Stuck with You (The STEMinist Novellas, #2)(20)

I grin. I have a Ph.D. in engineering: if I can build sophisticated machinery, I can figure out how to put on a damn condom. And there’s some trial and error, but Erik doesn’t seem to mind, spellbound by the way my small fingers work on him. When I’m done, his breathing is shorter. More stilted.

“Come back here.” He pulls me down to him.

“I— Do you want to be on top, this time?”

“No.”

“Are you sure? I think I’m okay with—”

“Sadie. I want to fuck you, and I need you to like me fucking you. So you’re on top for now.”

I have no clue what the parameters for the magnum size are, but I do get why he needs it. I’m as relaxed and turned on as I’ve ever been, but it still takes a while to work him in, with small increments and false starts and lots of careful maneuvering. By the time he’s in as far as he’ll go, I’m sweating, and Erik is drenched. He smells delicious, like salt and soap and his immense skin. So I lick the place on his jaw where the drops have been collecting.

“Can you . . . ?” He arches experimentally into me. We both let out a groan.

“What do you want?”

“I want to feel your tits.”

“Oh.” I’d forgotten about my top. I straighten to take it off, which involves some twisting and grinding that has Erik gasping and trying to still my hips again. They’re not much, I almost warn him. But I remember something he said earlier. Uncanny combination of every single feature I’ve ever found attractive. “Did you mean it? When you said I’m your type, physically?”

His pupils track the progress of my hands, blown wide. “I noticed you.”

“Noticed me?” I undo the clasp of my bra. He twitches inside me. His jaw ticks with restraint.

“In the building. The lobby.” He closes his eyes. Then opens them. “Once in the elevator.”

I take off my bra, feeling stupid to have been worried. He’s staring at my body like it’s somewhere between holy and utterly, deliciously pornographic. “What did you notice?”

“Sadie.” His throat bobs. “A lot.”

“And . . .” I push down on my knees and circle my hips twice, working him a little deeper. A fraction of an inch, but the friction, the sense of fullness—my eyes roll back in my head. I didn’t know anything could be so far inside me and feel so good. Couldn’t have imagined. “And what did you think?”

“Oh, fuck.” A desperate sound comes out of Erik’s throat. “This. This, and more.” He swallows. “Lots of other things, and—Sadie, you’re going to have to give me a minute to adjust or I’m going to—” Erik sounds just as astonished by this as I feel. His eyes are screwed shut, and his hands grip me so hard, and his teeth sink into my shoulder. “Sadie, I’m about to—”

“Don’t worry.” I pant my smile against his ear, fluttering like I’m about to go under. “You’re doing so well, Erik.”

I come like an avalanche, and then he does, and when I squeeze my arms around his neck, I don’t ever mean to let go.



* * *



? ? ?

In the morning, I watch him shave in front of the mirror just because I can.

He uses a razor that looks like the ones I buy for my legs (i.e., cheapest at the supermarket). If he minds the bleary-eyed girl who had less than two hours of sleep and is currently sitting wrapped in a towel on his bathroom counter, he hides it well. But I’m almost sure he doesn’t. Mostly because he’s the one who put me here.

“You’re so tall,” I say, a little tired, a little stupid, leaning back against the mirror.

His mouth twitches. “You aren’t.”

“I know. That’s what I blame the end of my soccer career on.”

“Isn’t Crystal Dunn pretty short?” he asks, rinsing his razor. He dries his hands on his pajama bottoms, which hang deliciously low on his hips. “Meghan Klingenberg, too. And—”

“Shut up,” I say mildly, which only amuses him further. He sets down the razor and moves closer, hands slipping inside my towel and coming to rest against the small of my back, warm and instinctive and impossibly familiar. Like it’s something he’s been doing every day for his entire life. Like it’s something he plans to do every day for what’s left of it.

I love this. The way he pulls me into him. The way he grows hard but seems to be content with this not going anywhere. The way his face nuzzles into my throat. I love this. But.

“I just think you might be too tall,” I say into his clavicle. “I foresee neck problems for both of us.”

“Hmm. We’ll probably need surgery a few years down the line.” His smile travels through my skin. “How’s your insurance?”

“Meh.”

“Mine’s good. You should go on it when . . .” He trails off. Picks up again with, “Have lunch with me today.”

“I don’t usually have lunch,” I tell him. “I’m more of a ‘big breakfast, then forty snacks scattered throughout the day’ kind of person.”

“Have a big breakfast and forty snacks with me, then.”

I laugh. Yes. Yes. Yes. “What’s the closest subway stop?”