Rafe takes my mouth in a bruising kiss and starts moving. As I relax my muscles, I start feeling these little tingles ripple through my ass, like electricity. Rafe leans back and rolls my hips up, then pushes back inside me, and I cry out as he comes in contact with that spot inside me. He does it over and over and I’m lost in the sensations. My whole body is hot and tense and liquid at the same time.
“Fuck, you feel amazing,” Rafe says, thrusting inside me and freezing there, his muscles tight. “How’re you doing?”
I’m falling to fucking pieces. I can’t even speak. When I open my mouth, all that comes out is a garbled moan that sounds embarrassingly desperate. I just reach a shaky hand into his hair and kiss him with everything I’ve got. That seems to do the trick. He speeds up, and the smooth slide sends sparks all down my spine. I dig my fingers into his back, needing more.
“Harder?” he asks, and I kiss him again. He groans, then starts thrusting harder, muscles tight with control. I start moaning, these choked sounds that would humiliate me if I could pay attention to anything except the feeling of Rafe inside me. Then he reaches between us and grabs my dick and I cry out.
He’s muttering my name and things I can’t make out and I don’t care because he’s stroking my erection in time with his thrusts and heat is curling in my lower belly. The trembling starts in my thighs and then Rafe hits that spot again and I’m coming—an orgasm that starts somewhere deep inside and radiates through my ass and lower back and balls and, fuck, shoots out my dick in thick pulses of pleasure I can’t control. Rafe’s groaning and muttering sweet filth about my ass and my dick and how hot I am, but I can barely hear him.
“God, babe, you’re gonna make me come,” he chokes out, then he freezes inside me, moaning brokenly, pulsing his hips over and over, each movement stirring a shiver of pleasure deep inside me.
Rafe moans one last time and buries his face in my neck, kissing me worshipfully. I rub my fingers through his hair. He softens inside me and I squirm.
“Hold on.” He drags his lips over my throat. When he pulls out, the soreness hits. I feel tender and a little swollen, but I don’t care.
Rafe runs a finger around my hole. “You okay?” he asks. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
I shake my head, reaching blindly for him so he’ll lie down again and stop talking. He gets the message and lies next to me, kissing me softly and running his hand over every part of me he can reach.
“I’ll be right back.”
I must doze off for a minute because I startle awake to a warm washcloth cleaning come off my stomach.
“Sorry,” Rafe says softly, hand on my hip. He drops the cloth on the floor, but I let it go, for once too warm and relaxed to get up and put it in the hamper.
Rafe slides down next to me and gathers me to him. “That was…. Mmm, damn,” he moans. And I know I should say something. Tell him he made me feel amazing. That I loved it. But I can’t. I’m afraid if I say any of it out loud, think about it for too long, the shame will hit. I just hum against Rafe’s shoulder and squeeze my eyes shut, sliding a hand into his hair and absently untangling it until I fall asleep.
Chapter 9
WHEN THE doorbell rings, I’m just getting out of the shower and I almost break my neck getting tangled up in my sweats as I drag them over still-wet skin.
Relief floods me when I see that it’s Rafe. I haven’t heard from him since he left my house Sunday morning. I even texted him a few times, but he didn’t respond, which isn’t like him.
I find myself smiling automatically, and Shelby practically climbs the leg of his jeans. Rafe gently detaches her from his leg, but sets her down on the floor without playing with her. Also not like him.
“Hey,” I say.
“I need to talk to you.” He sounds like he’s trying really hard to keep his temper.
“Okay.” I back away from the door.
“I’m going to ask you a question and I need you to be honest with me.”
I nod. He’s still standing just inside the door.
“Do you wanna sit down?”
But he shakes his head. He looks like a different person than the Rafe I woke up to on Sunday morning. The one with the warm, sleepy kisses. The one who told me I was beautiful—even if that did make me blush and smack him. The one who said he liked being at my house because his apartment felt lonely since Javier died. The one who cooked me breakfast and hugged me tight before he had to leave.
“Were you alone with Anders here on Monday night?” he asks, voice tight.
My heart starts to pound. “Uh… no? Not here. But yeah, he came to the shop. Wanted to talk.”