Well Played (Well Met #2)(61)

“Does that hurt?”

“What . . . ?” I ran a hand up my rib cage, feeling the indentations left behind by the boning in the bra. Ah. He’d been tracing a literal line up my body. “Maybe a little,” I said. “Nothing to worry about. I’m used to it. Especially this time of year. Lots of corsetry in my life in the summertime.”

He huffed out a laugh, which turned into a sigh as I caught his hand and moved it up. He got the message quick. His palm was rough against the underside of my breast, his thumb circling a rapidly tightening nipple. His touch was electric, but it wasn’t enough. I needed his mouth, his lips, his tongue on my skin. I wanted everything from him. But I forced myself to take my time, running a hand across his taut stomach and then up his chest, loving the way his muscles flexed under my touch. Up and up, tracing the line of his breastbone and curving around his neck, before I drew his head back down, meeting his mouth with mine. His hands tightened on me, breast and hip, and I swallowed the groan that came from his throat. We moved together in perfect concert, toeing off our shoes and sinking onto my bed.

Which squeaked under us.

Kind of loudly.

I ignored it and ran my hands up Daniel’s back; his skin was no longer cold under my hands. He braced his hands on either side of my head and rolled his hips to mine, aligning our bodies. He rocked against me, hard, and I gasped. The only thing between us were his pants and my underwear, but that was still too many clothes. I ran my fingers down the dip of his spine—he shivered and kissed me harder—and made quick work of his belt and the button and zipper on his pants. He bucked his hips as I reached inside for him.

“Jesus, Stacey . . .” He was huge in my hand, hard and hot, and I didn’t mean to tease but I couldn’t help mapping his size and girth with my fingers. The heat of him, the size of him, I couldn’t get enough, and it didn’t take long for mapping to become stroking, in a slow glide from base to the tip. His breath came hard in his chest, shuddering in his lungs, and I couldn’t keep the grin from my face as he rocked against me, thrusting gently into my hand in a steady rhythm. He felt good. This felt good. This was . . .

. . . loud. When had my bed become so damn squeaky?

Daniel stilled his movements and pushed himself up on his hands, looking down at me.

“So. Um . . .” There was that laugh again, that quiet one that was like a rush of breath.

He looked up at the wall behind my head, as if he could find something important there, then looked back down at me. “I don’t know about this.” He pushed himself off me, away from me, and I missed his weight immediately. Everything felt cold without his skin touching mine.

“Okay . . . ?” I hated how small my voice sounded. How defeated. He’d undressed me a few minutes ago, but this was the first moment I felt naked. But it didn’t take long for defeat to dissolve into anger. Frustration, even.

“So what’s the problem?” I pulled at the blanket I kept folded at the end of my bed, tugging it around my chest as I sat up to face Daniel, who was sitting on the other side of the bed, as far away from me as he could get.

“Problem? No . . .” He shook his head and reached for me, but I shrugged away from his touch.

“Then why did you . . .” Frustration mounted and I surged to my feet, wrapping the blanket around me like a kind of toga. What exactly had I misread here? Him dry-humping me into the mattress, or the helpless sound he’d made when I had his dick in my hand? But asking him why he didn’t want me anymore was mortifying. “You changed your mind,” I finally said.

“What? No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.” I folded my arms over my chest, partially in annoyance and partially to help keep my blanket-toga in place. “You stopped”—I waved a hand, indicating the space between us—“all this.”

“Because your parents are on the other side of that wall, and your bed won’t shut the hell up.” He nodded his head back toward the wall behind him. “Shouldn’t we be a little . . . quieter?”

All my anger and hurt feelings melted away, replaced by . . . I wasn’t sure what. Maybe still a little bit of anger. Definitely some frustration. But mostly relief. “Are you serious?” I threw up my hands. “My old bedroom is on the other side of that wall. All that’s in there now is a treadmill, and believe me, they never use it.”

“Are you sure?” He looked over his shoulder, as though my mother might materialize through the wall and ask him his intentions.

I rolled my eyes. “Yes, I’m sure.”

“Okay, then.” Doubt cleared from his face, replaced with a slow smile as he turned back to me. “Then why are you all the way over there, and wearing a bedspread?”

“Maybe I look good in this bedspread.” But I took his outstretched hand and let him pull me back to where he was on the bed. He bracketed my body between his spread knees, tilting his head back to look up at me, and whoo boy, there was a throat I wanted to nibble on. So I did.

“God, Stacey, you feel . . .” His hand tightened around mine, and his other hand went into my tumbled-down hair. He swallowed hard, and I felt the movement against my lips. “You feel better than I ever imagined you would.”

I smiled against his neck. “You imagined me?”

“For months. You have to know I did.” He pulled away to take my mouth with his again, and I felt his kiss all the way down to my toes. I moved closer to him, crawling into his lap and letting the bedspread fall from my shoulders.