Shameless(52)

This is wrong. We are wrong. Deep in my heart, I know I shouldn’t let this happen, but I want her too f*cking badly to stop.

She arches beneath me, and that’s all it takes for my brain to shut down.

I let go of her hair to caress her breast that fills my hand so exquisitely my cock throbs.

Dipping down, I lick and suck and tease her dusky pink nipple, and her hands dig into my hair. And then I move my hips back so I can reach between us where I find her soaked underwear. I slide them down, pulling up on my knees so I can tug her panties off her leg.

At that moment, the TV brightens the room and I take in her arched back. Those beautiful plump breasts. Her trim waist and lean thighs. Those glistening lips between her legs.

“You’re beautiful, Katherine.”

Her hazy eyes open, and she gives me a shy smile.

Fucking hell. This girl. Equal parts vixen and virgin. Though I know she’s not really a virgin, I can’t escape the vulnerability in her expression.

It’s a look I’ve seen on her face all week.

And then I say something I probably shouldn’t. “You know I want you, right?” Because the last thing I want is her thinking my resistance had anything to do with her or her beauty or intelligence. She’s grade-A girlfriend material. I’d be a lucky * to be dating her back home.

Her eyes close briefly while her smile widens.

I fight the urge to kiss her because while she should know how much I want her, I know I need to minimize any tenderness. We agreed that this is f*cking. Fucking I can do. Making love, though, is off the table, and if I kiss her right now and give in to the way I want to hold her, I think we’d both walk away confused.

Ignoring the twinge of guilt in my chest for taking something that can never ultimately be mine, I lower myself to her warm body. Fucking will have to do.





33





Katherine





Something changes in Brady. It’s like the moment he realizes he’s being vulnerable with me, the shutters come down.

I want to analyze it and deconstruct everything that’s just happened, but when he takes a long, slow lick between my legs, all rational thought dissipates because…

It.

Feels.

So.

Good.

He grips my thighs, pressing me wider and into my bed while his wicked tongue strokes and soothes the painful pulse.

All I can hear are my panting breaths and the sound of him licking. It sounds so dirty. So illicit.

When I glance down and see his dark head of hair between my thighs and those powerful arms, colored and swirled in ink, wrapped around my legs, I want to sing a hallelujah chorus.

Because I need to drown out the negative thoughts about how this will never work. How he’s leaving. How we’re too different to be together.

I’m a pale canvas next to his tattoos. Something about our juxtaposition makes me feel bland. Like I’m whatever nameless piece of art that’s mounted next to the Mona Lisa. I’m a little girl from Texas, and he’s this beautiful tattoo artist from Boston. He’s edgy and biting and brisk, and I’m all Southern hospitality and polite welcomes.

Except nothing about my legs dangling open on either side of his face is polite.

My breath catches in my chest. God, I love the fact that he gave in to this.

That’s what I need to do. Give in. Live in the moment for once and enjoy this fling.

Because that’s all we’ll ever be. A fling.

And when he pushes two thick fingers into me, that’s exactly what I do. Give in.

His tongue swipes at the pulse between my legs, and it’s all I can do to hold in a scream. I toss my arm over my mouth and writhe on my bed. His hand grips my thigh tighter while he works me over. Until I’m gasping and tightening and pulsing against him.

“Oh, my God,” I gasp, turning my face into my pillow. “Fuck. Fuck. It feels too good. Stop.”

But I don’t want him to stop. And he doesn’t. Just softens his touch as I come down.

I’m basking in the warm glow of the best orgasm of my life when he collapses next to me and pulls me to him.

I expect him to throw on a condom and start pounding into me, but he doesn’t. Instead, he lazily strokes my hair.

Closing my eyes, I toss my leg over his and snuggle against him. In the background, behind the gentle hum of the rain coming from the baby monitor, the football game ends, but I couldn’t care less who won.

His arms wrap around me and he rests his cheek against my forehead.

My heart squeezes, wanting to let myself feel for him. It’s easy to feel for Brady.

But I remind myself that’s not what he wants. Or needs, not with everything he has going on right now.

So I do my best to stamp out my emotions. And then I pull myself up over him.

His eyes open as his hands lift to my hips. I want to squirm with the way he watches me. I’m stark naked and he’s still wearing track pants, but the slow sweep of his attention over my body makes my tummy flutter.

I drop down to kiss him, and as my tongue slips between his lips, he moans. I can taste myself on him, which makes me wonder how he’ll taste.

“Can I reciprocate this time?” I whisper against his mouth.

A laugh escapes him. “You’d better. My dick has been pissed at me all week.”