You and Everything After (Falling #2)(62)
“Nope, that’s good. Don’t need to hear any more,” I say, and he pulls himself close to me, leaving his chair and lying flat alongside me. When I try to cover my face with my hands, he pulls them away.
“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. It’s actually a really amazing business concept with high levels of demand and never-ending supply,” he says, talking about it like a commodity. “We should watch one.”
“Oooohhhhh kay. I think we’re done talking about porn now,” I say, red again, only to find him getting closer, teasing me.
“You know, that’s what I’m getting my MBA for,” he says, and my head snaps to him, I’m sure my eyes are wide and full of shock. “Oh yeah, I’m going to invest heavily in the industry. There’s a ton of scratch to be made.”
I hold his stare, trying to read his face, figure out if he’s bluffing me. Ty is good. He could sell anything—even this story. Holding my breath, I wait, nodding lightly like I’m considering what he said, like I think there might be some truth to it, and he ups his game, shrugging. Holy f*ck, I think he’s serious!
“You cannot be serious? What does your mother think?” I’m holding my arms stiff against his chest now. He wraps his hands slowly around my forearms and slides them up, over my shoulders and into my hair, pulling me close again, bringing his lips close to mine. I’m still making an incredulous face, but he’s ignoring it, his lips coming closer, closer, until I can feel the tickle of the static electricity working between us, pulling us together the rest of the way. And then there it is—the dimple. The smile.
“I’m totally f*cking with you,” he smirks. I bring my pillow up to his face and smack him across the head.
“I hate it when you do that!” I say, even though I don’t. I love it.
“You liar. You love it,” he says.
I do. I love it. I love you. I love you, Tyson Preeter. I love you. I love you. I love you. My lips almost feel like they’re moving. But they’re not. They’re not, because I’m scared. Fucking chicken. God, Cass…just say it!
There’s a pause in everything—Ty’s hands stop their movement, his eyes don’t blink, his breath holds, my pulse slows and then races. We’ve stopped time—I can feel it. It doesn’t begin again until he sweeps his eyes upward as his fingers pull a stray wave of hair back in place over my head. His eyes stay on that hair for a few seconds before coming back to my gaze. His head tilts. His hands cradle my face. His focus on me, everything me, and all I see are his eyes, blue and honest and vulnerable. Every thought in his head is racing behind them, and I can read what’s inside. I see it. He loves me too. I know he does.
His lips fall on me slowly, and I swear I feel them whisper the words—whisper I love you. I don’t say anything, because the sound wasn’t there. But I felt them. I feel them now.
He pulls himself above me, his elbows holding most of his weight and his forehead pressed to mine while our lips dance, grazing lightly. I let him take complete control. I surrender, and I wait—patiently wait for him to deepen our kiss, because I want more of him, more of his lips and his body and his everything.
When he begins kissing me harder, there’s another shift—time no longer standing still, but racing. He lies to his side, next to me, his lips and teeth rough against my neck, but the feeling is so welcomed. He grips the bottom of my cotton T-shirt quickly, pulling it up and over my body and arms, my bra unsnapping in the front and falling to the sides. When I move to lower my arms, he traps them above my head with one hand, his body leaning into me as he kisses me again, moving his way down my chin, my neck, my chest, until his teeth find the hardness of my nipples, and he pulls them into his mouth, biting just enough to send shivers across my bare skin.
My back arches on instinct, and he’s fast to move his right arm underneath me, pulling me closer into him while he devours my breasts.
Everything about our movements is hot, needy, wanting, greedy, hungry—a million selfish words. But there’s also something else—more than passion, more than lust. It’s like we both have so much to say, but the only way we’re willing is through a physical connection.
My hands finally free, I let them glide down his chest until I find the edge of his shirt, and I pull it from his body. This is my favorite feeling in the world—the feel of his skin against mine. The heat from him takes away my chills as his hands glide around me, kissing his way up between my breasts and neck and back to my mouth again. This kiss is fast, his teeth holding onto my bottom lip as his forehead presses to mine and his eyes look down.
Down, down, down—his hands sliding down until he finds the band of my black cotton pants. A growl escapes him as he finally lets loose of his grip on my mouth, and his thumbs work my pants and panties quickly down my hips, then thighs, then knees until I simply kick them away.
Ty’s eyes look drunk, they’re so heavy as they follow the curve of my body—tracing the line he draws with one finger from my thigh to my inner thigh until he’s where I’m craving him most.
There aren’t any words. There are no jokes or role-playing or sweet-talking or flirting. We’ve moved past that, past the nerves. We’re completely in sync, and as Ty runs the tips of his fingers over me intimately, I allow myself to gasp and whimper for him to hear exactly what his touch—what he—does to me.