I wait for him to give me a sign, letting him adjust. His shoulders relax, then his hands brace on my pecs. When he opens his eyes, those blue irises gleam with wicked delight. He bends closer to my face, his breath coasting over me. “Fuck me now,” he demands.
Don’t have to tell me twice.
I thrust up, pumping my hips, driving into him.
He fucks me right back, riding my cock, working his hips.
Soon, I don’t know who’s setting the pace or who’s keeping the rhythm. But it doesn’t matter. We’re both in this. For several fantastic filthy minutes, we screw like that. He rides me, and I drive into him. We sweat and groan and get lost in each other.
When he wraps a hand around his length, stroking hard and fast, my mind spins faster.
I won’t last much longer—not when he’s jerking his cock with such purpose. Not when his potent need is written in every twist of his wrist, every swivel of his hips.
“Do it,” I urge. “Come on my chest.”
Seconds later, he growls and shoots all over me. Those neon signs in my brain go haywire. They light up the night sky.
I’m this close to the edge, and there’s only one more thing I crave.
In seconds, I roll him, switching positions, so he’s under me. Pushing his knees up to his chest, I sink back inside him. Jude slides his hands up my back and into my hair. “Kiss me,” he demands like he knew why I did this.
Of course, he knew.
He knows I try to be in control.
He knows I want to kiss him when I come.
Smashing my lips to his, I fuck him hard as I chase my release.
I could drown in his kisses. Maybe I will tonight as pleasure consumes every cell in my body, and Jude fills all of my mind, till I reach the edge, gasping a string of orgasm-fueled curses as I come. For a minute, maybe more, my mind goes blank, spinning into a haze of bliss. And then, as my brain comes back online, into one shockingly stark awareness.
There is no a little crazy for him.
I’m just plain crazy for Jude, and I’m pretty sure all these emotions will devastate me.
And I won’t do a thing to stop the ruin.
22
About Last Night
TJ
* * *
This is not my bed.
Which means I’m not near my alarm.
Which also means I conked out with Jude.
He’s parked on his side, the sheets riding low on his back, his hair sticking up as he sleeps.
My heart gives a kick. I could get used to this view.
That’s the trouble. Rubbing my eyes, I sit up and look around for a clock, but there isn’t one.
I really hope I didn’t sleep past seven-thirty. I need to be in the office by eight-thirty.
Quietly, I swing my feet out of bed, but the floorboards creak. I freeze in my birthday suit, stealing a backward glance. Jude rustles, flipping over to his back, and I stifle a groan.
He’s hard, his morning wood tenting the sheets.
He sighs, stretches, and I’m sure he’s going to open his eyes, push up on his elbows, and then suggest I take care of matters south of the border.
I would.
But he stays asleep.
Maybe that’s for the best. We might have to talk if he got up, and I still don’t know what to say to him.
I pad out of his room, carefully snicking the door shut behind me.
I hunt for my phone, finding it in the living room on the coffee table. In three, two, one seconds, it will blast off.
But I catch the alarm in time, silencing it.
Good. Don’t want to wake up Jude.
Though to be fair, my alarm beeps every weekday, and I don’t worry about waking him. Today though? I definitely don’t want him up because I don’t know what to say about last night.
Hey, so that was amazing, and I want to sleep with you ten million more times. What do you say we bang our way through the next fifty weeks, seven nights a week, and in the mornings too?
Oh sure, I know it’s a terrible, risky idea, and no way would it work out, but I’m insanely into you, and I promise I won’t develop a smidge of feelings for you.
Well, nothing more than the smidge AND A TON AND A HALF I have right now.
Yeah, this won’t be an easy convo, and we didn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole last night.
After sex, we cleaned up, then when I stood in the hall, pondering where to go—because that’s what I fucking do, I overthink everything—he just rolled his eyes, tipped his forehead to his room, and said, “Come on. I might want to suck you off in the middle of the night.”
Well, I didn’t turn that down. But he didn’t blow me either. We both slept straight through.
And now it’s tomorrow.
Talking about last night is inevitable, but the thought churns my gut.
I gather my clothes from last night, hang the still-damp ones to dry, then jam the rest into the hamper in my room before I head to the shower. Under the water, I try to make sense of what’s next. I try to brace for whatever Jude will say. That was fun, but let’s move on now that we’ve got that out of our systems, shall we?
My chest is a little hollow, knowing that once is probably all we’ll have.
One time can be explained as a mistake. Or a necessity, what with hormones and all.
Anything more is deliberate. As deliberate as playing with fire and thinking you won’t get burned.
When I reach the office, right on time, Alex waits for me at my cube. He holds up a hand to high-five, question marks in his eyes.
I roll mine. “I could ask the same of you.”
He nods in satisfaction, then points his thumbs at his chest. “Oh, yeah. This American loves London.”
“Get it,” I say, then smack his palm.
“And you? Did you finally have that night at the London Sex Exchange with your”—he stops, clears his throat dramatically—“friend?”
As best I can, I rearrange my features, so they’re stoic. I take my time, though, since I’m not sure how I want to answer.
In my silence, Alex leans closer, swings his gaze from side to side. “Dude, I know it’s your roomie. You’re so fucking obvious.”
Are my feelings for Jude written in my eyes?
I try to fashion an answer that doesn’t give anything away, but as I do, it occurs to me I don’t want to tell Alex. I don’t want to tell anyone. I want to clutch last night in my hands, keep it safe as a memory, save it for myself.
Once I share it, then I’ll have to explain it. Well, you see, I slept with my roomie because I’m falling for him, so yeah, sex seemed brilliant, and now it seems foolish, yet I’m dying to see him tonight.
And tomorrow.
And the next day.
And I know this won’t work, but so it goes . . .
“Last night was fun,” I say evasively.
Alex arches a brow. “Got it,” he says, then winks and heads to his cube.
I breathe a sigh of relief, but it hardly lasts when the news manager barks out my name in a gruff English accent.
“Ashford. Come to my office.”
Like a good soldier, I follow him. Alex catches my gaze as I go, his eyes asking what’s up.
No idea, I mouth.
When I head into Richard’s office, he gestures to a chair across from his desk. I sit, nerves racing as he plops into his chair.