Broken:Flirt New Adult Romance(38)

"Amazing." I drop my head slightly to plant a kiss on her bare shoulder.  She prefers to run in tank tops, which I find kind of hot, if not  ridiculous. Then again, I suppose it's no different than my affinity for  running in shorts.

She sucks in a little breath, and I expect her to pull away, making a  fuss about being all sweaty or something girly like that, but she tilts  her head to the side, her long ponytail swaying slightly.

"It feels unbelievable," I say, my lips touching her skin again and lingering. "Too good to be true."

Olivia makes a humming noise.

I step closer to her so my chest is against her back, my hips against  her butt. I turn my head slightly, this time kissing the soft part where  her shoulder meets her neck, and whisper the truth there. "I don't know  how to live without it."

I'm no longer talking about running. I'm talking about her. Us. And when  she tilts her head back to rest it on my shoulder with a shuddering  sigh, I know she knows it.

I wrap a hand gently but firmly around her ponytail, turning her face  toward me. I keep thinking that one of these times I'll be able to touch  her, taste her, without being consumed. I'm wrong. The kiss is hot and  urgent from the very second our lips touch. I keep one hand in her hair,  the other low on her belly, holding her plastered to me as one of her  hands comes up to hook around my neck.

It never occurred to me that making out in the woods at dawn, both of us  sweaty, could be erotic, but the kiss goes from hot to downright  scorching in a matter of seconds, and I nudge her forward just slightly  off the path and into the not-quite-secluded privacy of the woods. She  tries to turn toward me, but I keep her back to my chest, all but  pinning her between me and a tree like a beast that can't control  myself.

I can't control myself.

I don't release her hair, refusing to let our mouths break contact, but  she doesn't seem to mind, her tongue reaching for mine, even as her  hands have to brace on the tree trunk.

My hand slides under the fabric of her shirt, touching her damp skin,  from the hem of her running pants to the tight band of her sports bra,  but refusing to touch her breasts until she begs me to.

It doesn't take long. She breaks our kiss with a gasp. "Touch me."

I release her ponytail, letting her head fall back on my shoulder as I  slide both hands roughly over her breasts, massaging her nipples with my  palms through the sports bra until we're both crazy.

Having watch her wriggle into the sports bra, I already know I won't  have the patience to get it off her, so when I can't go any longer  without touching her skin, I jerk the tight band around her rib cage  upward, my fingers finding her tight little nipples and rolling them.

Our harsh breathing grows loaded in the early morning silence. It's  unlikely that anyone would come this way, but knowing that they could  only makes it hotter.

I slide my hand into her shorts, fully intending to content myself by  teasing her through the fabric of the pale green panties I know she's  wearing. That plan goes out the window when I feel her dampness even  through the fabric, and I manage only a few teasing strokes before my  fingers slide under the lace, my fingers dipping into her slippery  wetness.

Olivia makes soft mewling noises I haven't heard out of her yet, and I  find myself smiling despite the fact that my boner feels ready to tear  through the fabric of my shorts. I love that she gets off from being  fingered outside, up against a tree. In every other way, Olivia is a  textbook good girl, but not like this, not with my fingers on her clit  and my cock pressed against her ass.         

     



 

I love that about her. Shit. I seem to love everything about her.

Her breath starts to get faster, but she grips my wrist. "I want you inside me."

I groan. "No condom."

She shakes her head. "I'm on the pill."

I hear the question in her voice. She's asking if there are other things  we have to worry about. Questions we couldn't seem to think to ask last  night.

In response, I rip her shorts and panties down, doing the same with my  own shorts, and I hesitate, wanting to give her more than fucking her  against the tree with our workout clothes around our ankles, but then  she leans forward, palms against the tree, back arched, and she gives me  a hooded, sex-starved look over her shoulder. She wants this. And I  want her so damned much.

I grab her hips, plunging inside her with so much force she gasps. Then  she readjusts her grip on that damn tree and pushes back at me as I take  her again and again, my hands running over her hips, her ass, and up to  her breasts before finally sliding back down and petting her in the way  I know makes her crazy.

I want it to last forever, but we're too far gone, and the second she  cries out, I'm right there with her, exploding harder than I ever have  before as she clenches around me.

Holy.

Fuck.

She all but collapses against the tree, and for a second I can't do much  more than rest my forehead between her shoulder blades before I force  myself to move, pulling up her shorts, then my own.

I turn her toward me, pulling her into my arms.

After what we just did, the chaste hug feels almost laughably tame, and  she must think the same, because she giggles against my chest.

"Oh my God."

I laugh along with her. "So. That happened."

She tilts her head up to look at me, her eyes close to adoring, and I  feel a punch of longing so intense it almost takes my breath away. Not  longing for her body . . . although that's always there, just beneath  the surface. Longing for her, and her laughter, and the simple way she  expects good things of me because she thinks I'm good.

Somewhere inside me, a demon is telling me that I'm going to disappoint  her. That I'm going to destroy her. For the first time since  Afghanistan, though, I push the thought back. For the first time, I let  myself believe that my past-my scars-don't define me.

I kiss her forehead. "Ready to run back?"

"Um, not unless these ugly shoes you made me wear have wheels. Or wings.  I can't run after that," she says with a little nod toward the tree.

I give a mock sigh and hold out my hand. "Walk?"

She takes my hand without hesitation, her fingers locking with mine.

For three years I've thought there'd be no better feeling in the world than being able to run again. But I'm wrong.

Walking hand in hand with Olivia is better.





CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Olivia


I still love my afternoons in front of the fire with Paul as much as I  ever did. Only now that things have changed, I'm finding that big  leather chairs aren't exactly ideal for snuggling.

I content myself with putting my feet in his lap while we read. He doesn't seem to mind.

With one hand, he steadily turns the pages of his book. With the other,  he alternates between rubbing the arch of my sock-clad foot and taking a  sip of the tea I made us. Not so long ago it would have been booze by  his side. He still drinks it occasionally, but now it's more of an  afterthought in the evenings instead of a crutch he needs to get through  the day.

No matter where I look, I see only progress. Not that I think of Paul as  my project. Not anymore. He's no longer an undertaking I need to  conquer in order to vanquish my own demons and earn my paycheck. He's a  person.

One that I care about at levels that are starting to worry me.

My smile fades, just slightly, as I try to push the thought away. But  the thought won't budge, and I force myself to face it head-on. So what  if we haven't exactly exchanged words of love? I'm twenty-two. I don't  need a vow of undying devotion, a ring, or one of those long talks about  "us" that make guys crazy.

But a hint on where we stand would be nice. Just a hint.

"You're scowling," Paul says idly, his attention still mostly on his book.

"This Andrew Jackson biography's just got me thinking," I lie.

"Uh-huh. You're really flying through that," he says with a pointed  look. He's referring to the fact that I'm a tenth of the way through,  even though I've been attempting to read it for months.

I open my mouth to retort that I'm savoring it, but abruptly I slam the book shut.

"Okay, fine. I don't like it." I toss the heavy book onto the end table  with a disgruntled glare. "I'm trying to like it. I know I'm supposed  to, and it'll enrich my mind and all that, but I'm bored out of my  mind."         

     



 

He presses his lips together as though to hide a smile, and I narrow my eyes at him. "Go ahead. Judge," I say.

He shrugs. "No judgment. I've just been wondering how long it would take you to admit that you're not into it."

"You probably think all I want to read is celebrity magazines," I mutter.

"Nah," he says, giving my big toe a tweak. "Give yourself a break.  Biographies aren't for everyone. You'll find some topic you like. I have  a couple books I could recommend."

I nod unenthusiastically, and he watches me carefully before slowly closing his own book.