Seeing Red(10)

There had to be one. There was that convention she went to with Sharon last year. In the swag was a condom affixed to a piece of card stock printed with some punny expression about personal safety. She was pretty sure she’d laughed and put it in her makeup bag.

There was rustling behind her, and she turned to look out the closet door, finding Seth had preemptively dropped his shorts.

Dear Lord, the man had no shame, nor should he have.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, her fingers stilling over the case’s zipper. His briefs followed his shorts into the pile on the floor.

His dick didn’t seem real, at least not compared to what she’d personally encountered in the past. The last cock she’d seen of that size, in a text message sent to her by one of Spike’s band roadies—the little freak—had been very obviously Photoshopped. Seth had something to brag about.

She hurried her search of the case.

Ah, there it was. She grabbed the condom and switched the light off in the closet, breath hitching as she returned to the bed end where he sat. She extended the packet toward him and he took it.

His hands weren’t shaking like hers.

She didn’t understand this nervous Meg. Meg Scott had never been nervous. Not even when she was tumbling on a balance beam during Olympic qualifying events. Meg Coffman hadn’t been particularly nervous, either, until sperm met egg and the universe tossed a monkey wrench into her life. Maybe the nervousness came with being Meg Rozhkov. Odd, that. She didn’t like it, that feeling of having something in her life that wasn’t tied down neatly and easy to compartmentalize. She couldn’t tell what it was about this situation that put her at such unease. Yeah, there was the little voice in the back of her mind that said, “Honey, this is going to hurt,” but that was sort of minor in the scheme of things. Must have been another symptom of Rozhkov Disease.

He studied her a moment, his lips parted as if to say something, but they closed wordlessly and he went to work, carefully tearing open the packet and she turned her back to kick off her sandals.

He pressed his hands to her waist and gently turned her back around.

“What?” she asked, but already he’d pulled her in close and pressed his hot lips into the crook of her neck.

His scent was some heady mix of beer, saltwater, and cologne that made her want to flick out her tongue for a taste, but there was no flesh nearby—just his thick red hair. Taking a page out of his book, she wound her fingers through it and pulled.

When his face turned up to hers with a question written in his features, she whispered, “Let me undress.”

He nodded.

Spike would have said, “Hurry up,” and laid back with his hand on his cock, already pumping and starting the party without her.

Seth, though, merely put his hands on his knees and watched with keen interest as she fisted her hands on her shirt hem.

She was filled with alternating jolts of titillation and embarrassment at the intensity of his gaze—at his interest in her body. She was pleased that someone wanted to see it, but she hadn’t expected the scenario to unfold this way.

Her T-shirt joined his pile of clothing, followed by her shorts. When she looked down at the front clasp of her plain white bra and moved her hand toward it, he said, “Let me.”

Of course she should let him. Seemed smart to ramp up to the inevitable intercourse by letting him touch—fondle—before they climbed onto the sheets and acted as mammals are prone to.

He needed a moment to work the little catch free, but when he did, spilling her breasts onto her ribs, he drew in a breath loud enough for her to hear before pulling her into the V of his open legs. He pressed his face into the gap in her cleavage.

Obviously, the guy didn’t care about false advertising. Sharon said Meg was lucky to still have breasts after having a baby. Sharon had lost hers along with her baby weight. Meg had retained her fullness, but definitely not the perkiness she’d had in her youth.

He searched up her belly and fondled her right breast with one hand, while easing around her waist and hooking into the elastic of her panties with the other.

Her underwear nudged down in inches as his mouth found her nipple.

She drew in a breath and held it, her eyes feeling as though they were bulging, and she was glad he couldn’t see it. His tongue circling around one aching nipple and his hand cupping her ass so reverently seemed far too sensual for a tryst that was supposed to be about scratching an itch.

But what was she going to do? Tell him to stop when it felt so good, just so he wouldn’t get the wrong ideas about this? About them?

No. Whatever emotional mess they sparked, she’d clean it up in the morning.