Arrogant Devil(76)

My hand slips down between us. If she can venture south, so can I.

I skim along her taut stomach, the waistband of her shorts, inside her cotton panties. Then I find wet, hot heat.

Later, when someone asks me about the happiest moment of my life, I will think back to this, right now. I’ll lie and say something PG-rated, but I’ll know the truth.

I guide my middle finger into her and her legs drop to the ground. I need better access, more access. She doesn’t move from that door though. Pinned is the way I like her. Between my body and the door, there’s no end in sight. I pump in and out of her and sweep my tongue into her mouth. This is what we’ve been waiting for, I tell her with my touch. This.

My other hand is lonely, and that tank top she’s wearing might as well be paper-thin. I can feel her chest quivering against mine. She’s shaking, and it could be from nervousness, but I know better—it’s adrenaline.

I can feel that she’s not wearing a bra. No. Damn. Bra. Had I known that while we were watching the movie, I would have had her pinned to this door an hour ago. Now, I’m pissed I waited so long. I’m anxious and hungry. I don’t bother taking her top off, just yank down the front of it until one of her soft breasts fills my palm. She shivers, like that little touch alone could bring her to an orgasm. I smirk against her mouth, memorizing the wordless cues her body shouts back at me. So you’re sensitive there? I skim the pad of my thumb over the tip of her breast and she yanks my hair in response.

My other hand is still working wonders inside her wet panties. Poor Meredith, she really doesn’t stand a chance.

My palm covers her breast, and I roll my hand up and down. I get the best reaction from her with a feather-soft touch in the beginning, nothing too aggressive, just subtle teasing and torturing. I know from the way she’s grinding her hips against me that I’m hitting the mark.

I break our kiss and tip my head down, replacing my hand with my mouth. My tongue teases her breast. Her head falls back against the door and her eyes flutter close. I do it again then wrap my lips around the flushed tip.

She releases a slow exhalation and I think maybe I should take this to the bedroom, but there are a lot of things in life I should do. I’m happy right where I am, coaxing and licking and seducing until her fingers dig into my shoulders, and she’s promising me she’s about to lose it.

I keep her right against the door even as I move on from her breast and continue farther south. She moans, annoyed with the loss of friction between her thighs, but then I’m on my knees and her eyes widen with wonder.

“Oh no,” she says, in shock.

Oh yes.

From what I know of her husband, he probably never put her needs before his. I bet he never knelt like this and tugged these tiny little shorts to the side and stared up in awe. There’s only a thin layer of cotton between me and my end goal.

“Jack,” she whispers, unsure.

It feels like we’re going fast, but there’s no slowing down, no going steady. This moment has been weeks in the making. I’ve written a thesis in my head about the things I’d like to do to her body.

Our eyes lock and I see every unspoken word there, all the uncertainty and worry. I see that this isn’t comfortable for her, to have me looking at her like this, but I won’t back off unless she tells me to because I don’t see regret in her gaze—I see need, hot and raw.

I brush my thumb up and down the center of her panties and she bucks her hips toward me. I try not to gloat. Still, a smirk forms all the same. I pin her hips against the door with my free hand and try again. This time, there’s no reprieve from the gentle strokes, the small circles I draw against the wet cotton. Her breathing quickens.

I could let her come just like that, with my fingers and my breath on her, but I want more. She wants more—deserves more.

I tug her pajama shorts and panties down until they fall to the floor and then lift one of her legs so her foot is propped on my shoulder. I have the perfect angle, right between her spread thighs.

“Oh my god. I don’t think…” She’s rambling, words slipping out between sharp inhales.

She tries to move her leg, to squeeze her thighs together and close herself off. I hold her steady and glance up. Her ponytail’s gone now. Her dark hair frames her face, softening her delicate features even more. She swallows and I drag my hand up her thigh slowly. I’m saying, See how good this feels? See how much better it could feel? I reach the groove of her hip and pause; it’s a question. Our eyes lock again, and I ask for her consent out loud. I need to hear it.

“Do you want me to keep going?”

There are no fancy words or pretty promises.

I could tell her things to ease her mind, things like the truth: I’ve never wanted anyone more than I want her.

But words have been used against her in the past, and maybe for her, talk is cheap. I have no way of knowing what that bastard said to her, what abuses he slung at her in moments like this to make her scared of letting me touch her. Even still, I know enough not to promise her things with words when I can use my body instead. I can prove to her that there are better guys in the world, guys who would sink to their knees and worship at her feet.

“Meredith.”

Her name comes out gritty and hard, pleading.

I know she’s uncomfortable. I know she’s thinking too much about the bare facts of what we’re doing, so I decide to overload her brain, to give her a future to focus on so her past is the last thing on her mind.