The Envy of Idols (Rich Boys of Burberry Prep #3)(68)
“Anything.”
Poor Creed. He may very well regret saying that.
“Are you a virgin?” The words slip past my lips before I can think better of them, hanging in the air between us like a cloud, like a comic book speech bubble attached to my big mouth.
Creed Cabot freezes, and then sits up, looking down at me with his golden hair mussed and his beautiful mouth twisted into a frown.
“Why would you even think that?” he snaps and I cringe slightly. It only takes him a minute to figure it out, and his lips purse into a thin line. Creed closes his eyes, and puts two fingers up to his temple. “Fucking Miranda. I have never wanted to kill my twin more than I do in this moment.”
“So … it's true?” I ask, feeling this strange, silly surge of excitement. But there's nothing wrong with that really, is there? It just seems … like it might be easier if we're both inexperienced and don't know what we're doing.
“You and your stupid, asinine rules,” he growls glancing over at me like he isn't sure what to think or do. “No lies, right?”
I smile, touched by his sudden insecurity. It takes all of that smooth, polished perfection of his and gives it a lovable, little flaw.
"No lies."
"Shit." Creed runs his fingers through his hair, and then turns to look at me. "Yeah, it's true."
My heart trips, falls, skins its knee, and gets up again. I feel all bruised and tender, and my cheeks flush with heat.
"Damn," I whisper, holding back a giggle. "Do the others know?"
Creed gives me a look that clearly says I've lost my mind, and shakes his head.
"No, and you're not going to tell them are you?" I shake my head, and he looks away sharply, almost like he's ashamed.
"Don't be upset. It's not like the entire academy doesn't know that I'm one, too."
Creed turns around, leaning back over to kiss me again. Some of his reckless abandon is gone, so I try to bring it back by curling my arms around his neck. Our mouths work furiously at each other, tongues sweeping across lower lips, chasing the edges of teeth. My nails dig into the bare skin of his upper back, and his left hand slides up the slit in my dress, teasing my thigh with the warm, dry heat of his palm.
Our bodies work together much like they did in the hot tub that day, and soon we’re both moaning, grinding against one another in all the places that count.
This time, when his left hand slides along the waistband of my panties and dips lower, I don't put a stop to it. Creed keeps his fingers on the outside of the fabric, sliding them against the warm throbbing in my core, and teasing more dampness from my body.
"Tell me when you want to stop," he whispers, biting my earlobe. The thing is … I'm not sure that I want to stop. I keep finding myself in these situations, and wondering, wanting, needing, but then I deny myself and I just end up frustrated.
No, I don't want to stop.
Those long beautiful fingers of his tease me until I'm panting, moving my hips to meet each touch. He works me until I'm a complete mess, my hair tangled, my skin sweaty, my heart thundering like a herd of horses. And then, with all of that lazy, insouciant perfection of his, he moves the panties aside and teases my opening with a single finger.
Our kiss deepens just before he slides it in, all the way to the knuckle. Pleasure of a sort I've never felt before shoots through me, and I dig my fingers hard into Creed’s back, making him grunt. We sit there together for a moment, frozen in an intimate position, letting the newness of the situation settle over us.
And then he begins to move, slow strokes, in and out, until I’m shaking and quivering and wishing for more. My lips move, but no sound comes out. Creed is shaking, too, sweating. A bead drops from the end of his nose and lands on my lips. I lick it off and he groans, closing his eyes as he inserts a second finger. It gets a bit tight then, but not uncomfortable.
I bite his lower lip, suck it into my mouth, and then shiver as he sweeps a thumb over my erect nipple. Suddenly, I’m just desperate to get out of the dress. It feels tight, almost confining.
There’s a knock on the door, and we both pause. Creed swings an irritated gaze in that direction.
“Hey. Tell the idiot I’m done showering, so he can have the bathroom.”
“I’ll tell him,” I choke out, wondering if I sound weird, if she can tell, if she knows.
“KK, night-night.” I can just imagine Miranda waving as she pads off toward her bedroom. Sighing, I lean my head back into the pillows, and Creed curves his fingers, stimulating parts of me I didn’t even know I had. His thumb slicks upward and over the throbbing ache I didn’t realize needed so badly to be sated.
We start kissing again, and it’s like breathing, to touch my mouth to his. I need him suddenly in a way I’ve never needed anyone before. My hips move against his hand until he’s cursing and pulling away, leaving me gasping and achy. I sit up on my elbows as Creed rises to his feet, panting.
“Condom?” he asks, and my cheeks flush. He stops then and looks at me, really looks at me. “That is, if that’s what you want.” He just stands there and stares at me, a beautiful shirtless aristocrat with the bone structure of a prince, and the haughty air of a king. That vicious mouth of his, equally good at insulting and kissing alike, turns up in a half-smile. “I’ve waited this long, and so have you. There’s no point in pushing through something that doesn’t feel right.”