Her body pressed against mine eats away at my self-control. She’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted, and her perfect, heart-shaped lips are inches from mine.
Fuck it.
Those lips belong to me.
They always have.
They always will.
Seventeen
Demi
* * *
His lips are warm.
For a second, I’m convinced that this is a dream.
This kiss. His mouth on mine. I’m imagining it.
A shiver runs down my spine, and my lips part, accepting his tongue as it invades my mouth. His fingers dig into my scalp, sending pinpricks down my neck and back, and I melt into him.
Each second that passes breathes new life into me.
My chest squeezes tight. It’s so full, I think it might burst.
This is real.
This is really, really, really real.
His lips are soft, and an earthy, metallic scent fills my lungs. Mossy cologne on top of paint thinner on top of grease.
And I love it.
He fists my hair, tugging it down and finding the perfect angle of which to crush my lips once more. His kiss hasn’t changed in seven years. It still has the power to make me weightless and effervescent, to drown out my thoughts and replace them with light, and to make the outside world fade into nothingness.
His free hand drags down my side, hooking against the small of my back as we stumble to the couch. Our mouths uncouple.
He falls.
I fall.
My thighs straddle his hips as his hands search beneath my shirt, and as he cups my breasts, my straps fall down my bare shoulders.
The outline of his hard bulge rubs against me, exciting my core. Every graze of his fingers against my skin is electric.
Royal pulls my shirt over my head and goes straight for the hooks of my bra. My lips are glued to his. He kisses me over and over, and I die a little each time, but in a good way. I’m floating high above it all, watching from below.
I’m shirtless, bare, and my fingers tug the hem of his t-shirt until his chiseled chest is exposed in my dark living room. His greasy work pants against my white sofa are a silent “fuck you” to Brooks and this bullshit life he created for us.
I never wanted all the white.
It was all Brooks, and he didn’t care because he wasn’t the one stuck cleaning everything all the time.
I hope we stain the hell out of this sofa.
Royal palms my breasts and presses his mouth against my collarbone. My nipples wake, and my hips buck and circle. I can’t take it anymore. I want more. I need more.
This.
This is not enough.
I didn’t wait seven years for high school-grade heavy petting.
Sliding from his lap, I fall to my knees at his feet and tug at the zipper of his pants until my hand grazes his hardness. My mouth waters at the thought of taking him in my mouth, and I find myself holding my breath as I release him from the confines of his navy boxers.
Royal groans, and I take his thick erection in my hands, pumping and bringing my lips to the tip. My tongue swirls his head, and I lower my mouth again and again, fitting as much as I can. The salty sweet taste of pre-cum hits the back of my throat, and I happily swallow, eager for more.
He gathers my hair in a ponytail, keeping it out of my face as I lick and pump and suck.
“Fuck, Demi . . .” He releases a sigh. With my elbows against his thighs, I feel him tense. He pulls me up, vacating my mouth, and lunges for the button of my jeans.
I’m weak.
I’m a mess.
I’m probably going to regret this in the morning.
But I don’t care.
I want to hate him. I should make him stop. But this feels too damn good.
Royal pulls me into his lap as soon as he’s stripped the rest of me. His jeans are tugged down enough that it’s my sensitive flesh against his. I circle against him, feeling his girth pressing against my seam and knowing one quick move is all it would take for him to be inside me.
And fuck, do I want him inside me.
More than I ever thought I would.
His hand grips the base of my neck, and he trails kisses along my shoulder. I sink down, rubbing myself against his shaft, hinting, pushing, persuading for him to make the next move. Royal’s fingers travel between my thighs, slipping between my seam and pushing deep inside me. One, then two. His thumb circles my clit. Just enough pressure.
He was the first boy in high school who ever fingered me, and I press a bitten smile against his neck so he can’t see the giddy nostalgia I’m wearing on my face.
This is living history, he and I.
A faded memory playing in real time.
And it makes me unreasonably happy.
His fingers are buried, curling, gently stroking. But it’s not enough. Once again, I want more.
Our eyes meet in the dim living room.
“You’re so fucking sexy, Demi.” His voice is a growl, coming from deep within.
I blush because he won’t take his eyes off me. He’s feasting on every inch of my body, his gaze dragging from my eyes to my mouth to my breasts as they bounce with each shift of my circling hips.
When he looks at me like he owns me, I forget how to breathe.
Slipping his fingers from me, his hands curl around the curve of my hips. He guides me off his lap and lays me back on the sofa. Kneeling between my thighs, he climbs on top of me.
My heart gallops, pounding so hard that I find myself somewhere between a panic attack and that feeling you get when you’re at the very top of a hill on a rollercoaster.
This is happening.
Oh, God, this is happening.
The head of his cock grazes my inner thigh.
He’s still rock hard.
For me.
Pulling his wallet from his pocket, he produces a gold foil packet. I don’t ask. I don’t want to know if he always carries it or if he brought it here tonight because he knew, in his heart of hearts, that this was going to happen.
I try not to think, because in the end, it doesn’t matter.
Royal Lockhart is going to fuck me.
And I’m going to let him.
I’ll deal with the consequences later.
He sheaths himself and grips the base of his cock, pressing the tip against my clit and sliding down the seam. One solid shove, and he fills me.
My nails dig into the meat of his arms. They fill my palms. I don’t remember his arms being so big before. And his weight on me is heavier. Everything about the way he feels serves to remind me that he’s all man now.
He cups my right ass cheek, his free arm keeping him propped above me, and he pulls me closer, harder into him. Driving into me, he goes deeper with each thrust. I swear my heart hiccups with each insertion. I stare into the familiar eyes of this stranger, this version of Royal I’ve yet to get to know, and I’m briefly washed in peace.
Looking into his eyes, Royal feels like home.
Or maybe this is what closure feels like.
Either way, it doesn’t last long.
I focus on his lips, the dip in his left tricep as it flexes with each thrust, and the intensity of his weighted stare as it helps itself to every exposed inch of my body. But none of it distracts me from the niggling feeling that he’s just going to leave me all over again.
Is this what happens? Is this what other people do? They run into their old flames and have one last run for old times’ sake? And then they move on with their lives?