There’s a collective groan.
God, is this what it feels like dying and going to heaven? Fuck she feels good—so fucking tight and wet and wanting.
Her fingers rake down my back, drifting to my ass, pulling me deeper with a breathy little gasp. With every thrust, her breath hitches, a sound so sexy it causes my balls to tighten earlier than is respectable.
Too early.
Shit.
No.
Do not come yet you piece of shit!
Do. Not.
The sweat on my brow gathers; I focus on the perspiration to take the attention off the pressure in my nuts—the pressure telling me I’m going to blow my load sooner rather than later.
Please dear god, let her come, please dear god, let her come…
Words I really never thought I would think or pray while banging someone in my bed. Why now? Why her?
Goddamn she feels incredible and not because I haven’t been laid in who knows how long.
Shit. How long has it been?
I rack my brain. Count sheep. Run football drills.
Anything to redirect the tingling sensation building in these tight, good-for-nothing balls.
“Yes, yes—right there, don’t stop.”
A good sign. Words I’m familiar with. Words associated with a climax and usually followed by,
“Uh…uh…I’m gonna…”
You’re gonna what?
Say it, Chandler! Say you’re going to come so I can let loose this breath I’m holding, entirely too close to passing out from lack of blood and oxygen to my brain. Every cell in my body has collected in my cock, leaving zero left for a fully-functioning brain.
I’m a useless bag of crap.
“Yes…oh god…oh god that feels so…so…” Her head thrashes, hands pulling, fingers digging into my butt cheeks, nails scratching. She spreads her legs wider so I can hammer into her harder. “Harder!”
Shit, don’t make me, don’t say it; I don’t know if I can, I don’t know if I can, I don’t know…
“God Tripp, yes, yes—I’m gonna come I can feel it, oh god that feels so good, oh god.” Her words are a song, lyrics for my own release—I won’t disappoint her if I come too. It will be better, better, better.
What’s my name?
How did I get here?
Why does this feel so fucking good…
When we come, it’s in tandem—CRISIS AVERTED—my hands cradling the back of her head, lips kissing the side of her neck, sweat soaking the pillow case I’m sure.
Who cares.
Who even fucking cares about the pillow case?
Chandler’s small hands stroke my backside, then up my spine, slowly up and down, not yet ready to shove me off so she can breathe easy—nor am I in any rush to go. Climb off. Roll over. Be separated. The whole thing is beyond me right now; couldn’t even spell my name if I tried.
I plant another kiss to the corner of her mouth—one of her favorite spots—then in the center of her lips, before finally moving off her and flopping to the side, pulling her over with my arm.
There is a god and he’s watching out for me.* * *“I can’t believe we slept together on our first date.” Chandler is groaning beside me, arm slung over her brow and avoiding all eye contact. She didn’t seem embarrassed before, but now she’s abashed and flushing. “I am the worst! No self-control whatsoever!”
“First date?” What the hell is she talking about? “This is like, our fifth date, babe. Relax.”
Babe.
I wait for irritation at the endearment to settle in the pit of my stomach, but nothing comes. Strange, since I cannot stand hearing couples babe and honey and sweetie the shit out of each other.
And here I lie, fucking doing it to someone I’m not in a relationship with yet.
Yet?
Whoa, slow down, pal. She’s probably not interested—are you?
Chandler looks confused. “Fifth? No it’s not. This is our first.”
She’s so cute. “No—fifth or something.” I think, squinting up at the ceiling before I begin counting off our dates. “The rehearsal, the rehearsal dinner, wedding, The Ivy, my brother’s house, and tonight. So, what is that? Six? Yeah, we’re good.”
“We have not gone on six dates! None of that counts.” She laughs. “Have you lost your mind?”
Yeah, probably. But so what? “If it’s going to make you feel better about banging me so soon, then just rationalize it as six dates. No big deal.” I boop her on the nose. “God you’re adorable.”
Especially when she’s worked herself into a snit.
I think I could get used to that; no need to be perky and adoring all the time. I’ll take the prickly moods, too.
“Oh jeez, you must have a concussion—no sane man would say a thing like that.”
“You don’t want me to call you adorable?” I’m confused—don’t women want to be complimented and shit after they’ve been banged?
Chandler is not your average female; Chandler can kick your ass five ways from Sunday.
“No, I do, I just…don’t want you to feel like you have to? You just…” She shrugs and glances over the pillow at me. “Don’t seem like the type.”