“Yeah?” he asks, adjusting his hands on the bed before driving into me hard. His eyes are wild and heavy, and it’s not like the last time. I have to hold on, now, tightening my legs around his hips as the force of his plunges pushes me into the bed. I keep alternating between the need to screw my eyes shut and chase that phantom peak of pleasure, and the desire to keep them open, watching him undo me.
The bed creaks, the old springs crying out with their movements. It’s loud, too loud, but I don’t care. My orgasm is fast approaching, toes curling with every crash of our hips, and he’s obviously too enthralled to stop. I don’t want him to stop. Now, or maybe ever.
Is this what it’s like with everyone? I wonder, but the wave that crashes over me answers that. It’s powerful enough to rob me of my breath, chest seizing on a gasp as I tighten around him, head digging back into the pillow. Hamilton makes a low, rough sound and doesn’t stop, his eyes drinking in every moment—every shudder and gasp—of my orgasm.
When the overwhelming tide of pleasure ebbs, I wrap my tired arms around him, panting as I watch him.
His face scrunches in something akin to pain—maybe even agony—before he buries it into my neck, his hips pounding away like he’s chasing first place. I have no idea how long he’ll go, how long he’ll last, and I don’t care. It could be all night. I could do this all night.
When his body tenses, and he shudders deep inside of me, the sound he pushes into my sweaty neck is so raw, so achingly real, that I’m already desperate to hear it again.
Hamilton collapses on top of me, weight heavy, our heartbeats racing. I run my hand through his damp hair, then use it to tug his head back. Familiar insecurities creep over me.
“Is that what you wanted?” I ask, wetting my dry lips. “Like, better than before?”
“Jesus, Adams,” he mumbles breathlessly against my chest. “Yes, that was better. That was…” He rolls his face against my chest, pushing a kiss into the swell of my breast. “That was the best, actually.”
Best.
The compliment makes me smile, even though that’s ridiculous. He could be lying. Maybe he says that to every girl he sleeps with. But it still makes my heart kick into rapid gear. It makes me want to fuck him all over again. But I don’t. I just lie back on the pillow with the weight of him on top of me, his arms wrapped around my body.
After many long moments spent breathing, my fingers playing through his hair, Hamilton sighs. “I’m definitely going to feel that tomorrow.” He shifts his shoulder.
I pause before dropping my hand. The skin of his shoulder is warm, soft, and he makes a low groan when I dig my fingers into it. “Is it joint, muscle, or tendon?”
His breath washes warmly over the center of my chest. “Tendon, they think.”
I keep massaging. “Does Janet know it’s this bad?”
Silence.
I frown. “You should tell her. You could get a cortisone shot, you know. Remember Bradbury, sophomore year? His was bad, but that helped.”
“You know what I remember about Bradbury?” Hamilton lifts himself and rolls to my side, my hand slipping from his shoulder. He looks up at the ceiling, expression slack and relaxed. “I remember coach sitting him out for half the season and he didn’t make his qualifiers. Barely any of the recruiters saw him swim and his chances at State were shit.”
“Well,” I roll to my side, watching him. “Bradbury was different. He couldn’t even bend his arm for most of that. You can still swim.”
“It’s a risk, though.” He rolls his head to the side, meeting my gaze. “Once I get a few meets under my belt this year, lure in enough recruiters, it’ll get better.” He says this like something well-practiced. Like a prayer.
I push a laugh into the pillow, chuckling harder at his questioning gaze. “Look at us. Your shoulder, my nose. We’re kind of a mess.”
His mouth pulls up into a grin. “It was worth it, though.”
“It was,” I agree, feeling more at ease than I have in a very long time.
“Whoa,” Micha says, once he gets out of the car. He’s staring right at my nose. “It looks even worse today. Are you using the concealer with the yellow undertones? Because it’ll neutralize those reds and blues under your eyes.”
“Hey,” I say, shooting him a glare. “Don’t forget who taught you about concealer in the first place, pal. The student has not surpassed the master.”
“Ignore him,” my sister says, linking her fingers with mine. “He’s an idiot. You look fine.”
My sister is sweet, but my brother is a truth-teller. I do look like crap, and it’s not even entirely because of my bruised nose. I woke up with a pounding headache, feeling like I’d been run over by a truck. Admittedly, I had been run over by a Hamilton Bates-sized truck, but it was more than that.
“Actually, I think I may be getting a cold or something.”
Michaela instantly, heartlessly, drops my hand. “You should go to the nurse.”
“It’s fine,” I assure her and refocus on my brother. “How’s show prep going?”