Into Your Arms (Squad Stories #1)(58)

"Fuck," I say and bite his shoulder as he fills me. I need this. I need this so much.



       
         
       
        

"Luna," he says before pulling almost all the way out and slamming into me. My back smashes against the door and I'm sure my neighbors are going to hear us, but, once again, do not care. I should think they'd be happy that someone is getting laid.

I come hard and fast and definitely draw blood when I dig my nails into his back, but he practically roars and then comes himself. It's wild and out of control and incredible.

Yes, Rhett Miller and I are sexually compatible.

* * *

After we unstick my ass from the door and Rhett cleans himself up, we sort of put our clothes on and go to make some food. My stomach is pissed at me for ignoring it in favor of sex.

"So," Rhett says as he deveins some shrimp. I refused on the basis that it's gross. I'm chopping the asparagus, and there's a pot of water boiling for the gnocchi. Until tonight, I've been pronouncing that word wrong, apparently. So I learned something. And I had an orgasm. It's been a success. I deserve a medal.

"So . . ." I say, trailing off.

"So, what was with the door attack when I got here?" I turn my back to him so he can't see my face. He knows me too well now and can read my emotions, the bastard.

"Horny as fuck?" I say and he snorts.

"Fair enough. I wanted you too. It's hard not to touch you during practice. I have to give myself a pep talk every time." Yeah, I have to do the same thing. Sometimes I wish there were a neon sign above his head flashing NO TOUCHING when we're out in public. Or maybe whenever I touch him, I'd get a little electrical zap.

"Good. Then we're on the same page. Or door, in this case?" I turn around, and he's grinning at me in that way that makes my stomach do tumbling passes in my body.

I quickly look away and focus extra hard on the asparagus. It's already chopped, but I don't want to stop chopping.

"You ready?" he asks, sneaking up behind me and putting his hands on my waist. Before I can think, I'm leaning back against his chest and letting him surround me with his arms. I feel so small, but so protected.

"Yeah," I say softly and try to move away from him. He lets me go and takes the chopping board with the asparagus on it and throws it in the pan with the shrimp.

"This is gonna cook up quick," he says, adding some garlic into the pan with the shrimp and asparagus. He's making some sort of sauce, but I'm a bit distracted and just let him take care of it because he seemed to want to. I think I'm not the only one with something on their mind. He's moving with less precision than he normally does. Rhett is never clumsy, so it's strange.

I wonder what he has on his mind, but if I ask, then I'll have to talk about my own shit and I'm not going anywhere near that. No way in hell. 

Haphazardly I wash and rinse the dishes as he takes care of everything else. We're on the couch with plates less than ten minutes later and I've got a movie going, but I'm 90 percent sure neither of us is actually paying attention to it.

I'm eating but not really tasting anything. I just . . . I just want him to fuck my brains out until I can't think anymore. About anything. I want to lie in complete tingly exhaustion from too many orgasms and then fall into a sleep so thick that it lasts for hours and hours.

So I put my plate down on the coffee table, grab his, ignoring his protests and set it on the table before I climb into his lap and latch my mouth to his.

"What-" he tries to say, but I shove my tongue in his mouth and go at it until his arms wind around me to pull me closer.

Good boy. I smile and lift my arms so he can get my shirt over my head. Why did we even put clothes back on is beyond me. There really was no point. Just have to take them off again. One of these days I'd like Rhett to do a sexy striptease with some Magic Mike moves, but this is not that day.

He growls and the sound goes straight to my lady bits. Rhett picks me up and carries me until I'm sitting sideways on the arm of the couch. Oh, I hope he's going to do what I think he's going to-

Rhett Miller is an oral master. And it's not just because of the beard. He's figured out how to push each and every button I have until I come so hard that sometimes I think I've died a little. Isn't that what the French call it? With Rhett, it feels that way. Or that I'm spinning off into other galaxies and traveling through space and time. I may have seen Jesus once or twice.

He doesn't stop until I come four times in quick succession, which I didn't even know was possible for me. By the end of it all, I'm on the couch and wondering if my limbs have actually turned into liquid.