The Decoy Girlfriend(83)
And who he wants? Freya’s eyes shoot to his. She can’t not read something into that.
His smile is gentle and knowing and everything. It feels like an answer.
The stormy clouds of anxiety circling her head poof into clarity. For the first time in years, she doesn’t want to fast-forward her life to some hypothetical save point where everything is okay and adulthood is figured out.
She trusts the timing and she trusts Taft—she is exactly where she needs to be.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I know you’re awake,” Taft whispers in Freya’s ear when he can’t hold out against her early-morning squirming any longer. He finds it adorable that she thinks she’s sneaky, when in fact she might quite possibly be the most unsubtle person he knows. It’s one of his favorite things about her.
“Shh, I’m sleeping,” she mumbles. “Cake hangover.”
He laughs and rests his chin on her shoulder, lazily stroking her thigh and hip under the sheet. Sugar crash notwithstanding, she’s nowhere near as sleepy as she wants him to think.
“Then I guess I should stop”—he glides his palm over her ribs to cup her breast, rolling the nipple between thumb and forefinger, eliciting a shivery gasp—“this?”
“I changed my mind,” Freya says hoarsely. “I’m awake.”
He kisses the crook of her neck. Her skin tastes salty, and he can smell himself on her: sex, sweat, and the faintest tickle of his own soap. “You were always awake. You were just trying to get my attention.”
Her voice hopefully lilts, “Mission accomplished?”
His erection twitches toward his stomach. He had her three times last night, and pleasuring her was still his first and sole thought. Taft lets his hand travel to her other breast, gently flicking Freya’s nipple until it perks almost as hard as his cock, still straining in his pajama pants. “What do you think?”
She rolls to face him with a self-satisfied purr. “Glad to see it worked.”
“Oh, it worked all right.” He flashes her a wicked smile, letting her feel just how effectively she’s woken him up. The fact she still has the ability to blush after the things they’d done after coming home—from afternoon to dawn—is nothing short of arousing. “Next time, I want to have you on the couch.”
Honestly, he’s surprised they haven’t already. He’s only thought about it twice a day since he’s met her. Freya, nude and writhing against green velvet, brown eyes full of desire, legs wrapped around his waist to draw him even closer, hair askew and entwined with his fingers as his tongue tangles with hers.
Taft knows she’s going to hold him to it from the way her eyes sear into his.
“Yes, please.” Freya determinedly pushes at his shoulder until he understands what she wants and rolls onto his back, staring at her wide-eyed.
She’s not going to . . . Taft’s mouth goes dry with want. Is she?
She throws one leg over him, trapping him between her parted legs. “I’ve never . . . Is this okay?”
Her shins are braced on the mattress, and it’s sweet how she tries not to put any weight on him, but he doesn’t want her tired before this even begins, so Taft gently urges her down. His fingers settle into the same indents he held her yesterday like they were just waiting to return. At this angle, looking up at her, he can see his marks on her neck, soft blotches where he sucked too hard. God, she’s beautiful.
“It’s spectacular,” he says, then rephrases. “You’re spectacular.”
Her smile is alluringly shy as she wraps her fingers around his cock, both of them inhaling sharply as his hips buck. His fingers dig into her hips, and with a curse of apology, he gentles his grip. “Please tell me if I’m too rough,” he says, running his hands up and down her sides.
Freya seems confused by his statement. “You’re not. I like everything you do to me.” Her hands release him and drift up her stomach, her breasts, and then her neck. “Are you talking about these?”
“I’m sorry.” He nods, a little shamefaced. The apex of her thighs is right in his line of view, so he throws his eyes to the ceiling.
“I like them, too,” she whispers.
His eyes shoot to hers at the, frankly, unexpected confession. “You don’t mind hickeys?”
“Not usually, but I like your hickeys on me,” she corrects. She bites her lower lip, trailing her fingertips back down her body and onto his, gently skimming his clavicle. “You’re wearing my marks, too.”
With a surprised thrill, he realizes he’s a little tender, too, like his shoulders had a really good massage. He glances down, cataloging the evidence of her fevered kisses on his own flesh.
When he meets her gaze again, she’s already grabbed a condom from his bedside table. She hasn’t bothered to close the drawer, as though she thinks they’ll need more than one. The thought makes him grin.
After rolling the condom down his length, Freya reaches between them to touch herself and comes away with her fingers glistening. Without any more fanfare, she guides him to her slippery folds. “Teach me what you like?”
Taft hisses through his teeth. “Just like that.”
It’s exquisite torture the way she sinks onto him, the head of his erection slipping through her entrance, but it’s nowhere near enough. He grits his teeth and keeps his hips level, forcing himself not to push his hips up and into the molten heat he’s craving. In this position, she’s the one in control, and he wants her to set a pace she’s comfortable with.