Not in Love by Ali Hazelwood

He gripped his cock, as if that would restrain it. Shit. Shit. “Should I?” I could, easily. I could make a mess of you.

“Isn’t that the point?”

Precisely, every vertebra in his spine roared. Except. “When is this over, Rue?” She gave him a blank look, and he continued. “Tomorrow morning? When you get bored? When we both come?”

She thought about it with that serious expression that made him want to do unspeakable things to her beautiful face. “When we both come.”

“Then we move to something else,” he told her, and she let him tug her up, kiss her again, and roam his hands over her, palming the soft globes of her ass, molding his fingers into pliant flesh. “This is just . . .” He groped her crudely. But Jesus, he could have done much worse. “I might like your ass as much as your mouth.”

She looked him in the eye. Smiled faintly. “I should have guessed it.”

“Guessed what?”

He could feel her amusement. “That you’d talk so much during sex.”

Did he? He had no idea. Had never thought of himself as particularly verbal. “I think,” he said with a kiss to her throat, “I like to remind myself that it’s you I’m doing this with.” As though he could ever forget. “What do you want? How should I get you off ?”

Her smile widened. “Aw. You’re not sure what to do.”

“Correct,” he deadpanned. “I’ve never once made a woman come. Teach me, please.”

She pulled him away from the wall and took off his shirt, her cool fingers brushing against his torso. He tried to recall anyone else undressing him, but couldn’t, not even women he’d lived with. He toed his shoes off, but then her hands began exploring, lingering in unexpected places. The side of his midriff. The line between his pecs. The inner part of his upper arm. He wanted to feel her naked skin against his own, but she seemed lost in her own world. “I didn’t think,” she started. Stopped.

“What?”

“That I’d be much into men made like you.” Her palm curled around his shoulder. A red fingernail traced his bicep, and the polish was starting to chip. “Is this from college hockey?”

“This?”

She shrugged. “The muscle, I guess.”

“For the most part.” He pushed her until she lay on her back, hips on the edge of the bed, and bent over her, licking the side of one breast while cupping the other in his palm. Her tits were big, and sensitive, and fit into his hands in a beautiful, overflowing manner that was intensely pornographic. Her breathing sped up as he stroked her nipples with his thumb, sucked them into his mouth and between his teeth, nibbled at the undersides. He pinched a hard pebble, just north of delicate, and her whole beautiful, soft body arched off the bed and into his mouth. Perfect. She was fucking perfect.

And he was going to be so good to her. “How would you prefer I make you come?” he asked. “Fingers? Mouth? Cock?”

Her chest heaved. “I said no—”

“Come on, Rue. You know I can make you come with my cock without putting it inside you.”

Her eyes fluttered closed, and when they opened again, they were glossier. “Why don’t you surprise me?”

“Because you clearly have limits and preferences, and I don’t want to fuck up my one chance.” They held each other’s eyes for a long, swelling moment. He waited and waited, but she never replied. “Okay,” he murmured, kneeling in front of the bed. When he yanked her hips closer, she gasped in shock, but her heels remained on his shoulders, exactly where he’d placed them.

She liked it—a bit of roughness. A hint of violence. Yielding control. Just as much as he liked to clutch it. If this had been the beginning of something, they could have explored it. Negotiated. She’d let him take charge, he was sure, maybe a little more than that. But this was more like an end, so he parted her with his thumb—her beautiful, plump, shining cunt. “Very nice.” He kissed her just above her clit. Felt her tremble. “I like women who get really wet.”

“D-do I?”

“Fuck yeah,” he said before swiping the length of her with his tongue.

He loved doing this. It was something he’d unabashedly, enthusiastically enjoyed since he was in his teens—the flavors, the scents, the sounds. And with Rue . . . maybe it felt special because she was usually so guarded. Now she was still quiet, no loud moans or over-the-top whimpers, nothing purposefully meant to broadcast pleasure, but her breath hitched, her thighs tightened around his ears, her pelvis tilted to rub against his mouth. Eli felt each little tell right in his cock.

I would do this a million more times, he thought. I would spend a million more hours like this. With you.

He hoped he’d feel differently after an orgasm. And since Rue was likely to agree, when she began cresting closer to her peak, when her abdomen started contracting under his palm and she shuddered against him, he pulled back.

She let out a small, plaintive breath. Eli wanted to go back and finish her off—or keep her here forever, with him, on this edge. “Not yet.” He looked down at her flushed, trembling body. She was so close. So beautiful. “Can I put my fingers inside you?” he asked.

She nodded eagerly.

He showed her his hand. “How many?”