, the gush of water ceased, and the night went silent. He stepped inside the tub first and held her hand as she swung one leg over the high lip, then the other. The water was the perfect temperature, warm but not scorching.
As he sank down, he eyed the placement of the jets and grinned.
If he wasn’t mistaken, Wren looked at them too, then glanced away, her color high.
Once they were seated, a gentle tug persuaded her onto his lap, straddling him. And oh, fuck, her pussy slid against his cock, and they both groaned, and he couldn’t fucking breathe.
But if she didn’t come first, he’d never forgive himself.
He clamped his hands on her hips. “Just . . . just stay still for a minute. Please.”
When she nodded, he slicked his hands up her sides. He wouldn’t rush this, not when he’d never touched her breasts before. Never held them or kissed them or—
He stroked his knuckles along the modest swells. Her nipples furled tighter, and he swept the pad of his thumb lightly over one peak. She shivered, her eyes closed.
He nuzzled against her ear.
“Watch me,” he whispered, then licked her earlobe. “Watch us.”
Her throat bobbed in a hard swallow, but she did it. Her gorgeous, dazed eyes heavy-lidded, she tipped her chin down and watched as he cupped her breasts, flicked and plucked her hard nipples until she was squirming in his lap—a violation of her agreement, which he’d complain about later, much later—and ducked his head to rub his beard against her pale curves.
“Alex,” she breathed, and he took one of those flushed, swollen peaks in his mouth. Sucked until she gave a thin, high cry, pressed down firmly against his dick, and rocked.
“This is another of my favorite tropes, Wren.” He nuzzled her breast. “Fuck or die. Here we are, directly atop the San Andreas Fault, and if you don’t come, an earthquake will end us all.”
He took her nipple carefully between his teeth, and her hips jerked.
“That’s—that’s nonsense,” she managed to get out.
“Just doing my part to save humanity,” he said against her damp skin. “You’re welcome.”
His tongue playing with the hard tip of her nipple, he slid a hand between her thighs and parted her curls. The soft, hot folds of her pussy quivered against his fingers, and her legs shook as he circled her entrance, circled her clit, without ever giving her what she needed to come.
The angle of his neck was painful. Impossible to hold. So he dragged his open mouth over her chest and up her neck, nipping her soft flesh, and her moan vibrated against his tongue.
“I can’t wait to fuck you,” he said, licking the shadowed curve beneath her jaw, then a spot beneath her ear. “But tonight, I want to make you come with my fingers and my tongue, because, Wren—” He finally stroked over her clit with a fingertip, and she whimpered into the still night. “I’m really fucking good with my tongue.”
“You should be.” Somehow, even as her legs tensed and her breath hitched with every brush of his finger over her clit, she was laughing. They both were. “It certainly gets enough use.”
“You have no idea,” he told her.
She clenched around the two fingers he slipped inside her, and he explored until she threw her head back and whimpered again.
There. When he went down on her later, he’d remember that spot.
Back to her swollen little clit. A tight, light circle. Another. Another.
“You’re so responsive.” He sucked at her neck, using his teeth, and flicked her nipple with his free hand. “Christ, you’re going to feel good on my dick, Wren.”
She came crying out, her back arched, her thighs shaking and tight around his hips, her pussy pulsing against his stroking fingers. He slipped his thumb inside to feel it, to feel what he’d done to her, and she squeezed hard with each spasm.
She was still clenching, still coming, when she grasped his cock in one small, strong hand and stroked up and down, and his brain shorted out. He could only see white, only feel her hot breath on his nipple, the wetness of her mouth as she sucked, the tug of her fist in his hair, only fuck into her tight grip until the burgeoning need of weeks and months exploded into orgasm.
He roared, bucking and lost, pouring everything he had, everything he was, into the slickness of her hand and the water and her round belly.
And as soon as he could see again, as soon as he could feel anything other than her hand on his twitching dick, he slapped a palm on the jet controls, and they thundered to life. His chest heaving, his lungs burning for air, he turned Wren in his lap to face those jets and spread her legs with his own.
She squirmed at the sudden stimulation, and he held her still and tight against his wet chest, one hand on her breast, the other sliding down between her legs again.
His voice was shredded, a rough, low taunt. “I thought you were going to be quiet.”
“I was quieter than you,” she panted.
The jets could take care of her clit. He wanted inside.
When he sank two fingers into her pussy, then three, she spread her legs wider and moaned loudly enough to wake their neighbors, and he didn’t give a fuck.
“Maybe,” he said, “but I’m not done yet.”
He rubbed in just the right place, and after that, the argument was won. At least, until they tumbled into bed together and she got her mouth on him.
Once he’d sucked her clit until she screamed, sweaty and trembling, she offered a draw.
He took it. And then took her again.
25
“THREE PEOPLE, WREN,” ALEX REMINDED HER FOR THE umpteenth time as they squatted and sifted through handfuls of sand and sea glass. “Three separate people called the front desk, concerned about a woman who sounded like she was in terrible pain. No one called about a man. Not one person.”
He’d surpassed smugness somewhere around Mendocino, where they’d stopped for lunch, and now approached outright gloating.
And goodness help her, he’d earned that unbearable self-satisfaction. Every bit of it.
Nonstop talking had apparently made his tongue agile over the years. Very, very agile. As he’d demonstrated once more before they’d checked out that morning.
“No one mentioned a man, true.” A pretty green circle peeked from the sand, next to a cloudy blue rectangle. She transferred both into his back jeans pocket for safekeeping, then patted him on the ass for good measure. “But you keep omitting the four people who reported agitated coyotes in the area overnight. Not to mention the hotel guest who insisted a lion had escaped from a nearby zoo.”
The staff member maintaining the breakfast buffet had proven very chatty that morning. So chatty Lauren’s face had nearly combusted from embarrassed heat, and she’d had to pretend great interest in the bagel selection lest the innocent employee unravel the Mystery of the Wounded Woman.
“Oh, my.” Alex had frowned, brow creased in faux solemnity. “Did anyone note which was louder, the woman or the agitated—”
When Lauren had elbowed his side, he’d yelped and quit taunting her. Until they checked out and got back into the car, at least. After that, the only thing that stopped his ceaseless chatter was her tongue in his mouth, and she therefore employed said tongue whenever they were stopped in traffic or parked beside a scenic vista.
At some point, she’d realized he was training her, as if she were a seal clapping for fish. If she wanted quiet, she had to french him.
It was utterly ridiculous and utterly Alex, and she should be indignant.
She would be, any moment now. Once the memory of his tongue sliding against hers stopped sending spears of heat between her legs.
Sea glass really shouldn’t turn her on like this.
“I have no idea what you mean. I don’t remember hearing anything about coyotes or lions,” Alex said, making no attempt to sound sincere. He straightened and stretched, both hands pressed to the graceful arch of his spine. “Shit, I’m sore today. Is this what the kids call blowing someone’s back out?”
The sky had clouded over that morning, and a blustery wind swept his hair back from his face and plastered his clothing against his hard, honed body. He smiled down at her, bearded cheeks creased with happiness, gray eyes bright, and held out his hand for more of her sea glass mementos.
Too awed by him to speak—although she would never, ever admit that—she passed over an amber, rounded square.
He was magnificent. Unbelievably beautiful.
And not long from now, he’d be hers. Above her. Inside her.
Immediately after checking out that morning, they’d hit the nearest CVS and purchased a good chunk of the prophylactics aisle. Between that pharmacy run and all their kissing-related stops, the day’s drive had taken longer than planned, but they’d finally made it most of the way to their destination, the Benbow area. His ex’s wedding amongst the redwoods was tomorrow, and the reception would be held at the same hotel where they were staying that night.
This leg of the trip was almost done, and her decision to shorten their time on the road now seemed foolish. More than foolish. Near-tragic.
The route that day had been spectacular. After going inland a bit, the PCH had returned to the gorgeous, rugged coast. Far below sharp cliffs, waves had pounded the rocky shoreline as Alex drove and drove some more. And on this very special stretch of beach—Glass Beach, near Fort Bragg—that ceaseless churn had turned years of dumped garbage into . . . magic. Sand scattered with a rainbow of sea glass.
She’d rarely seen anything more gorgeous.
How many other magical spots had they rushed past in their haste, all because she hadn’t wanted to leave on Saturday? They could have spent three more nights in each other’s arms. Three more days bickering and kissing and exploring.
Three more days having fun.
When was the last time she’d simply had fun?
When she got back to her feet, he entwined their fingers, his smile fading.
“You look . . .” He frowned. “I don’t know. Is something wrong?”
“I was thinking about how much fun I’ve had with you.” Getting on her tiptoes, she pressed a kiss to the scoop of bare skin at his neck, above his tee. He was warm there. Salty. “Thank you for suggesting a road trip together.”
That gray gaze sharpened on her, and his hands tangled in her hair, keeping her head tipped back to see his face.
“Let’s extend the trip.” The words were abrupt. Intense. “After the wedding, let’s just keep going. I’ve always wanted to drive across the country, and neither one of us is working right now. We could stretch it out over three or four months, easily.”
Oh, that was tempting. Much, much too tempting.
But his financial situation wasn’t hers, unfortunately. “Alex, the production isn’t covering my rent anymore. I can’t afford to take an indefinite amount of time off.”
He opened his mouth, and she held up a hand. “If you offer me money, I will turn around and climb back in that car and ask for a separate room tonight. If I’m sleeping with you, you’re not paying me.”
His lower lip poked out, and it shouldn’t be attractive. It wasn’t.
Okay, it was, but she was resisting its pouty allure.
“You’d be worth the money.” He waggled his brows. “Just saying.”
She set her fists on her hips and scowled at him. “Once again, please let me remind you that this is not—I repeat, not—Pretty Woman.”
“Fine.” He glowered down at her, still sulking, but he didn’t argue. “When do you need to start work again?”
“I’d rather not drain my savings, so . . .” Her sigh was so deep, it hurt her chest, and she rubbed a hand over her sternum. “Six weeks after we get back, maybe? And no matter which job I choose, I’ll need time to prepare.”
Heaving his own sigh, he reached out and folded her into his arms, hugging her close. “You’re the worst, Wren. The absolute worst. Good thing you’re so cute.”
Literally no one else in her life had ever called her cute. Not one.
And now her chest was hurting even more. Dammit.
“Tell me about your work options.” He was bending low again, despite his poor back, his lips against her hair. “Knowing you, I’m sure they’re all miserable.”
Well, he wasn’t entirely wrong. But he wasn’t entirely right either.
“I could join a university friend’s group practice.” His palm was sliding soothingly up and down her back, and she leaned her forehead against his chest. “I like her, but I’m iffy about a couple of the other therapists in the group.”
At her friend’s urging, Lauren had met her potential coworkers soon after leaving the ER. Only to find that two of the guys, both younger psychoanalytic therapists, were condescending as hell and shared way too much information about their clients to a near-stranger.
Later that night, she and Sionna had coined the term therapy bros, and it fit the men all too well.
“That said, I don’t know how much contact I’d actually have with them on a daily basis.” She lifted a shoulder. “My work there would be different than what I’m used to. The people I’d see would need help, obviously, but typically wouldn’t arrive in the middle of a life-threatening, acute crisis. And I’d meet with clients over the course of months or years, rather than evaluating them once and sending them somewhere else.”
That part of things appealed to her. The ability to help a client over a stretch of time, to see any progress made . . . it sounded fulfilling, at least in theory.
He cupped the nape of her neck, kneading the taut muscles there, and she dissolved into him. “Okay. So what are your other options?”
“There’s only one other choice, really.” She rubbed her cheek against his tee. “I could go back to the ER.”
His body tensed, turning to stone against hers, and he straightened abruptly. “Why—”
He sputtered for a few seconds, then found the words. The furious, furious words.
“Why the fuck would you go back there, Wren?” His voice was loud with outrage. “That fucking place burned you out. Worse, that fucking place broke your goddamn heart. And don’t bother denying it, because that would be a lie, and you don’t lie to me.”
She didn’t. Even when she probably should.
It would be extremely convenient to lie to him now, for instance, and tell him how excited she’d be to return to the hospital.
For literal decades, she’d made certain no one except Sionna worried about her, not even her parents. From almost the beginning, though, Alex had refused to be fobbed off. Refused to be assuaged. Refused to accept anything but what she—in his eyes—deserved, from others and from herself.
