“You’re enjoying this.”
“Guilty,” she says, unrepentant, her fingers tracing idle patterns over my shirt. Her gaze flickers down, lingering on my lips before snapping back up to my eyes. “But so are you.”
“Obviously.”
I’m a goner. She knows it.
But instead of saying anything, I let my hand slide up to the back of her neck, pulling her back down to me, and for a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of our breaths mingling, the warmth of her body against mine.
I don’t know how far this is going to go, and honestly?
I don’t care.
Instinctively, my hands slide from her waist to the hem of her sweatshirt. My fingers pause there, hesitating, but when she shifts slightly, pressing herself closer to me, it’s all the encouragement I need.
I slip my hands under the fabric, the warmth of her skin against my palms sending a jolt straight through me as they move higher, tracing the line of her ribs, and the sound she makes has me ready to lose my damn mind.
My hands shift, fingers skimming over her bra, the thin fabric doing nothing to dull the aching in my pants.
My dick is so fucking hard.
Her breath catches again, and this time, she breaks the kiss, leaning back slightly, her head tilting to look down at me, her cheeks flushed, her lips swollen.
My lips feel swollen too.
She moves again, more deliberate this time, and I can’t stop the low groan that escapes me. The sound seems to spur her on, her body pressing harder against mine as her lips find my neck, her teeth grazing the sensitive skin under my jaw.
“Fuck,” I mutter, my hands sliding lower, gripping her hips as I guide her movements.
The fabric of my jeans feels like sandpaper against me, but I don’t care. Not when she’s making those soft, breathless noises that go straight to my head, and lower.
Her hands are everywhere—my chest, my shoulders, my hair—like she can’t get enough of me, like she’s as desperate for this as I am. She tilts her hips, grinding against me, and my head falls back against the couch, my breath coming in short, uneven bursts.
“Lucy,” I manage, my voice hoarse, but I don’t even know what I’m trying to say.
Her name is the only thing that makes sense, the only thing that grounds me as she moves against me, slow and purposeful, the heat between us building with every passing second.
Her hands slide down, gripping my shoulders as she rocks her hips again, her movements gaining a little more urgency. I can feel her through the thin fabric of her leggings, the pressure sending sparks of pleasure shooting through me, and it takes everything I have not to lose it right there.
Her head falls forward, her lips brushing against my ear as she whispers, “You feel so fucking amazing.”
The words hit me like a freight train, my hands dragging her closer, pressing her more firmly against me.
“You’re killing me,” I breathe, my voice rough, and she lets out a soft laugh, the sound muffled against my neck.
“That’s the point.” Her breath is warm against my skin, and then she’s moving again, her rhythm matching the frantic pounding of my pulse.
Every roll of her hips, every brush of her hands, every breathless sound she makes—it’s consuming and overwhelming, and I’m completely, hopelessly lost.
“I feel sixteen,” she says. “The last time I dry humped someone was in high school.”
“Same.” I was having sex at an early age but indulged in the occasional dry-fucking session.
Her laugh is quiet but throaty, like she’s savoring every second of this. She shifts, the pressure perfect; my hands grip her tighter, my fingers digging into her waist as I try—and fail—to keep my composure.
“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” she murmurs, lips grazing the shell of my ear, her voice sending a shiver straight down my spine.
“Believe it,” I manage, though my words are strained, almost lost under the sound of my own breathing. “I’m going to f-fucking c-come in my pants.”
