She lowers her face.
I tuck a finger under her chin, raising her face. “The bubbles are what?”
“Kind of stinging,” she whispers. “Now that I’m getting all turned on and my legs are spread—and oh my God, I can’t believe I’m saying this—there are soap bubbles in me, and it hurts.”
I fucking love that she’s saying it.
Her honesty is such a turn-on, and I don’t mean physically. Her confession makes my heart trip.
Carefully, I settle my hands on her waist, helping her stand. I join her, then help her step out of the tub. “So bathtub sex is a no-go,” I say, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around her.
“I like baths, but I think I like them solo.”
I rub the towel over her hair. “I bet you’d love lounging in a tub and being fed chocolate.”
Her eyes light up like sparklers. “Yes, let’s do that next time. I’ll take a long, luxurious bath, and you can join me. Outside the tub. Breaking off pieces of a chocolate bar.”
Next time.
Those words echo.
The images flip before my eyes.
I want that next time more than I want this time.
But this time is all I have. I can’t let myself forget that.
“Let’s shower,” I say, and we head into the shower, rinsing off the evidence of our botched experiment.
But it doesn’t entirely seem like we failed.
As we joke about the perils and pitfalls of bathtub sex, it seems like we’ve discovered something new.
That failing together in bed can be as fun as succeeding.
Or maybe more fun, because it gives us another chance.
When we dry off, she slips into a soft light-blue robe that ends at her thighs, then tells me she’s ready to try one last item. “Amy didn’t ask me to test this one. When we planned the experiment, we toyed with testing how long till staircase sex kills your back, or how soon till rug burn kicks in if you do it doggie-style on a carpeted floor.”
Damn. I’d like to fail and succeed at all of those with her. “But we’re not doing any of those, I take it?”
She shakes her head, her eyes sparkling. “No. I read ahead. There’s something else in the book that I want to try out. It’s something I’ve never experienced before.”
My heart slams against my chest in anticipation. “Whatever it is, I’ll do it.”
When she tells me, her scenario sounds like the best and worst way to end this brief no-strings-attached research project.
After all, this is my last chance with her.
All that’s left for me to do is make it clear I’m 100 percent good with us returning to just being friends.
Like she wanted.
Like we said we’d do last night.
26
Peyton
Is it a myth? An urban legend? Or the equivalent of a solar eclipse? Possible, but only once every few years.
Settling into the swath of purple and silver pillows on my bed, I straighten my spine, clear my throat, and adopt my best narrator’s voice as I dive into the scene from Amy’s book.
“As he spread my legs over his face, I drew him in deeper, letting him fill my throat. He thrusted up into me, and I nearly choked, but I was a determined chickadee—determined to finish him any . . . freaking . . . second. Because I was close, so close. And once I tipped over the edge, I’d lose my mind with pleasure. His dick would fall from my mouth as I screamed my orgasmic praise to the heavens.”
I stop, the temperature in my core shooting to the stratosphere.
Tristan’s lips curve into a satisfied grin. He’s lounging next to me, propped on his side, his cock at full mast again.
I glance at the evidence that he’s digging the story. “Guess this is getting you going?”
He shrugs impishly. “Maybe a little.” He drags his fingers down my bare thigh. “And you? Is this better than soap and bubbles?”
“Yes. I’m feeling a little, how shall we say, squirmy? And yes, I know squirmy is not a sexy word.”
His fingers roam to my knee. “On you it is.”
“Is that so?”
He nods, bending his neck, pressing a kiss to my leg. “Everything is sexy on you. Now keep reading.”
I return to the document on my phone.
“Focus, I told myself. Focus on the suction—”
But I can’t concentrate because Tristan’s lips flutter over my thighs, his scruff rubbing against my skin as he unties the ribbon on my robe. “Keep going,” he murmurs.
I gasp as I try to read more.
“One long, deep suck. He groaned his appreciation for my efforts, but . . .”
He licks a line up my inner thigh, his soft tongue sending a spark of pleasure rushing through me. Screw the story. I toss the phone aside. He looks up from between my legs. “That’s all?”
“Pretty sure I picked up the gist of the scene,” I say, dragging my nails through his hair. I love the feel of his hair, his muscles, his skin. Love the contact, the connection.
So damn much.
“Think you can reenact it?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, already a little breathless from his touch and from anticipation. I want to taste him, feel him in my mouth, learn his flavors.
And I want to do it now, because if I stay in bed with him any longer, I will lose my heart to him. I already gave a little more of that organ to him in the tub just by telling him all the nitty-gritty details of why it wasn’t working.
I’ve never been that open with a man. I’ve never felt that free.
And it felt tremendous.
Like I’d crossed a border and entered a country full of brand-new possibilities.
But we’ve reached the final scene, and this is my last chance to try out a certain kind of sexual intimacy. Admittedly I’m wary. I’ve never been a big fan of sixty-nine. It requires too much concentration and coordination. Too much mental work.
But as Tristan tugs my center toward his face, my mind takes a vacation. My body reports for duty. He spreads my legs and licks me.
I arch into him instantly, electrified from the first touch.
“Oh God,” I cry out.
He groans against me, pressing a hot kiss to my core.
A bolt of heat radiates through me, and I part my legs wider, craving more of him. He groans against me, wrapping his hands under my ass and kissing me, devouring me.
I never knew what I was missing. Never knew till he touched me like this, but now I’m certain—no one has ever gone down on me like this before, not with this type of hunger.
“But in the scene . . .” I try to speak, because this isn’t how they do it. And the test. We need to try the test . . .
He nods against me. “Um-hum.”
“They do it at the same . . .” His tongue flicks against my clit, and my voice hits a new octave.
“Yep,” he murmurs, lapping me up.
Threading my hands through his hair, I gaze shamelessly at the man between my legs. His gorgeous face. His passion. He’s consuming me like I’m his last meal, and I want him to lick the plate clean and order seconds and thirds.
But that won’t do. I can’t linger in my own hedonism. I need to focus on the project and finish what I started.