Rush Me (New York Leopards 1)

He put me down, and I stared at him, betrayed, stepping forward and reaching out. “What...?” I trailed off as he spun me around. He lowered his mouth to my neck, kissing, nibbling, as I moaned and leaned back into him. Cool air trailed down my back, and the dress fell away. I turned, and smiled.

“Oh, sweet God,” he groaned. Pleased as a cat, I opened my arms and he stepped into them, pressing my back to the wall, his kisses burning down my neck, and lower still. My fingers dug into his shoulders, my head falling back as he teased and taunted the sensitive skin, until he finally tugged my aching nipple into his mouth. I gasped and arched toward him. I could barely see, barely move. I could do nothing but feel the exquisite, endless pleasure that Ryan lavished upon me, swirling and stroking, his golden, perfect hands working magic upon my body, like an artist, a magician, a god.

Then his fingers trailed down to my waist, flicking the scrap of lace away. I sighed, dizzy and frantic and wanting, and he slipped one long, slick finger inside me, and I opened to him and ached and cried out as he circled away at that center point until I thought I couldn’t take it anymore.

“Ryan,” I gasped. “Ryan, please—”

He laughed, just as airless. “All right, sweetheart,” he said hoarsely, dropping to his knees. “Anything you want.”

Something clicked on in my brain. Unwelcome thought, telling me exactly what Ryan was going to do. Something John hadn’t done, and certainly not fast, impulsive Stephen.

“No.” I stepped away. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

He stopped, his features carved with disbelief. He stood up, planting a hand on either side of me. His elbows bent so our lips almost touched, faces a breath apart, but there was no kiss in the air between us. Each word came out labored and terse. “What are you talking about?”

I turned my head away.

He let out a long, shuddering breath. “You don’t want to do this?” When I didn’t contradict him, he drew away. “Fine.” He swiped up his clothes, not bothering to put them on. He closed his eyes, sucking down breath after breath. “That’s it. I can’t do this anymore.” He turned and walked away.

I hadn’t seen him from behind before, and now I saw his broad back, his tapered waist, the muscles that powered his games, the arms that threw, the hands that touched, the purple and black bruise that blossomed across his shoulder. “What happened to you?”

He stopped but didn’t turn, leaving me staring at that ugly, growing flower. “I was tackled. It happens.”

I’d run my hands over those shoulders and he hadn’t even winced. He’d kissed me like the world could end and he wouldn’t ever let go. “I’m sorry.” I meant for everything, for the bruise and for being scared and for telling him to go. I was scared, but I was always scared, and it wasn’t even wanting anymore—I needed him. “Wait,” I cried, and I ran up to him. “I’m not playing, I swear, I just get scared.”

He turned just as I threw myself at him, and he caught me, his body hard as a wall. “I’m sorry.” My lips were on his ear, his jaw, his mouth. “I mean yes. Yes. Yes.”

“I am going to kill you.” He spun us so that my back rammed into the wall. His mouth pressed down on mine, hard, demanding, until I could no longer breathe. I pushed down his trousers, his boxers going the same way. I hardly had time to admire the whole of him before he pressed me back up against the wall and settled his hips against mine, lips covering mine until the last second.

“Only a little death,” I gasped, and then he plunged into me, and I screamed.

His mouth was back on mine. “Shut up,” he whispered. “Shut up, you crazy, beautiful girl, you’ll get us caught.”

For a moment, I just breathed, and then it wasn’t enough anymore. I clenched my muscles around him and Ryan groaned, rocking against me. He withdrew only to slide back in, slow, hard, deep, until I teetered, sightless, and matched his thrusts with my own. “Don’t scream, crazy-beautiful,” Ryan whispered against me. “Not yet.”

I rocked against him. Each stroke took me closer, but I stayed on the edge. “Oh, God, Ryan. Ryan. Please—”

He was lost, going faster and faster, kissing me, loving me, until I couldn’t keep up, and then he shuddered, once, twice, burrowing inside and exhaling kisses and champagne and pure sensation. “Don’t stop,” I cried. “Don’t you dare stop!” I arched against him again, almost crying from the exquisite pain. If this didn’t happen, I would die. I would never recover.

He reached his fingers down, and they touched and stroked and pressed—“There!”

As the world shattered into a thousand tiny, whirling diamonds, I screamed. But Ryan caught it with his lips.

* * *

Later, we collapsed against the wall, tangled together and breathing as one. Slowly, slowly, satiated pleasure faded. The rhythm of our breath stopped being my central thought. Ryan stopped being a second part of me. The diamonds cleared from my vision, slowly, slowly, until my mind was glass.

“Oh my God!” I pushed myself to my feet and stumbling away from Ryan. I stared down at him, horrified. He looked baffled. “Holy shit! We just had unprotected sex!”

In eighth grade Sex Ed, my teacher presented a graphic PowerPoint of every STD imaginable, and they burrowed into my memory, another unwanted list for the ages. Now, each one of those pictures ran through my mind, of pungent, rotten flesh, of boils and rashes.

From the floor, in an unashamed, glorious sprawl, Ryan looked up at me. “You on the pill?”

“What?” I hyperventilated slightly from my mental slideshow. “Yes, of course.”

“Well, that takes care of that. And I’m clean. How about you?”

“But how do you know? Ryan, you sleep with a lot of girls. Any one of them could have passed something along! When was the last time you were tested? Oh my God. I should have demanded to see your paperwork before anything happened. Oh my God.”