“No, it’s not. I screwed up.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “I understand.”
“No,” he says, “you don’t.” His heart booms. Whatever he’s about to say is hard for him. “Dad knew I liked you. He said he’d go talk to you, tell you what a fuck-up I am. God, Auds, the thought of him coming anywhere near you...” He presses his lips together.
Oh dear god. His dad is such an asshole. “I’m so sorry,” I say. “And you’re here now.” I thread my arms around his neck. “We’re here. We’ll be fine.”
He sighs, cradles me closer. Then his hand drifts down my arm and moves to my breast, lightly touching. Making me throb with need again.
He lowers me until I sit on the sofa and leans over me, his mouth closing over mine, his tongue teasing my lips.
Oh god, this is crazy. I came by to show him my scars, to let him know it worked. Showing me his scars made me trust him again. It also gave me a glimpse into his life and made me understand him more. It’s a step in the right direction, and I wanted to let him know that.
The transition from that part to this is blurry. One moment I’m showing him my ugly scars, and the next he’s going down on me—and now he’s doing it again.
Driving me insane with need. For him.
My hands fumble with his shirt and I manage to snag the hem and tug. This time he helps me, grabbing it and tearing it off.
Jeez, this boy’s chest should be illegal. My hands smooth over his six pack, his firm pecs, the grooves at his hips. His hardness presses between my legs and his lashes flutter against his cheekbones.
“Wait,” I say.
He glances at me under his lowered lashes. His chest rises and falls rapidly. “God, Auds. I’ll stop if you ask me to, but I don’t want to.”
I sit up, push him back against the cushions. He lets me, sighing, a look of sadness stealing over his features.
Kneeling at his feet, I unbutton his jeans and tug them down. His eyes grow heavy-lidded, pale blue swallowed by black; his pupils blown huge with desire.
Pulling his boots and socks off, I take off his jeans and look up at him. He wears black briefs. He’s so hard, the head of his cock is peeking over the elastic, and he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s staring at me, his hands clenched by his sides, as if afraid to make a wrong movement and scare me away.
Taking a moment to enjoy the sight—his handsome face, his awesome body—I place my hands on top of his muscular thighs and reach for his briefs.
Tit for tat. His breathing hitches when I pull the briefs down, freeing his erection so that it bumps against his belly.
“Fuck,” he hisses. His cock is thick and long. Powerful like the rest of him.
He groans when I wrap my fingers around the base and rise on my knees. His eyes dip from my face to my breasts and then down to my hand on him.
Then I bend over him and the movement seems to snap him from his trance.
“Auds, no.” He puts a hand on my shoulder, gently pushing me backward. “You don’t have to do this.”
“I want to,” I say, holding his gaze. “I’ve imagined doing it.”
His eyes widen, then, and he stops pushing me away. His fingers dig into my shoulder.
I don’t have much experience with this. All this. A little known fact, even to Tessa, is that although I’ve had two boyfriends since I moved to Chicago, I’ve barely gone past first base.
Which is probably also the reason they didn’t last long. That, and the fact my boyfriends were bastards, as Tessa often likes to point out.
But deep in my heart, I know the real reason those relationships didn’t last: it’s Ash I’ve always wanted. Surrogates just can’t cut it.
I take him into my mouth, loving how he moans and tangles his fingers in my hair; how he trembles and throws his head back. He tastes salty and sweet, with a hint of bitterness.
When I tighten my fingers around him, when I firm my lips around his girth, when I suck—he pants and groans and tugs lightly on my hair. He’s fascinating.
His eyes fall shut and his teeth grind together when I take him deeper. His face twists in a grimace that looks like pain, but his hips roll once, twice, and I know he likes what I’m doing to him. A lot.