“Then shut up and kiss me.” As if that was all the permission he needed, Ryan slams his lips back into mine, takes hold of my ass and lifts me so I’m straddling his waist. He walks us into what I’m guessing is his room, where he lays me down on his bed and kneels over me, his dark hair falling like a curtain around us.
“Are you sure, baby?” he asks one last time because he is such a fucking good guy.
“Yes, please, Ryan.” I am not above begging at this point.
He groans and sits up to tug his shirt over his head and oh my god, he is so beautiful. Sinewy muscle stretches and flexes across his broad chest and stomach where a smattering of hair runs between the V of his hips and disappears beneath the waistband of his jeans. Tattoos dot his arms and torso with the largest, a Chinese dragon, covering his right shoulder and upper chest in a myriad of colors. I trace the dragon’s body with my finger, marveling at the way his muscles bunch beneath my touch. “You’re like a work of art,” I say.
He just blinks at me, breaths coming fast and hard. Then he drags his hands up my thighs and under my skirt lifting my dress as he goes. Warm hands caress my hips, waist, ribs and up my raised arms, removing my dress and leaving me in only my lacy black bra and panties (Uh… Yeah. I was prepared). He takes in my body with heavy-lidded, hungry, eyes. Even so, insecurityrears its ugly head, and I’m compelled to comment on the tiny elephant in the room—my breasts. “I’m kind of small.”
Ryan squints at me a moment, forehead scrunched in confusion. “You’re fucking beautiful,” he says, settling himself between my legs and kissing me with such tenderness, I swear my heart is going to melt. I’m running my hands up and down his back and chest, and his skin’s so warm and soft. I didn’t know a man’s skin could be so soft. My own skin is screaming for his touch and he’s going so fucking slow, I’m losing my mind. I wrap my legs around him, pulling his body into mine, so we’re chest to chest, skin to skin and it still isn’t enough. His hard cock presses against my sex, and no longer caring if I soak my panties or his jeans, I roll my hips, grinding against him.
“Fuck,” he cries out. Ryan hauls me into his arms, settling me straddled across his lap while he reaches around my back and deftly unclips my bra. It falls free, and he tosses it aside. Ducking his head, he takes one nipple into his mouth, enveloping it in moist heat. While one hand holds me upright, the other kneads my free breast and teases my nipple—rolling and tugging it between his fingers and sending a zing of electricity straight to my sex. Oh my god. It feels so fucking good. I arch my back and rock my hips, urging him on. He switches breasts with a growl, the vibrations teasing my already sensitive nipple.
God. I need him inside of me, now. I reach a hand between us and stroke his cock through his jeans, eliciting another growl. “Take them off,” I beg as I fumble with the button of his jeans. Rolling me onto my back, Ryan kisses a line down my belly. He hooks a finger on the waistband of my underwear, tugs it down and plants a kiss just shy of my clit. I moan, then scream as he dips his finger further between my folds.
“Fuck,” he says again. Ryan slips off the bed and gripping the strip of fabric on each hip, tugs my panties off. Hands run along the inside of my thighs, spreading my legs, exposing mydripping sex. I resist the urge to clamp them back together. The feeling of being open to his regard, to the cold air licking my hot flesh the way I want him to, has me shaking with need. Eyes devouring my naked body, Ryan makes quick work of his own pants, shoving them down his legs and tossing them aside. Then he grabs me by the ankles and drags me to the edge of the bed where he drops to his knees and runs his hot tongue up my center. I gasp and he does it again and again, lapping up my arousal like a man starved, until I’m writhing beneath him and begging for release. Moving up to my clit, he circles it with his tongue, just enough to build the pressure in my core, but not enough to send me over the edge. I grab him by the hair, shoving his face into my needy sex, but Ryan refuses to be hurried. He pushes one finger into me, pulls it out to the tip, then back in again, the movements a slow torture. Then he inserts a second finger inside of me, bending them until he finds the spot that makes me scream, and the assault begins. He pumps his fingers harder and faster, the pressure in my core building until I think I might die if I don’t come soon. Then he takes my clit into his mouth and sucks hard.
My orgasm crashes into me, waves of white-hot pleasure rocketing through my body. On and on, Ryan milks every last spasm from me, until I’m languid goo. He pulls away to grab a condom out of his nightstand, and rolls it down his cock, all the while pinning me with the intensity of his gaze. Then he climbs over me and positions the swollen head at my entrance. Eyes never leaving mine he works himself into me inch by inch, in and out. And it’s so slow. Too fucking slow. “Ryan,” I scream. As if reading my mind, he rams into me, and I cry out, the mixture of pleasure and pain almost overwhelming. Ryan pauses a moment before he begins to move with long, slow strokes that rub against my sensitive clit, and immediately, another orgasm starts to build.
Hands gripping the sheets above my head, I meet him thrust for thrust, my screams reverberating off the walls. As we both approach climax, our movements become harder and faster and more frenzied until the dam breaks and another orgasm rips through me, turning my vision white. Ryan follows on my heels, his orgasm so powerful, I feel his cock jerking inside of me.
We’re both still panting when he finally gets up to dispose of the condom, then climbs back into bed to snuggle me against his chest.
“Ryan?” I say, breaking the silence.
He kisses my forehead. “Yeah.”
“I think our dinner is cold.”
He laughs. “It was totally worth it.”
Damn. The man can cook. Even after microwaving it, this Chicken Parm is to die for. The chicken is soft and juicy, and the sauce isn’t acidic at all. I’ll admit, my expectations were low. How many twenty-one-year-old guys can actually cook? I was wrong.
I take another bite of ooey-gooey-chickeny-goodness and groan. “This is so good.”
“Thanks. My cooking is the main reason Dave lets me live here for so cheap. I cook and do most of the shopping and in exchange, I get to live here instead of with my brothers on the other side of town.”
“Ugh, I wish,” I say. “I’m basically stuck at my parents until I can afford to get my own place. It’s mostly okay, but my dad can be alittleoverbearing at times.” I raise my hand, thumb and index finger held a couple millimeters apart. Then I spread myfingers further and further, until I have to switch to stretching my arms as wide as they’ll go.
Ryan chuckles. “That bad, huh?”
“Worse,” I say, swirling an overly large pile of spaghetti around my fork. It briefly occurs to me that there is no way to delicately shovel this much food into my mouth but shrug it off. If he’s looking for some dainty, salad-eating girl, he might as well move along now because she don’t live here. “Where’d you learn how to cook?” I ask, before shoving the forkful of spaghetti into my mouth.
Ryan smiles, but it’s a little off. Did I say something wrong?
“After my mom died—” he begins.
Well, that answers that question. Crap.
“Trey, my oldest brother had to work a lot to support us so that left Garrett and me to take care of that kind of stuff. Garrett did the cooking for a little while, but spaghetti and Hamburger Helper quickly lose their luster.” He smirks. “So, one day I just took over. I’d check out cookbooks from the library, find recipes online, anything not to eat Garrett’s cooking.”
“I’m sorry about your mom.”
Ryan waves me off. “It was a long time ago.” He must read the question in my eyes because he follows up by saying. “I was eleven.”
“How did she die?” I blurt. The second the words are out of my mouth, I wish I could take them back. I quickly add, “You don’t have to answer that, if you don’t want to. Sorry.”
His smile dies, and he pokes the chicken with his fork.
