Good Girl (Love Unexpectedly 2)

His hand tangles in my hair, pulling my head back slightly as his mouth claims my throat and I realize abruptly that I’m no longer in control. I also realize that I’m just fine with that.

Noah nudges forward, the tip of him sliding in, and it’s so deliciously tight, so good that I cry out.

“You’re so small,” he whispers, teeth scraping my neck. “So tight.”

He nudges forward again, just a little, his breath harsh and ragged. I’m wet, but the movement isn’t easy and he pulls back, his gaze slightly panicked. “Are you—”

“Not a virgin,” I say in a rush, knowing what he’s fearing. “It’s just been a while. More than a year.”

And only twice in my life.

His eyes widen slightly, and I realize what I’ve just revealed. I didn’t sleep with Shawn Bates. Didn’t sleep with any of the guys who’ve come forward and claimed to be my bedmates.

“Don’t stop,” I say, tightening my legs around his waist in a plea. “Please don’t stop.”

The anger fades from his expression, and it’s replaced by something that looks like possession. He pushes me back, lowering his mouth to my breasts as his hand slides down my body to where we’re joined.

His tongue works over my nipple as his fingers play with my clit, all the while sliding forward, working inside me in slow, short movements until at last he’s able to ease all the way inside me.

We both groan as he buries himself completely, and he closes his eyes for a minute, staying perfectly still, as though fighting for control.

I lift a hand to his cheek—wanting, needing him to look at me.

But he resists my pull, instead looking down as he withdraws all the way from me before plunging back inside.

It’s hard, and it’s good, and I rear up, wrapping my arms around his neck, burying my face there as he grabs my ass, pulling me to the very edge of the table so he can slam into me again and again.

He was gentle before, but it’s not gentle now, and I’m surprised to find I relish every bit of roughness. The scratch of his stubble on my cheek, the pressure of his fingers on my flesh, the way I’m stretched to the max around him, my legs spread wide.

Then Noah adjusts the angle, shifting my lower body slightly so that every thrust rubs against me, sending little bursts of fireworks through my head.

I wiggle my hips, needing it faster, more, and Noah complies. We’re both sweaty now, his shoulders slick against my palms, our bodies sliding together in delicious friction with only the sound of our breathing and the wet, sweet sound of really good sex.

I’m so focusing on the good that I don’t see the really good coming until the orgasm is right there, ripping through me like a freight train.

I scratch at his back as I pulse around him, and Noah lets out a harsh shout before wrapping his arms around me, nearly crushing me to him as he slams into me one more time, erupting with a quiet string of curses.

I hear my name mingled in among the fucks, and I don’t even mind.

Heck, I can’t even think. Or breathe. Or do anything but hold on to him for dear life.

We stay that way for several moments, my face buried in his neck, his in mine, and the aftermath is surprisingly intimate for a coupling that was frantic and dirty and rough.

He pulls back slowly, still avoiding my eyes, and I wince slightly, both at the uncomfortable mess between my thighs and at the slight soreness.

“I’ll get you a cloth,” he mutters, tugging up the shorts that fell to his feet.

“Nah,” I wave my hand, trying to play it cool, like I deal with this sort of situation all the time. “I’m going to run upstairs and rinse off.”

He nods awkwardly. “I’ll reheat the food?”

The question is clear, as though he’s terrified that now that we’ve screwed, I’ll read too much into the fact that we’re sharing a meal.

“Sure, whatever,” I say with a casual shrug, as though it doesn’t make a difference to me one way or the other.

I hop down and pull my dress back over my head, searching around for my panties, scooping them up like it’s no big thing before I head toward the stairs.

Yup, definitely tender, I realize as I start up the steps. I smile, feeling an odd sort of feminine pride. A lifetime of practical celibacy, and here I am tying guys to beds and having sex on kitchen tables.