Afraid to Fly (Anchor Point #2)(43)

"Wait. What are you doing?"

"I'm . . ." I swallowed. "Just taking off the wires. So they don't get in the way."

"But doesn't that keep the pain down?"

"It helps, yeah."

"My God-don't take it off, then!"

"But . . ." I glanced at the box in my hand. "The wires. I don't want you getting tangled up in-"

"Relax." He kissed me and grinned. "I'm pretty sure I can navigate around some wires. If it's helping the pain, leave it on."

I hesitated.

"I'm serious," he said. "Let's get these clothes off, though."

With our clothes on the floor, we lay on our sides, facing each other, and set the TENS unit on the narrow sliver of sheets between us. The wires were draped over my waist, a vague reminder that I wasn't as naked as I wanted to be right then.

"This all right?" he asked.

"You tell me."

He cupped my ass and kissed me softly. "It's perfect."

I shivered. "Even with-"

"Perfect." He brushed his lips across mine. "Just let me know if I bump it or something."

"Don't worry about it." I combed my fingers through his hair. "It takes a beating every day."

"Good to know." He slid closer, and his fingers closed around my cock, and to hell with talking. We made out, and we stroked each other, and I didn't know if this had gotten his mind off anything, but it had sure as hell pulled my focus to him and nothing else.



       
         
       
        

Anything you want right now, I wanted to tell him. As long as you feel good. Anything.

But talking meant breathing and it meant not kissing, and his kiss was too good to pass up. There was something different about him tonight too. Something . . . unrestrained. Like he wasn't in any rush, but he was more relaxed than he'd been before.

I knew the feeling well. He'd been keeping a card tightly against his vest for too long, and tonight he'd shown it, and now that he knew that card hadn't chased me off, his relief needed to go somewhere.

One of his recent comments echoed through my mind:

"It'll take more than back pain to get rid of me."

I grinned into his kiss. Likewise. You're not getting rid of me that easily.

We stroked each other faster until I was breathing too hard to keep kissing him, so I pressed my forehead to his and concentrated on what I was doing with my hand.

"That feels so good," he breathed.

"Mm-hmm. Always does when we're in bed."

"So does." Then he pushed me onto my back and climbed on top. Though his chest was against mine, he held himself up enough to keep from putting his weight on me.

As soon as his lips started down my jaw toward my neck, I damn near came unglued.

Yes, please. Yes, lower. Lower. Oh fuck, lower . . .

I could barely breathe as I watched him trail soft kisses down my chest and midsection. Anticipation wound me up like nothing else, especially since I knew how good he was, and he didn't disappoint-he took my cock between his lips, and I was in heaven.

No one sucked dick like Clint. He'd get me off, there was no doubt about that, but he was in no rush. There wasn't an inch of my cock or balls that his lips and tongue didn't tease. Little kisses, soft licks, squeezing with his lips, swirling with his tongue-he was relentless and patient at the same time. Like he could've done this all night. And the sounds he made were unreal. He moaned like he was the one getting sucked off, and that would've been a turn-on all by itself. Coupled with the magic he did with his mouth? I was a goner. Completely his slave right then.

Just . . . please . . . keep . . .

"Oh my God, Clint." I bit my lip as I combed my fingers through his hair, and he bobbed his head over my cock. "You're fucking amazing."

He moaned, driving me wild with that vibration against my insanely sensitive skin.

And then he wasn't fooling around anymore. His lips focused on the head. His tight grip slid up and down the shaft. Faster, harder-he wanted me to come now, and I didn't fight him. I gave in completely, letting him take me higher, higher, higher, until I must've been levitating off the bed and halfway to the stratosphere, and then- 

Oh. Fuck. Yes.

It didn't even matter that my friend and his wife were right down the hall-I doubted I could've made a sound if I'd wanted to. Sheets bunched in my hands, and air stayed just beyond my lips, spinning, spinning, spinning, and Clint didn't let up, and spinning, spinning, spinning . . .

My hands relaxed. The air came back. My body sank back to the mattress. Before I could even be sure which way was up again, Clint was over me. I dragged him down into a deep kiss. His mouth was vaguely salty from getting me off, and I wanted nothing more than to do the same for him. I closed my fingers around his hard dick, and he rewarded me with a soft, helpless groan.

He started rocking back and forth, pushing his cock into my hand. It was almost like he was riding me, fucking me.

"We've got some lube," I said. "I can put-"

"N-no. This-" He released a ragged breath. "No, this is perfect."

In that case . . .

I tightened my grip and pumped him in time with his thrusts, adding the slightest twist to my strokes. "Like that?"

"Uh-huh." He screwed his eyes shut and bit his lip. Holy shit, he was sexy like this-moaning, trembling, the cords standing out on his flushed neck. I'd never been so overwhelmed with the need to make someone feel good. Hell, with him, I was drunk off that need. Just the thought of making him come-feeling, hearing, seeing him come-made me dizzy.

He kissed me, but then broke away with a gasp. "Oh God." His head fell beside mine, and his shoulders rose each time he thrust into my hand.

And then he whimpered.

And threw his head back.

And shot semen all over my hand and stomach.

And nothing-nothing-had ever been as sexy as watching him come right then. The way his eyes flew open and lost their focus. The way his lips parted and no sound came out. Muscles tensing beneath his skin. I was so caught up in his orgasm, I forgot for a couple of seconds that I wasn't coming right along with him.

Then he exhaled and sank down on top of me. He kept his weight on his forearms, but his hot skin pressed against mine. He buried his face against my neck, and his breath came in sharp, cool huffs across my sweaty skin.

With my clean hand, I stroked his hair.

"I feel a hell of a lot better now," he murmured.

"Good." I kissed the top of his head.

After a moment, he pressed his lips to my neck. Then the underside of my jaw. And finally, my lips. I wrapped my arm around him, and our lips moved lazily together. His body was still feverish and trembling, and I secretly hoped my back would hold out for another round. I was exhausted, and I wasn't twenty anymore, but damn, this was amazing.

One more round? Even if we don't come? That's not too much to ask, is it?

If we did, I'd pay for it tomorrow on our flight, but even that seemed like a small price. I'd already had him once, and I already wanted him again so much it hurt.

Even if we don't have sex again, I still have you in this bed tonight. That's all I need.

Clint pushed himself up on his arms.

Our eyes met.

Oh my God.

I touched his face.

I love you.



The clock said 3:31.

Clint was out cold. We'd settled into bed with his head on my shoulder and his arm slung over me, but we'd separated once our combined body heat became too much. Now I was on my back, he was on his side facing away from me, and my stupid brain was going a million miles an hour. I couldn't make it shut up.

He'd woken up twice, both times shaking and sweating. The second time, he'd taken a few deep breaths, then gone into the bathroom and gotten sick. He'd apologized profusely, and I'd assured him it was nothing to be sorry for or ashamed of. And it wasn't like he'd woken me up, since I hadn't been sleeping anyway, but I kept that part to myself. He was rattled enough without catching on to my anxiety-fueled insomnia.



       
         
       
        

Now, fortunately, he was asleep. For his sake, I hoped that lasted the rest of the night. I listened for the slightest twitch or murmur that sometimes preceded one of those violent nightmares, but at least for now, he was still and silent except for his slow, steady breathing.

Beside him, I was wide-awake, staring at the ceiling and, in between listening for him to stir, sweating bullets over what was happening between us.

I was getting in way too deep. At the same time that I wanted to jump in headfirst and see where it went, I wanted to pull back and run like hell. I was utterly terrified of falling in love with him. And yet, I wanted to.

I didn't know what I should do. What I wanted to do.

Tonight, the only thing I knew for sure was how good it felt to fall asleep next to Clint. I wasn't nervous anymore about him being there when I had a nightmare, and I'd gotten used to him having them. We'd relaxed into something that had always been a massive challenge in relationships before this one.

I absently stroked his hair.

What the hell was happening? We'd started dating a couple of months back, and suddenly . . . this. We were talking about our haunted pasts.

I understood what he meant when he'd said what happened to him counted as need-to-know, and I couldn't imagine having to hold on to that kind of thing by myself. Bottling up an incident like that and keeping it out of a partner's sight was excruciating. I knew guys who'd done it because they didn't want their wives to know what they'd seen or done in a war zone. I knew others who'd had no choice because even hinting about what had happened meant talking about classified information.