Losing Me, Finding You(16)

Austin releases my hair and mouth and grabs onto the edges of the table for support, cursing heavily under his breath, voice husky and thick.

“Fucking Jesus H. Christ,” he whispers as he slams into me again, hitting something deep inside that sends tingles up my spine and causes my fingers to curl violently around the edges of the wood. Austin moves his hands over the top of mine and grabs on with force, grunting as he pulls out and slides in, teasing me with this horrible give and take that I've read about but never understood. Not really. Not until now. Not until him.

Austin Sparks.



Chapter 13

Being with Amy is like nothing and nobody I've experienced. I don't just want to f*ck her once and call it a good time. No, I want her to be mine, wholly and completely. It is a weird as f*ck experience that makes me question my own sanity. All of a sudden you want to run off to some church and marry the girl? But no. That isn't it either. Some shitty piece of paper is not going to give me what I need; I think about the only thing that'll soothe this ache is having Amy's hot, tight body pressed up against mine.

I close my eyes and try to move past the thoughts. I've never once had an emotional breakthrough and a life changing experience in the middle of sex, and I'm not about to start doing it now. No * in his right mind would want to have a conversation with himself with Amy Cross wrapped slick and wet around 'im. 'Specially not me.

“You close, baby?” I ask her as she tenses around me and arches her back, throwing that cinnamon hair over her shoulder as she lifts her chin up and shakes her head violently like she has no idea what I'm talking about. The sight's about enough to make me go, and it takes all I got to hold back and keep going, thrusting in and out with slow, controlled strokes while my thigh muscles start to cramp and my fingers twitch. And then I'm getting all pissed off at the friggin' condom, wishing I could tear it off my dick and spill myself inside of her.

“You're going to kill me,” she groans, too loud maybe since I swear to God, it feels like we're being watched. When I glance over my shoulder, there's nobody there that I can see. “I'm going to die.” I try to slow down, leaning forward, so I can run my hands up her sides, wishing I had time to tear off every inch of clothing and explore her breasts, her soft belly, her thighs. Except for Mireya, I usually don't get to sleep with the same girl twice, so I'm getting anxious, wondering how I'll feel if I let Cross get away from me before I'm done with her.

“Relax there, sugar,” I tell her as she bites down hard on her lower lip and squeezes her eyes closed, clamping down around me so tight, I can hardly move my hips. “Relax and let it happen.”



Chapter 14

There are some things that translate perfectly from real life to writing, that dance from the author's fingertips like petals on the wind, spinning a bit of prose that is just as good, if not better than seeing it with one's own eyes.

Orgasms are not one of them.

Oh, believe you me when I tell you that I've read lots, hundreds, thousands maybe. I've read explosions of light and sound, convulsions, fireworks, pleasurable bursts of unstoppable energy that transcend this very realm of existence as we know it. None of those are accurate. I believe the French are most on point with the term la petite mort – the little death.

“Stop,” I tell Austin with force, trying to cull this building feeling in my belly. With every thrust of his Austin's hips, I feel it spiral up from down below and infuse my body with this sense of urgency, like if I don't stop now, I'll really, truly be done for. “I said stop,” I repeat, but my voice only comes out in a weak whisper. “Please.”

“I can't,” Austin groans through clenched teeth, letting his head fall back while his hands tighten so much around mine that they hurt, trapping me like steel cuffs against the table as his body slams into mine, erasing twenty-one ridiculous years of pious virginity and countless hours of reading romance novels by the truckload.

I'm sore and I'm aching and I'm wanting all at once, but I can't make him stop. I'm trapped, and I want to be trapped. I like the feel of Austin's hot, sweaty body against mine, owning me, opening me, burning me. It feels good, and it's likely one of only a handful of things I've decided to do all on my own, against everyone else's wishes, just for me. But I say it again because it's the only thing I can think to say, and I'm pretty f*cking (wow, that feels good to say) sure that I'm just about at the end of my rope. “Austin, stop!” I think I'm shouting, but I'm not really sure because my body chooses that exact moment for the wave of pleasure to crest and knock me silly, dropping my body flat against the felt, burning the soft skin of my stomach against the green fibers as Austin continues to move inside of me until my eyes tear up and my heart stops beating for one, small, infinitesimal second.

I think I could fall in love.

And then a second thought, just as quick, much more practical.

With this man? That, that would be a very bad idea, Amy.

I choke back my own scream, dig my fingernails into the wood of the pool table and wait until it's over, until I've died a bit and come back to life with this strange rush of endorphins and hormones poisoning my blood in the best way possible, leaving me both a wreck and a solid statue at the same time. I know then that I'm going to need time to figure this out. A little might be okay, or a lot, I'm not sure, but in all reality, I have no idea what it is that I've just done.