My cock hardens, straining against the inside of my boxers, but Love damn near reads my mind when she slides off the counter, reaches for my fly, and unzips me. A moment later, her hands are around my girth, pumping the length before lowering her pretty mouth to the tip and working magic with her velvet tongue.
Groaning and eyes squeezed shut, I bury my hands in her hair as she brings me to the brink.
And then she stops.
Glancing down, I realize she’s standing before me, sliding her flimsy cotton shorts and pink satin thong down her thighs.
“What’s this?” I ask, unable to wipe the championship winner’s grin off my face.
“I think you know exactly what this is, Jude Warner,” she says, her voice a soft yet confident whisper. No one’s ever said my name the way she does—my full name—like she enjoys the way it feels in her mouth … on her tongue. Bending, she trails the tip of her index finger down my chest then down the center of my abs before slipping beneath the loosened waistband of my jeans.
Fuck.
I can’t take this anymore.
“Love,” I say. She glances up at me from her position on her knees, her hand splayed on my Adonis belt, and she smiles. “I want you so fucking bad right now.”
Pulling her up to a standing, I slide my hands around her hips and lift her until her legs wrap around me, and then I carry her back to my room.
Depositing her on the middle of my king-sized bed, I grab a rubber from one of the nightstand drawers, ripping the golden foil packet between my teeth. When I return to Love’s side, she wastes no time tugging my boxes and jeans the rest of the way down—she’s just as impatient as I am.
Sliding the condom into place, I move to the head of the bed and rest my back against a stack of pillows before pulling Love into my lap. Her arms hook around my shoulders as the sweet scent of her arousal fills my lungs and I cup her chin, pointing her mouth to mine before claiming it again. Reaching below, she wraps her hand around my cock and guides it inside her one slow, tantalizing inch at a time.
When I’m deep inside her, she offers the sexiest sigh I’ve ever heard and begins to pick up the pace, riding me faster, her nails digging into my back as she bites her full bottom lip.
Who knew sweet little Love Aldridge was such a sexpot?
This is completely unexpected, but watching her enjoy the hell out of herself only makes me harder, makes me want her more.
Gripping her hips, I press her deeper onto my cock, meeting her thrust for thrust so she can feel every inch of how hot I am for her. Our skin is slicked and sheened in sweat. Nothing about this is romantic—it’s animal—but it’s perfect.
I think she needed this.
And hell … maybe in a way, I did too.
“You’re fucking dynamite,” I say to her, soliciting a smile that I waste no time kissing off those swollen lips of hers.
The thought of having this—having Love—all to myself for the next several months and then never having her or anything this exciting again fills my mind, but I push it away, focusing on this moment and on this gorgeous woman who can’t keep her hands off me.
Yesterday’s gone. Tomorrow doesn’t exist. All we have is right now, this calm before the storm.
Twenty-One
Love
* * *
I woke up this morning to the hum of Jude’s air conditioner kicking on, a kink in my neck, and a blanket covering my naked body. Sunlight poured through the window beside me as I sat up, finger combed my hair, and glanced around for any sign of life as last night played like a dream in my head. So perfect, so unreal. I wanted to close my eyes and relive it, second by second. The sound of the rain patting the window in soft drops, the feel of his skin, hot and sticky against mine, the warm, faded scent of his aftershave filling the damp air, the satisfying sighs coming from Jude’s full mouth as he drove himself deeper into me …
He’d left me a note on the bedside table.
Love,
Didn’t want to wake you. See you tonight.
Jude
PS – Thanks for last night. Let’s do it again sometime …
But I’m home now, and while it’s been almost twelve hours and a delicious, satisfying soreness still lingers between my thighs as I get ready for our date tonight. He hasn’t said where he’s taking me … just that I should dress casually and comfortably and not expect anything fancy, which was a relief because pomp and circumstance gets old.
Spinning in front of my full-length mirror, I inspect my casual cotton shirt dress and tug a few face-framing tendrils from my messy top knot before stepping into a pair of strappy leather sandals.
This … this feels good and natural to me.
Glancing in the mirror, I feel like I’m beginning to recognize the woman looking back at me for the first time in forever.
A knock on the door beckons me a second later, and I make my way to my next-door suitor who presents himself in jeans, a gray Ramones t-shirt, messy hair, and no glasses. He was dressed like this last night, only it was dark then, and I never really got to fully appreciate how amazing he looks like this.
He’s all boy next door—literally—and one look at him sends a rush of blood to my head.
I’m dizzy with lust.
With his hands in his pockets, his eyes light when he sees me, and he bites his lip for a fraction of a second.
“Ready?” he asks, slipping his hand into mine with effortless ease, like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him, and then he pulls me against him.
“Ready.” I nod, and his lips graze mine before stealing a lingering kiss that leaves me weightless.
Breathing him in, I’m relieved when his earthy, mossy cologne is unfamiliar.
He doesn’t smell like Hunter this time.
The place is called Sound Underground and Jude says it’s secret, a word of mouth kind of place hidden behind a secret door in some restaurant in Chelsea. He knocks five times on a jade green-painted door that says “private” before a woman whose gray eyes match her hair greets us.
“Karma,” he says, and she ushers us through.
Jude takes me by the hand, leading me through crowded tables before we get to one in the front row with a “reserved” marker on it.
“This is us,” he says, grabbing my chair for me. I take a seat and he glances toward the busy bar. “What are you drinking tonight?”
“Um, surprise me?” I’m too distracted to concentrate on what I want to drink. The posters on the wall, the patrons shoulder to shoulder coming from every walk of life. Some with tattoos and piercings, some in business suits, some with rainbow-colored hair and wrestling singlets.
“I thought you hated surprises.” His memory is impressive.
“Fine. Moscow Mule.” I smile. “Thanks.”
Jude returns a few minutes later, our drinks in his hands, and takes the seat beside me, scooting closer. By the time the opening act takes the stage, all the seats and reserved tables around us are filled with patrons, mostly the suit-dressed variety. I bet they’re recruiters looking for fresh talent. I can’t help but wonder if Hunter ever knew about this place. I can only hope he didn’t. And if he did, I can only hope he’s not here tonight.