A Not So Meet Cute(93)

Water drips down my face as I smile at him. “You see, Huxley”—I rub my center over his erection in a continuous motion, finding just the right spot for both of us—“charm can easily come in the form of dry-humping.”

He lets out a roar of laughter right before the most gorgeous smile I’ve ever seen lights up his face. God, he’s beautiful. Sexy and hot, yes, but right now, I see a boyish cuteness to him as well.

“I had no idea charm could be translated through dry-humping. I always thought the universal translation for dry-humping was . . . ‘hey, I’m horny.’”

I steady my hands on his stomach, which causes my breasts to press together. “It can mean both.”

Still smiling, he reaches up to my breasts and rolls my nipples with his fingers. “Good to know.” He then envelops my right breast in his hand, squeezing, massaging. “Have I ever told you how fucking hot your tits are?”

“Mmm,” I moan, picking up my pace just a notch. “I can’t remember. Maybe. But tell me more.”

“They’re sexy as fuck, Lottie. Not too big, not too small, tight little nipples that beg me to touch them. I could spend hours just playing with your tits.”

“Hours seems excessive.” My head falls back as he sits up and brings his mouth to my breast. He sucks tightly on my nipple and . . . that’s it. The scruff of his jaw rubbing against my sensitive skin combined with the intimate feeling of his lips on my nipple sends a crazy rip of pleasure down my spine and all the way to my curled toes.

“Hours are necessary.” He moves his mouth to my other breast and pays as much attention to that nipple as he did the other.

My hand floats to the back of his head, and I hold him in place, not wanting him to stop doing what he’s doing, because it lights me up, makes me feel alive.

The patter of rain around us heightens the mood, as well as the way the water runs over our two bodies, soaking our clothes, our hair, our skin. It’s erotic. The only thing that could make this better would be if we were both completely naked.

“God, Huxley,” I groan when he tugs on my nipple with his teeth. “I want more.”

He takes that as a sign to flip me to my back, laying me across the cold, wet surface of the teak-wood flooring. His gorgeous body hovers above mine, blocking the rainfall from hitting me in the face. His chest ripples above me, his hair’s wet with droplets, and his eyes are so intense with need that I find myself spreading my legs.

He positions himself between them, his large frame causing me to make even more room. He lowers his pelvis to mine, and when they touch, immediate gratification strikes me in the chest.

Yes.

He feels so much better like this.

Heavy against me.

Hard as stone.

But he’s the one in control, something I’ve come to love when he touches me. I want him to own me, own my body, and make me forget everything around us.

“I want your shorts off,” he says in a tortured tone.

He pushes his hand through his hair, sopping the water away, and lifts off me only enough to pull down on my shorts. I help him remove them with a lift of my hips, and once they’re off, he drops them to the side and positions himself against me again.

I’ve never been naked in the rain.

And I’m going to be honest, it might be my new favorite thing.

It’s exciting.

Daring.

Erotic.

Huxley hovers over me, the only thing between us his shorts, and they do nothing to hide his massive erection.

“I love seeing you like this,” he says, “submitting to me. I’ve never seen anything sexier in my life. This is it, right here, you naked, wet, legs spread, waiting for me.” He wets his lips. “How much do you want me?”

“More than I care to admit,” I say, looping my hand behind his neck.

“Still hate me?”

“No.”

“Still want to help me?”

“Do I even have a choice?” I ask, wondering where this questioning is coming from.

He flashes his eyes to me. “Even if I don’t want to admit it, you always have a choice.” He rubs his length along my aroused clit. Oh God, that feels too freaking good. My hand trembles against his neck as he reaches up to my breast and teases it with his fingers. Looking me in the eyes, he says, “If you told me, tomorrow, you want out, I’d destroy the contract.”

He thrusts against me.

“What?” I gasp as he pushes again, and again, and again. “Oh God,” I moan, his pace stirring pleasure deep within me. “Wh-why?”

“Because,” he says, thrusting again. I catch the tension in his shoulders. He’s holding back. From the thick veins in his neck and the tight clench of his jaw, he could give more, wants to give more. “Even though you might not believe it, I want you to be happy.” He thrusts again, and my back arches as my body pulses. Begs. “I don’t want to trap you.” Another thrust. Two more, that’s all it’s going to take. “I don’t want you to feel trapped.” Thrust.

“Yes, God, yes, Huxley.” I grip him and meet his thrusts with my own. I’m right there, on the edge. Pleasure pools at the base of my spine, this euphoric feeling amplifying with every push of his erection against my clit.

So close.

God, I’m so close.