The Austen Playbook (London Celebrities #4)(45)

But right now—it felt like a weighty decision. Momentous, even.

She twisted her arms down and pushed her fingers through his, holding on to his hands, holding on to the patient, flickering heat of his eyes.

“What’s your bed like?” She brought one of his hands to her cheek and rubbed softly against his knuckles. His grip tightened on hers. “Because mine has a lot in common with that block of cement you mentioned.”

Lowering his head, he touched his lips to hers. It was a whisper-soft kiss that somehow felt like a promise, and something in her belly tightened in response.

The fizzing sense of anticipation survived the short walk back to his room, but the journey shattered some of her less-fun coiling tension, since the snoring had increased in pitch, and they had to stop by her room to get a condom from her bag because he didn’t have anything, and they kept stumbling into hideous sculptural works in the dark, and the whole thing started to feel like a vaudeville skit.

After Griff had hit his knee for the second time on a decorative gargoyle, he swore vividly into Freddy’s hair and stopped copping a feel until they were safely in his bedroom, with the old-fashioned key turned securely in the lock.

The wave of shyness that washed over her was utterly out of character, and she took the fastest way of dispelling it by literally throwing herself back into his arms. He caught her with a grunt, and they ended up on the bed a bit quicker than she’d intended.

“It is soft,” she said with satisfaction as he rolled on top of her and pushed the mess of curls out of her eyes. A smile twitched at her lips as she lowered her chin and looked down between their bodies. “Well...not everything.”

The brief flash of his grin did more gorgeous things to her overwhelmed emotions. His body was heavy and somehow both comforting and exciting, and his definitely-not-softness was a delicious friction. Freddy arched her hips, rubbing sinuously up into him, and he released a sharp hiss of breath against her collarbone.

They lay there, kissing, hands stroking and bodies moving in small, compulsive presses, until she grew impatient and reached down, and their fingers collided on the hem of her dress. He levered himself away so they could pull it up, and she struggled to yank it over her head.

Smoothing his palm up her stomach—which was as far from flat as it had ever been thanks to her stress-eating over The Velvet Room audition lately, and Griff obviously couldn’t care less—he kissed her again, his tongue a silky stroke against hers, retreating and then returning, teasing her. He was more playful in bed than she’d expected, and she loved it.

She couldn’t stop touching him. His torso was long and his body was mostly stretches of taut muscle, but not in a super pumped-up gym way. Parts of him were softer, and areas of skin roughed into scars and the odd stretch mark, and he was real and here and him.

He unclipped her bra and pushed it away, and closed a warm mouth over her left nipple. Freddy shut her eyes and threaded her fingers through his hair. Her breasts weren’t particularly sensitive, so having them played with never did a lot for her sexually, but the feel of his breath and the brush of his hair against her skin was lovely.

With one hand still cupping her, his thumb circling her nipple, he trailed his mouth back to her neck and nuzzled at the thin skin beneath her ear, then caught it in a gentle suckle. Her breath caught and started to quicken, and he raised his head a little, then returned his attention to the curve there, kissing and stroking. Fast learner.

Turning her head to the side to let the man work, Freddy reached down and undid the button of his trousers. Fortunately, he wasn’t so meticulous that he’d bothered with a belt. She couldn’t be doing with buckles right now. She pressed her hand against his erection through the fabric, and he made a muffled sound into her neck. Carefully lowering the zipper, she pushed elastic aside and wrapped her fingers around him. His whole body went tense, and his breathing was rough as he rested his cheek against her shoulder, temporarily losing focus on anything but the movement of her hand.

She stroked him once, lightly, and then firmer, testing to see what he liked. When he grunted again and turned her face to catch her mouth in a rough kiss, she thought she had an idea.

While she touched him, she slipped her free hand into her own briefs—unfortunately they were her favourite pair with the holes and tattered lace but what could you do—and started catching herself up. She broke the kiss when her head went back reflexively and hit into the mattress, and he muttered another profanity when he realised what she was doing.

That curse, however, sounded more like a heartfelt thank-you to the universe.

The leash on his control seemed to snap without warning and suddenly one of his hands was joining hers. Whatever ingenious movements he was making with his fingers, she’d take notes if her brain hadn’t just shot off into orbit somewhere. She couldn’t keep up her own touch, either on him or herself, and ended up just grasping on to his neck and holding on.

With a hard push of a wet, openmouthed kiss, he sat up briefly to remove the rest of their clothing—although she realised when she closed her legs about his waist that he’d forgotten her socks.

Sometimes sex was great and sometimes it was so shite it was a waste of a condom, but she was usually focused on only the mechanics and trying to bring and wring as much pleasure as possible. This was an entirely different experience.

That first thrust was the moment when she always had a jolt of hyperawareness, the objective curiousness of having part of another person inside her body. And then back to, does it feel good, are we having a good time, hopefully yes, and yay, sex.