Dirty Rowdy Thing (Wild Seasons, #2)(61)

“You stayed.” It’s not a question, and I feel the moment she really wakes up, realizes that I’m still here, with her. Harlow pushes herself up before she climbs on top of me. Her silhouette blocks the streetlights filtering in through the dark window and all I can make out is the shape of her body, the pink of her nipples against her skin.

“I stayed so I could f*ck you again,” I tell her and she laughs.

Actually, I’m as surprised as she is that I’m still here. I’d promised myself I’d wait until she was asleep, I’d make sure she was okay and then I’d head back to Oliver’s. I’d come up with some sort of a plan. Clearly, I’m a liar.

Her hands move over my stomach, my cock already hard between her legs. She rocks her hips and I can feel where she’s still wet, the way she slides over me.

“Done sleeping?” I ask, placing a hand on each of her hips.

She nods, slow and sleepy. “Dreamed about you.”

I trace my thumbs in small circles over her hip bones and in, toward her navel. “What about?”

She rocks a bit more forcefully now, with intent. “This.”

With every shift backward she brings the head of my cock closer, closer, so close to slipping inside.

Bare.

“Careful,” I warn, but it’s halfhearted at best.

Harlow’s head falls forward, the ends of her hair brushing my stomach, my chest. “Feels so good,”

she says, hitching in a breath. “Oh . . . God, it’s so good.”

I know I should take control, guide her away from where I’m hard and greedy, but I can’t bring myself to do it.

One more time.

One more second.

“Wait,” I start to say, and hiss in a breath when I feel the gentle rise of her clit, warm and slippery.

“Let me get something, sweetheart.”

“Just for a second?” she asks, grinding over me. “Ahh . . . right there. Right there.”

“Yeah?” I say, propping the pillow behind my head and watching my cock disappear over and over again between her legs. “Fuck, this is so crazy. Baby, what are we doing?”

But even as I’m saying the words, I’m canting my hips off the bed, helping her slide over me.

There’s something about seeing her use me like this, use my body to get herself off, that leaves my brain fuzzy, trying to remember why we should ever stop. It’s just enough friction and I’m sure I could come from this alone, the two of us rutting against each other like a couple of teenagers.

Harlow leans back, reaches to steady herself on my thighs, and it’s that slight movement, the tiniest change of angle that opens her up, and lets the head of my cock slip inside.

“Oh f*ck,” I say, tightening my grip to keep her still. I feel hot all over, feverish and hungry, and know I should stop this but every instinct fights against it.

Harlow moans and sinks down a little farther. “Do you want me to stop?”

I nod my head but the word “no” comes out instead. Actually a whole lot of curse words come out but I’m not sure Harlow is paying attention to any of them.

“Fuck. Right,” she says, voice pained. She straightens, and moves to climb off me but I reach for her waist, stopping her.

“God. Wait.” I take a deep breath, suddenly aware of the sweat at my temples, the way the sheets are clinging to my back. Every muscle is strung too tight, like live wires ready to snap with the slightest pressure. Her body feels like it belongs to me now. “Just let me . . . feel you. Just for a second.”

And I must be some kind of a masochist because why else would I torture myself?

Harlow’s skin is sleep-warm and her limbs heavy where they rest against me. I’ll never last more than a minute with her looking down at me—sleepy and needy—with nothing between us.

It takes me only a second to decide, to roll us both over and slip back between her thighs. Her legs fall open, knees bent and pressed to my sides. “I just want to feel you,” I tell her again, trying to ignore the eager way she nods, how willingly she agrees with me. Her mouth is too tempting, lips wet and parted, and I lean in, tasting her. “And if you want . . . I could pull out?”

She pushes her words out between tiny, biting kisses: “Would you . . . come . . . on me?”

There have always been things I’ve been into—things that got me off in the privacy of my own head—sex acts that are hard to bring up in a new, more tentative relationship. I want to be messy, rough, a little dirty, a little taboo. I want to claim Harlow everywhere, try anything she wants, and see the mark of rope and teeth and my spankings on her skin.

I like that she wants this as much as I do.

“You want that?” I ask, slowly pressing inside and nearly growling from the pleasure of it. “You want to see it on your skin?”

Harlow throws her head back, fingers twisting in the sheets. Her tits move with each of my thrusts, the mattress squeaks in the darkness, and I’m only vaguely aware that there are neighbors next door, people both upstairs and down. But the only thing I care about is the way she grips me from the inside out, how her skin looks in the moonlight and the tiny sounds that escape her mouth with every thrust.

I’m too close and it’s too fast but I don’t think either of us even cares. A spark flashes hot and moves down my spine, heat that settles in my lower body. I feel myself get harder, my fingers grip her hips so tightly I’m actually afraid she’ll be bruised tomorrow.