There’s freedom in this kiss, freedom like I’ve never tasted before.
My hands fall to her hips, then slide beneath the hem of her shirt, cupping her waist. Her kisses are patient and sweet, a harsh contrast against all the things I’m going to do to her. Ayla’s hands glide from my biceps to my shoulders where they rest as she presses her body against mine.
“You’re good at this,” she says, breathless and fighting a smirk as she comes up for air.
“I know.”
I cup her perfect, pointed chin, directing her mouth back to where it belongs, and I crush her lips with another kiss, our tongues gliding against one another.
Pulling her shirt over her head, I toss it to the side and move for her bra. She doesn’t stop me. In fact, I swear I feel her lips arch against mine.
She likes.
With a single move, I unsnap the back of her bra, and she lets it fall off her shoulders, then to the floor. The creamy skin of her breasts mixed with their round, perfect handful size is a combination I’m powerless to resist. Gripping her sides, I lift her to the slick marble top of the kitchen island.
“This is insane,” she whispers. “You know that, right? Normal people don’t do this.”
“Normal people are boring.” I take the rosy bud of her nipple between my lips, sucking, then biting until she moans for more. Her fingers bury in my hair, her nails digging into my scalp, and it feels so fucking right.
Pressing my mouth against her soft skin, I trail kisses down her collarbone, between her breasts, then to her lower stomach, which caves in response to my touch.
My cock strains against the inside of my sweats, begging to be freed, aching for that mouth of hers. Reaching for her leggings, I peel them down her sides and slide her shoes from her feet, letting them drop. She isn’t wearing panties. Did she know I was going to fuck her on my kitchen island this morning?
Her pussy glistens under the dim morning light. She’s wet. All I had to do was kiss her and she’s fucking wet.
I knew she wanted to fuck me.
Lowering my mouth between her thighs, I spread her legs wide and drag my tongue along her seam. She exhales, three jagged little breaths, and leans back, propped on her elbows. Her taste is sweet, addictive, and I peer up, past her swollen breasts, watching how she nibbles her bottom lip as she anticipates my next move.
Plunging two fingers inside her pussy, my cock grows harder the second I realize how goddamn tight she is. Fucking her with my fingers and devouring her with my tongue and watching her wriggle and writhe as I take control of her body makes me harder for her, hotter for her.
Running my hand along her side, I reach for her wrist, pulling her up. Her close-mouthed smirk is uninhibited, her coppery eyes wild, and she slides off the counter, naked, her body brushing against mine, and she smiles when she feels the outline of my throbbing cock.
Her fingers tuck behind my waistband, and our eyes lock as she slides my clothes down my legs and to the floor, dropping to her knees to place the tip between her full lips.
“Oh, god.” I exhale, reaching for her hair and grabbing a fistful as she sucks and licks my length until my eyes roll to the back of my head. “Keep going, baby. God, you’re good at this.”
She sucks harder, faster, pumping my shaft in her palm and generously taking her sweet time. She’s good. She’s really fucking good. But I still want the real thing.
Reaching into a neatly organized junk drawer to my left, I pull out a rubber from my pre-engaged days and slip the packet between my teeth, tearing it open.
“Get up,” I say. I don’t have time to be sweet, and let’s face it, this little exchange between us has nothing to do with romance.
Ayla rises, wiping the corners of her mouth as I grab another greedy handful of her plump breasts, pressing my body against hers. Her soft curves against my hard edges should make for a dynamite combination between the sheets, but we’re not going to make it that far because I’m fucking her right here, right now, and then I’m sending her on her way.
“Turn around.” I slip the rubber over my cock, gripping the base as she turns her back toward me. Her elbows rest against the island, and she bends as I grab a handful of her peach-shaped ass. Not too hard, not too soft.
Ayla spreads her stance, and I reach between her thighs, gliding my fingers along her damp seam before coating them in her wetness and wondering if she always gets this turned on.
Replacing my fingers with the tip of my cock, I slide it against her, teasing her before I plunge the rest of the length deep inside.
Ayla moans, letting her head fall back between her shoulder blades. I hook a hand over her shoulder, steadying myself as I fuck her tight, clenched pussy.
This is it.
This is the life.
No girlfriend. No commitment. No cheating whore fiancée who gets herself killed all because she secretly wanted my best friend’s dick in her pussy.
Just this.
Eight
Ayla
* * *
I can’t breathe when it’s over.
I can’t speak either.
“Jesus, Ayla.” Rhett’s just as breathless as I am when he pulls his spent cock from me. My body is peppered in goose bumps from his ice-cold apartment, and I turn to gather my clothes from ... everywhere.
What. The hell. Did I just do?
Taking deep breaths as casually as possible and trying to gather any ounce of calm I can find, I do what any normal girl would do in this situation and slap a big old satisfied smile on my face.
I mean, I am satisfied. Abundantly. The sex—and everything else we did—was amazing.
But something tells me this is going to end very badly for me.
Sliding my leggings on and slipping my bra over my shoulders, I give him a wink when I catch him watching.
“I should probably get your number,” I say.
He wrinkles his nose. “Why?”
“I don’t know. In case I wind up pregnant or something. You came a lot. And condoms aren’t always one hundred percent.”
His expression turns to ash until he realizes I’m kidding.
“Anyway.” I pull my blouse over my head and fluff my hair around my shoulders. “Thanks for that.”
I’m halfway to the door with my purse over my shoulder when he says, “Thanks for that? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It’s just an expression. What am I supposed to say?” I shrug. If I tell him it was amazing and we should do it again, then it’s going to turn into a thing. A big, ugly, complicated thing that I won’t be able to explain my way out of.
“Nothing,” he says. “Just say nothing. You don’t have to make it all awkward by thanking me for sex. Who does that?”
“I’m sorry. Does that make you feel used?” I hide my chuckle with my hand, and he comes at me with a giant smirk on his face, pressing his hard-as-steel chest against my body until my back’s against the door.
“God, you have a smart mouth.” His hand lifts to my face, and he drags his thumb along my lower lip, his eyes fixated there as if he’s replaying the last thirty minutes in his head.
I’m painfully aware of the fact that our mouths are inches, maybe even mere centimeters apart. If he wanted to kiss me again, I’d let him. I wouldn’t say no. I wouldn’t protest or try to stop him, even though it’d be the right thing to do.