Thrive (Addicted, #4)(106)
“You’re avoiding me.”
Okay. He’s right on that account. On my way to the doctor with Rose, we had a major flat tire, which was a bad, bad sign, doomed from the start. So by the time the doctor said you’re pregnant to both of us, I resigned to the fact that this was some real cosmic injustice.
And that I better get my shit together so the news doesn’t break Lo. Rose is two weeks further along than me, so she may have to announce her pregnancy before I do. But I just have to wait for the best moment, the perfect time where Lo is in a better place. I’m hoping it’ll come before I start showing. It has to.
“Lily,” he snaps, waving his hand in my face. “Are you even with me?”
Keeping this from Lo is like carrying around a grenade, not knowing when it’ll blow up. “I’m not avoiding you,” I say swiftly.
“You just walked right past me,” he argues, “and yesterday, you didn’t even wait to shower with me.” Shower sex. I skipped shower sex. That had to be a big red flag. His eyebrows pinch together, hurt coursing through his features. “Did I do something? Are you mad at me?”
“No,” I say, a knife wedging itself in my ribcage. “I just wanted to go longer without having sex so frequently. You know, see if I can do it. Like a personal goal or something.”
His muscles loosen in an instant. “Can you let me know when you’re planning these personal goals?”
I nod. “Good news,” I say, rising on my tiptoes and hooking my arms around his neck, “I’ve completed it.”
His lips curve upward, and his hands fall to my ass, squeezing and building a strong pressure like sexual magic. He walks me back into the couch, and I lie against the cushions, the remote digging into my shoulder blade. I toss it on the floor and feel the weight of Lo’s toned body bearing down on mine.
A noise catches in my throat, and my heart skips, utterly transfixed by his lips. I try to lean up to touch them with mine, but he places his palm on my chest, flattening me against the couch.
“I don’t like this game,” I tell him.
His knees rest on either side of my hips, straddling me and making it near impossible to roll off the couch or to acquire a long, sultry kiss.
“You don’t?” His brows rise, and his hand disappears up my thin cotton shirt. Gliding over my skin, teasing me. It’s a rush that fills me with need.
“Yes,” I breathe. Yes? Was that the right response?
“Looks like you’re stuck here,” he says.
Yes. I try to focus, but that hand is creeping up my abdomen at such a slow, intoxicating pace. “No kissing?” I whisper.
He bends down, and his lips brush the nape of my neck, his nose nuzzling me. I cry a little, the sensations blistering and pulsing inside of me. His tongue slides against my soft skin, and I shudder, my limbs trembling beneath him.
Not fair. So not fair. I am a goner. I let out a hoarse ragged breath, and then wedge my arm between our bodies, enough that I can place a hand on the outside of his pants. When I begin rubbing, he groans into my neck.
Ha! I take it a step further and slide my hand underneath the elastic of his gym shorts but over his tight compression shorts, like spandex that most guys wear to keep their stuff in place when they work out. Very little fabric lies between my palm and his cock.
Lo rocks his pelvis, sucking gently on my neck, and his lips travel to mine in a brief moment, attacking with feverish hunger. Yes. God yes.
Instead of moving my hand, I let him grind his body against me. My lips ache and swell, and my panties begin to soak. When I feel him harden, I let out a sharp breath and try to slip my fingers beneath his compression shorts.
But he rests his palm on top of my hand, silently telling me to keep it there.
He kisses slower, and his tongue flicks in and out of my mouth, the best French kisser in the whole wide world. I think I could do this forever. Well, not forever. I need a release sooner or later, but foreplay has never been better between us. I revel in the beforehand now. Each moment means something. It’s not just about the climax.
Though something hard, really hard, right inside of me would be just about perfect.
“Hey, get the fuck off each other.” Ryke’s voice wakes me from my blissful thoughts. A pillow assaults my side.
Lo props his body up with one arm, just enough to detach his lips from mine and reveal exactly where my hand has journeyed. In Lo’s shorts. On his cock.
Should I look over? I do. I glance at Ryke, who towers over the couch. My elbows heat in a shade of rash-red. Ryke crosses his arms, a dark accusing look on his face. “The couch is a public area.”
“We weren’t fucking,” Lo refutes with a half-smile. “Thanks for the concern, bro.” He helps me retrieve my hand from his shorts because I have frozen in a pit of embarrassment.
“Ten minutes later and you might have been,” he notes. “I really want to fucking go. The weight benches are probably all taken, so can you hurry up?”
“Yeah give me ten minutes.”
“Not with her,” he says. “It’s the middle of the afternoon.” Shit.
Lo’s jaw muscles tic, and he rises to his feet. “Ten minutes alone, I got it.”
I cover my hot face with my hands, watching out of the cracks of my fingers. I can’t touch myself. For other people, it’s not so dangerous. For me, it may trigger my compulsions. Losing thoughts and time to porn and masturbating—not again. I don’t want to regress, not with this baby ticking inside of me.