Read My Lips(68)

I’m already so close. I’ve been desperate for this release. No couch-bound fantasy or hallway daydream can possibly match the fire that’s ignited between me and her in this stifling room.

I grip her breasts, my thumbs grinding over her nipples, which causes her to throw her head back, our eye contact broken.

And that won’t do. “Look at me.”

She reels, twisting out of her bliss and focusing her astonished gaze onto me.

“Look at me,” I repeat, fucking her into the mattress, my legs flexed taut with every shove, my arms bulging as I brace myself to bear down into her. The impatient look in her eyes emboldens me.

I slide my right hand between our sweat-drenched bodies to skillfully rub her swollen clit. The imminent orgasm becomes evident in her eyes too.

We’re both so close.

Her lips part as she spills her breath at me, beads of sweat dressing her forehead and chest, giving the most beautiful sheen to her body. My face reaches for hers, desperate to taste her.

“Look at me,” I whisper. “I want you looking at me when you come.”

“Clayton…” she mouths back.

I feel her contract, and her eyes see heaven as the anguish of release spills across her face. I fuck her through that orgasm, determined to squeeze every last drop of pleasure out of her. I won’t let her miss a single breath of it.

“I want to taste you,” I breathe at her when her eyes come back. I’m so close. “I want—”

And then our mouths connect right on time. I can’t hold back. My load empties into her just as a moan erupts from my chest, vibrating through our twisting lips. I shoot over and over again, groaning against her mouth as a cocktail of desire and agony floods every nerve in my body.

Then, all I know is an ocean of calm.

I collapse onto her, gasping for my life. Her breath chases mine, hot against my ear. I feel her tongue there as she kisses the side of my face.

I lift my head. “Dessie,” I moan.

She lifts her head for a kiss. I give it to her sweetly, the beast sated for now. Then, she pulls away to say one little word to me.

Amused, I grin and whisper, “You’re welcome.”





I gently stroke his sleeping face.

He opens an eye.

“Dessie,” he mumbles sleepily, grinning.

I bite my lip, a giggle of delirium caught in my chest like a bird in a cage, rattling around and unable to break free. That’s basically the only way I can react after a night with a man who made me feel unlike anyone has before. None of the boys from my past could’ve ever done what Clayton did with that strength of his, with that strong mouth, with those massive arms that put me right where he wanted me so he could have his way. I’m pretty sure he’s ruined me for all other men, past, present, and future.

I feel the soreness of muscles I didn’t know I had. We barely slept. He brought me to orgasm so many more times, I literally lost count.

Clayton’s sleepy-eyed face emerges over mine. His lips touch my cheek gently, and then he hovers there, looking down into my eyes.

I feel like I’ve become a puddle in his bed. Clayton Watts’s bed. I’m a puddle in fucking Clayton Watts’s bed.

“Breakfast?” he murmurs quietly. I nod.

Twenty minutes later, we sit on barstools in front of his kitchen counter eating frozen waffles he tossed into the toaster that taste like makeup sponges glazed with the gooiest syrup I’ve ever had the displeasure of eating. I’m polite and eat them anyway because, after last night’s ample physical exertions, I discover I’ve worked up quite an appetite and would probably eat the cushion from a couch.

After my last bite, I glance back at the living room to find Brant crashed on the loveseat clutching an orange-and-blue afghan, his mouth hanging open and the remote barely balanced on the edge of his knee, just a nudge away from falling off.

“I guess he didn’t make it to his room,” I note, thumbing at Brant.

Clayton shrugs as he catches where I’m pointing, then he looks at me and says, “I got class in an hour.”

“Me too,” I say back.

Then, almost like nothing, he puts a kiss on my cheek and mumbles, “Gotta put something on.”

To his sexy back and boxer-brief-sporting ass, I murmur, “Pity.”

There’s a smile as big as the sky on my face when the morning light touches it. The walk from his place to campus is already familiar to me, as if I’d done it a hundred times. We make a merciful detour to my dorm so I can quickly shower and change and look a bit less … wrecked. Clayton waits for me on a courtyard bench, typing on his phone. When I’m decent again, he walks me back, leaving me in front of the theater to go to his psychology class, and we experience a short moment of not knowing whether to kiss or hug or just wave. I see the uncertainty in his eyes and my hands seem to twitch with the same intentions as his. Finally, he opts to squeeze my arm, which was almost a half-hug, before he goes. His face reddens as he whips around the corner, which makes me laugh.