The Love Hypothesis (Love Hypothesis #1)(80)

He was the distracted one now. Staring at her breasts like they were something spectacular, his lips parted and breath quick and shallow. “Remember what?”

“Our first kiss.”

He didn’t answer. Instead he looked up and down at her, eyes glazed, and said, “I want to keep you in this hotel room for a week.” His hand came up to cup her breast, not exactly gentle. Just this side of too forceful, and Olive felt herself clench around nothing. “For a year.”

He pushed his hand against her shoulder blades to make her arch toward him, and then closed his mouth against her breast, all teeth and tongue and wonderful, delicious suction. Olive whimpered against the back of her hand, because she hadn’t known, hadn’t thought that she’d be so sensitive, but her nipples were tight and raw and almost sore, and if he didn’t do something, she’d—

“You’re edible, Olive.”

His palm pressed against her spine, and Olive arched a little more. An offering of sorts. “That’s probably an insult,” she breathed out with a smile, “considering that you only like wheatgrass and broccoli— Oh.”

He could fit her entire breast in his mouth. All of it. He groaned in the back of his throat, and it was clear that he’d love to swallow her whole. Olive should touch him, too—she was the one who’d asked for this, and it followed that she should make sure that being with her was not a chore for him. Maybe put her hand back where he’d dragged it earlier and stroke? He could instruct her on how he liked it. Maybe this was a one-time thing and they were never going to talk about it again, but Olive couldn’t help herself—she just wanted him to like this. To like her.

“This okay?” She must have lingered too long inside her head, because he was looking up at her with a frown, his thumb swiping back and forth on her hip bone. “You’re tense.” His voice was strained. He was cupping his cock almost absentmindedly, stroking and gripping every once in a while—when his eyes fell on the hard points of her nipples, when she shivered, when she squirmed on her feet to rub her thighs together. “We don’t have to—”

“I want to. I said I did.”

His throat bobbed. “It doesn’t matter, what you said. You can always change your mind.”

“I won’t.” The way he was looking at her, Olive was sure he’d protest again. But he just rested his forehead on her sternum, his breath warm against the skin he’d just licked, and let his fingertips coast the elastic of her panties, dip under the thin cotton.

“I think I’ve changed my mind,” he murmured.

She stiffened. “I know I’m not doing anything, but if you tell me what you like, I can—”

“My favorite color must be green, after all.”

She exhaled when his thumb pressed between her legs, brushing against fabric that was already dark and wet. She exhaled in a rush until there was no air left, embarrassment washing over her at the thought that now he must know exactly how much she wanted this—and at the pleasure of his finger, large and blunt, running against her seam.

He definitely knew. Because he looked back up at her, glassy-eyed and breathing fast. “Damn,” he said, quiet. “Olive.”

“Do you . . .” Her mouth was as dry as the desert. “Do you want me to take them off?”

“No.” He shook his head. “Not yet.”

“But if we—”

He hooked his finger on the elastic and pushed the cotton to the side. She was glistening, swollen and plump to her own eyes, way too far ahead, considering that they’d barely done anything. Too eager. This was embarrassing. “I’m sorry.” There were two kinds of heat, the one curling tight at the bottom of her stomach, and the one rising to her cheeks. Olive could barely tell them apart. “I am . . .”

“Perfect.” He wasn’t really talking to her. More to himself, marveling at the way his fingertip sank so easily between her folds, parting them and gliding back and forth until Olive threw back her head and closed her eyes because the pleasure was streaming, stretching, thrumming through her and she couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t—

“You are so beautiful.” The words sounded hushed, ripped out of him. Like he wasn’t going to say them. “May I?”

It took her several heartbeats to realize that he was referring to his middle finger, to the way it was circling around her entrance and tapping at it. Applying a light pressure right against the rim. So wet already.

Olive moaned. “Yes. Anything,” she breathed out.

He licked her nipple, a silent thank-you, and pushed in. Or at least, he tried. Olive hissed and so did Adam, with a muted, hoarse “Fuck.”

He had big fingers—that must be why they didn’t fit. The first knuckle was just shy of too much, a pinching ache and the sensation of damp, uncomfortable fullness. She shifted on her heels, trying to adjust and make room, and then shifted some more, until he had to grip her hip with his other hand to keep her still. Olive held on to his shoulders, his skin sweat slicked and scorching hot under her palms. “Shh.”

His thumb grazed her, and she whimpered. “It’s okay. Relax.”

Impossible. Though, if Olive had to be honest, the way his finger was curving inside her—it was already getting better. Not so painful now, and maybe even wetter, and if he touched her there . . . Her head lolled back. She clutched his muscles with her nails.