Getting Real (Getting Some #3)(33)

My lips feel bruised and swollen as his words register and I open my eyes to his searching, hungry gaze.

Connor sucks in a breath, panting more than he has on any of our runs.

“Are we really doing this?” he asks. “Is this what you want?”

I have no thoughts in my head. There’s no plan, no doubts—no after.

There’s only Connor and me and the need that’s thick and scorching between us. Fusing us together like molten metal and begging for more.

He runs his thumb down along my hairline to my jaw. His touch so tender. And such a shocking contrast to the heavy, hard, pushing cock that’s pressed between my legs.

“You need to tell me, Violet. I want you to be sure.”

There are moments in life that require you to tread carefully, bide your time, be prudent. And then there are times when you just say fuck it—and jump off the cliff. And whatever is waiting for you down below—warm waters or jagged rocks? It doesn’t matter anymore.

Because the rush of the fall will make it all worth it.

“I’ve wanted this for so long, Connor. Please don’t make me wait any longer.”

It’s like he’s a barrel of gasoline and I just lit him on fire.

My cute sweatshirt? Gone.

My new teal sports bra? Ripped over my head, off my arms, and thrown on the floor—probably too stretched out to ever wear again.

And I love it. I love his harsh movements, like he can’t get to me fast enough. I love how he stares at my bare breasts for two solid beats and then groans crudely.

I love how he pins me to the wall with his hips, palms my breasts with both hands and lurches down to lick and lave like a starving man—sucking the hardened points of my nipples into his mouth and flicking with his hot tongue until I see stars.

And then I’m whimpering, tugging at his hair and rubbing mindlessly up and down against his cock—because it’s not enough.

I need him closer—inside—hard and full and pounding.

I don’t have to tell him . . . Connor already knows.

He kisses me deeply, cups my ass in his hands, and carries me down the hall, kicking open the door to my bedroom on his first guess and laying me on the bed.

In my mind, I hop up and go full she-hulk on his clothes, shredding them off his body.

In reality, I lean back on my elbows and watch as he tugs his shirt over his head, kicks off his shoes and socks, and slides his shorts and boxer briefs off to the floor.

And my eyes have seen the glory . . .

Connor’s body is all man—strong and rugged and fit. And every inch of him beautiful.

A smattering of dark hair dusts his chest and lower on his stomach. His torso and thighs swell with taut muscle and tanned skin. His erection protrudes proudly—thick and long—the broad head smooth and crimson. He’s bigger than I imagined, even bigger than he felt—large enough that when Connor takes his wallet out of his shorts and slips out his own condom, I’m relieved . . . because the standard-size box in my nightstand drawer wouldn’t have fit.

He puts one knee on the bed and leans over me. I run my hands all over him—everywhere I can reach—loving the hard, silken feel of him. His watches me with sensuous, heavy lids as I wrap my hand around his shaft and slowly stroke him, reaching between his legs to cup the soft, weighted sack—massaging and giving a gentle tug that makes his eyes drag closed.

Then I go in for a taste—licking and kissing along his ribs, making his breath catch. I intend to go lower, but he grabs me by the nape of the neck, dragging me up to kiss me, his tongue plundering.

I’m not a virgin. I’ve had hookups, boyfriends, even what you could say were “lovers,” though I’m not that fancy. Some of the guys I’ve been with were good in bed.

But with each of them there was a tangible undercurrent of selfishness in all the thrusting and flipping around and hair tugging. It’s not that I didn’t enjoy those things—but they never felt like they were for me.

About me.

It was always all about them. What they wanted to do, feel, try—how and where and when they wanted to come.

With Connor—every move he makes, every whisper and touch—feels like it’s all for me. To worship me, please me, make me gasp, make me quiver. Holy god, it turns me on.

And he knows things.

When he peels my shorts and panties off and slips his hand between my legs, his movements are bold and sure. But when he pets me there, sliding the pads of his fingers back and forth on my clit, his touch is delicate and sensual, applying just the right pressure.

He knows how to kiss me, when to hold my head still and spear his tongue roughly into my mouth—making me take it—and when to pull back to a teasing stroke and make me chase him for more.

And what he doesn’t know—he asks—and that’s hot too.

The rasping, hushed whispers in my ear. Here? You like that? More?

It makes me so wet—heated, slippery, moisture clings to the apex of my thighs.

But there’s no embarrassment or shame. He likes how wet I am. I know because he tells me.

You’re so slick for me, Violet. Fuck, you’re making me so hard.

He spreads my knees and nudges between my thighs, giving me a front row seat as he rolls a condom on with sure hands. He lines himself up and slides up and down against my soaked opening. And then thrusts inside—going in full and smooth and to the hilt.