I look down at her.
Her gaze is glassy, and I smirk. She’s still in outer space.
“I think you’re going to be the death of me,” she muses.
“How so?”
“Because you never let me sleep.”
I smirk. “Sleepy is for pussies.”
“Well, all right, but technically...”
I chuckle as I pull out of her and collapse at her side, still laughing.
“I need a shower,” she says, wrinkling her nose as she looks down at herself.
“Don’t you dare.” I snap my gaze to her and give her a look that normally sends grown men cowering.
“What?” she asks.
“I want you to smell like you’ve been thoroughly fucked,” I growl. “I want to know my cum is soaking those pretty panties of yours. I want to see you across the dining room table tonight and know part of me is still inside you.”
“Holy fuck,” she breathes, and by the way she parts her lips and her nostrils flare, I know she’s thinking about round six? No seven, if you count by the number of times I’ve made her come in the past twelve hours, which I do. Then she shakes her head like she’s clearing away the temptation. “Wait. That’s gross. I don’t want to smell like sex.” She wrinkles her nose again. “I smell like I’ve been to the gym and,” she sniffs again, “you. I smell like you.”
Her mouth falls open. “What about your parents?” She runs a hand over her face. “Oh. My. God. They are going to know we left last night.” Her mouth falls open further in horror. “They are going to know what we’ve been doing.”
I wave a hand. “When I’m at home, they don’t keep tabs. They feel secure knowing they have enough friends around here to keep me from sullying the family name. I guarantee my dad is buried in work and bourbon in his office, and my mom is on at least her second Valium, floating somewhere with the Boeing 757s and private jets.”
Crimson splotches spread across her cheeks, and it’s so fucking adorable, it unlocks the iron case around my heart. I feel like I’ve lost my balls, so I remind us both of their presence.
“One of these days,” I muse, letting my fingers create a trail of goosebumps over the swell of her breast, “I’m going to fuck your tight little ass too.”
She freezes. Like freezes. Is she breathing? Did she just fall into the Arctic Ocean? Do I need to place her in front of the fire until she thaws?
She blinks once and then shakes her head wildly. “Nope, no way. Those gates are closed, bud.”
“Don’t be scared, sweetness,” I say. She’s so damn cute right now, worried about a little anal play. Fuck, where did my balls go...again. I let my fingers trail lower until I am making small circles around her nipple. “We’ll take it nice and slow, and trust me, when the time is right, you’ll beg me for it.”
She shakes her head like she’s an unhinged bobblehead doll. “We aren’t even to the pee with the door open part of our...our...” she chokes on the word and gestures between us. I cough back a laugh, “whatever this is yet. You are not”—she spells out her last word to emphasize her point—“about to test whether my rear hatch works.”
I gape at her and raise an eyebrow. “Did you just call your asshole your rear hatch?”
She slaps a hand over her face to stifle her laugh.
34
Harlow
Ian lies on his bed, his back against the pillows, paper on a drawing board in his lap and scattered on the bed around him. There are no hard shields up like when he is with others at school or that suave, debonair attitude he wears so well. There’s just a beautiful man, engrossed in whatever he’s doing.
I should say something—I am such a creeper just standing here at his open door—but I enjoy the view a moment longer.
“Hey,” I finally say as I walk into his room.
Ian looks up, his lips parted in surprise, and he smiles brilliantly at me. It’s not the fake smile I’ve seen him give on campus. This one polishes the silver in the gaze and shows his perfect teeth. My heart swoons for me and my lungs bottom out somewhere in my stomach.
“Sweetness,” he purrs as his smiles fades into a naughty grin. Something low in my stomach clenches in response. Ah. There’s the guy that rocked my world last night and into this morning.
My legs turn to Jell-O under his attention, barely holding me upright. I walk to Ian, past the guitars mounted on the wallpapered walls and the trophies that line the built-in bookshelves. This place smells like him, and I am dizzy, lost in a maze of his scent.
It’s a beautiful room, stained hardwood floors and a bed of blue-and-silver sheets on a matching scroll rug. But even with all the pictures of him and his friends mounted on collage frames and the personal memorabilia—the jersey in a shadow box on the wall, the walk-in closet littered with his shoes—the place doesn’t entirely feel like him, not like the cabin does. This is someone else’s idea of how his room should look.
“How was your nap?” he asks.
“Hmm?” I haven’t been paying attention, mesmerized by his dark gaze fixed on me.
“How was your nap?” he repeats.
Oh, so that’s what came out of his delicious mouth.
“Poor, I’m afraid.” I sigh and sit on the edge of the bed, careful to avoid the papers. “I had the funniest dream someone kidnapped me in the middle of the night and took me to their gingerbread house in the woods.”
His grin widens, and he sets whatever he’s working on beside him on the bed.
“Oh, Harlow.” Goodness, he’s good. He actually looks concerned for me. “That wasn’t a dream; nothing from a fairytale happened last night. Although you are
