His shorts are cool and silky against my bare thighs, and goose bumps dance up my spine. His hands start at my knees, gliding up until his long fingers curl around the curve of my ass. This close, I can see the glint of his eyes and the shape of his mouth. Even sober, I still think it’s a really good mouth.
“Now listen to me. We’re alone. It’s dark. No one is going to stumble upon us, so you don’t need to think about any of that. No one can hear us, so you don’t need to keep your mouth closed or censor your reactions.” He tugs me forward until I feel his erection press insistently against my center. “And I want you so bad, it’s a miracle I was able to walk all the way here without taking you against the side of some building. Nothing you do or say is going to change this.” He pushes down on my hips, lifting himself up at the same time, and I catch my breath at the contact. “So you don’t have to be nervous about me either. You have absolutely nothing to think about. Nothing to worry over. And you don’t need to think about whether or not you’re going to come. I’m going to get you there. Trust me. Your job is just to feel. React in whatever way feels right to you. That’s it.”
I nod, but I’m not sure that’s a promise I can keep.
He kisses me, languid and hot, chasing away the gnawing panic that had overtaken me when he stopped in the library. His hands guide my hips, rocking me against his erection in time with our kiss. Under his guidance my hips roll, slow and steady, as if we have all the time in the world, and at the top of each roll, my clit grinds against him, and my limbs practically go numb. It feels like a dance, I realize. This isn’t something that follows a set pattern, there’s not list of correct things to do. It’s more like art, and with his hands teaching me, I realize I have to listen to my body, not my head.
“Put your arms around my neck,” he says. “I want to feel like you’re all the way around me.” I do, and it makes my chest drag over his with every pump of our hips. Even through all the layers, the grazing touch draws the tips of my breasts to a hard point.
He kisses me for a long time, tasting and sucking at my lips and my tongue. And just when I start to wonder when he’s going to really touch me, just when I start to long for it, his hand sneaks under the back of my shirt, and with one quick twist, he unhooks my bra. Then both his hands are gone from my hips, cradling my breasts instead. He kneads and squeezes, pausing every few seconds to roll my nipples between his fingers, and there’s a line of lightning directly between his hands and my sex. He continues kissing me the whole time, and I continue rubbing my center against his length. Desperation builds high enough that I have trouble maintaining a rhythm because I want to move faster and slower both at the same time.
When the buzzing between my legs is so strong that I’m panting and my hearing sounds like I’m underwater, he says, “Lean back. Keep holding on to my neck and lean back.”
I whimper, unwilling to stop the rhythm of our hips, but he grips my waist, moving me how he wants me. My bottom slides closer to him, until I feel the hard ridge of him nestled flat against me. If my arms weren’t around his neck and we weren’t in a vehicle, I could probably lie all the way back on his knees. When my arms are stretched taut, and my body is how he wants it, he reaches between us and passes two fingers over the damp fabric of my underwear. He does it again, this time pressing down against the sensitive nub at the top. I close my eyes and bite my lip, and his other hand tightens on my waist in response.
“Don’t do that,” he says. “Don’t withdraw. Look at me. Focus on me.”
I try, but looking him in the eyes makes my heart race unbearably fast. So fast it scares me, and I have to close my eyes. Have to.
“If you can’t look at me, then listen. Tune out everything else except for my voice. Concentrate on that.”
I close my eyes, deciding this is the much safer route. That is . . . until he starts talking.
“You’re so fucking wet for me, Nell. I wish I could describe what that does to me. It’s the best kind of misery, knowing I did that to you.” He pushes the fabric aside and eases two fingers inside me. “And God, you’re so tight. So unbelievably tight. Someday you’re going to take me here.” He pushes deeper inside to emphasize his words, and I gasp. “Are you listening to me, Nell? Are you with me?”
“I—I’m listening.” And dying because of it. Each time he touches me, each time he says something, it feels like I’m whispering against dynamite, like I’m a hairsbreadth away from utter destruction.
With his fingers still inside me, he circles his thumb against me, and I squeeze my legs against his hips.
“Don’t fight it. I know you want to tense, you feel like you have to prepare, but you don’t. Let it come to you. Let me bring it.”
I try to relax, try to loosen my legs and my arms and everything. I lean my head so far back that it touches the steering wheel. I just breathe. I don’t try to describe what I’m feeling, don’t try to catalog it. I don’t analyze what makes his touch so different from my own. I just let it wash over me.
“That’s my girl. Christ, you’re beautiful. And you feel so good. Do you know how many times I’ve thought about you like this the last few weeks? Do you know how often I’ve stroked myself raw thinking about your mouth, your nipples, this pussy? That’s it. You’re close, aren’t you? You’re shaking.”
I am, I realize. I’m trembling so hard, I’m afraid I won’t be able to hold myself up, that any second my fingers are going to slip from around his neck and I’ll fall into the floorboard.
“I’m going to fall,” I say. “I can’t hold on.”
“So don’t. Come, sweetheart.”
I smile. “No, I’m actually going to fall. My hands are slipping.”
He tugs me up and against him, and I bury my face in his neck. The movement changes the angle of his fingers inside me, and all it takes is one more stroke, and I’m gasping out his name, squeezing him with my hands and my arms and my legs and all of me. And the explosion I’ve been flirting with goes off in my brain, somehow silent and loud all at once, and the aftermath tears through my limbs.
My body jerks and arches, and I have absolutely no control over it. I’m all reflexes, all reactions, and through it all Mateo is whispering in my ear, calling me beautiful, perfect, hot. And somehow just the sound of him prolongs it. The knowledge that it’s his lips against my ear, his fingers inside me . . . it keeps my body clenching and clenching until it hurts so beautifully.
Then slowly, the maelstrom recedes like the tide, drawing me with it until I collapse exhausted and unable to move against Mateo’s chest. His mouth stays pressed to my temple as I try to catch my breath, but I’m not sure I’ll ever breathe the same way again.
He was right. Undeniably the best orgasm of my life.
Chapter 18
Mateo
Damn, Speedy.” Ryan claps me on the back as I wipe at my face and neck with a towel. I’m in such a good mood that I don’t even mind the nickname that he’s been calling me since last year. It hasn’t caught on, but that hasn’t stopped him from using it day in and day out. Persistent, that one. Not that it’s a bad nickname, per se, certainly better than “Blocks,” which is what he calls Brookes. But between “Torres” and “Teo,” I’ve got enough different names. Anything else would have to be really good to be worth the hassle. “Hell of a game,” Ryan says. “Keep playing like that, and we’ll be in for a bowl game for sure.”
I grin as I pull off my pads. It was a pretty awesome game. My best since starting at Rusk. Everything had just clicked. McClain and I were practically of one mind, we were so on fire. And no matter who the defense put on me, I kept managing to break away. Everything that could go our way did, and we won by forty, and on the other team’s turf, too. And considering this game put us at seven wins for the season, officially past last year’s record, our locker room is louder than I’ve ever heard it.
Coach keeps his speech short and sweet, as he tends to do when we win. After a quick round of showers, we load up on the bus to head back to the hotel. It was an evening game, and too long of a flight for us to head back tonight, and I can tell by the knowing glances the coaches keep giving one another that they know it will be hard to keep a handle on us tonight. I should be as eager to party as everyone else, but at the moment I just wish we were taking a red-eye flight home. I can think of much better ways to celebrate this win.
The Rusk crowd at the game was small, but a ton of them stuck around, and they’re chanting “Bleed Rusk Red!” as the bus pulls away. We yell with them for a while, banging on the ceiling and the seats. We even keep it up when we’re long out of the parking lot and on the highway heading for the airport hotel where we’re spending the night.
The overhead lights come on, and Coach stands next to his seat at the front of the bus. We yell for him, too, and he laughs, raising his hands to try to get us to quiet down.
“All right. All right. Settle down. A few housekeeping things. We’ve got a late-night supper already set up for you guys in Ballroom A in the hotel. If you want to run to your room before you eat, it’s at the back of the hotel, past the workout area. Our flight home leaves at seven thirty in the morning, which means we leave this hotel at five thirty. I won’t tell you how late you can stay up, because you guys deserve to do a little celebrating. But I sure as hell better not have to come find any of you guys in the morning. If your ass isn’t on a seat in this bus at five twenty-nine A.M., you better believe you’ll regret it. And your teammates will, too. So roommates, take care of your own. Is that clear?”