“Nolan,” she whispered.
“Shh.”
Her wet arousal coated my fingertips as I searched for the tight well between her legs and then skimmed back up to the needy button at the top. She was almost too slick to properly finger, my fingers sliding on her skin, everything too slippery and too wet. But the moment I made it work and gave her a good, firm stroke, her knees buckled—and fuck, mine did too. I didn’t know how I was supposed to keep standing when she was like this; I didn’t know how I could keep thinking, keepbreathing.
I was fingering Bianca von Honey, and she was loving it.
I rubbed her again, and she became frantic, pulling at myhair, and then at my Henley, stripping it off and then sucking in a sharp breath at the sight of my bare skin. “Nolan,” she said weakly. “You still have the tattoos you had when you were in INK.”
I grinned at her, still touching her with dirty, steady strokes that had a flush crawling up her throat. “Can’t be a bad boy without the tattoos,” I purred, sliding my free hand up to her neck. “And I was the bad boy, remember?”
“Oh, I remember,” she breathed. A hand reached up and ghosted over the one on my chest, a pile of tangled Christmas lights that I’d gotten after my first Christmas away from home, and then the one on my hip of my very first tour bus, complete with wings on the side, like it was the bus of dreams. I had a glimpse of bright green between her dark lashes as her eyes fluttered closed, and then I bent in to kiss her again, using my hand around her neck to tilt her face up to mine. “It’s a shame you had to change your ways.”
“Who said the change was permanent?” I murmured right before I bit her lower lip and tugged. Hard. She whimpered, her hips bucking under my touch, but then she sucked in a breath and held her body almost completely still.
She was weirdly tense, when before she’d been all heat and give.
I pulled back to check in with her.
“Don’t stop,” she said, her brow furrowing as she looked at me. “Why would you stop?”
She was still pressed back against the wall, and still breathing short, shallow breaths high up in her chest. At first I thought maybe she didn’t actually want to go any further, that her pleading words and those pleading eyes were somehow not the entire story, but when I started to slide my hand free, she hissed like a cat and then shoved my hand back where it belonged.
I laughed a little as I began playing with her again. “Okay, I won’t stop.”
“Good,” she huffed indignantly.
But as I rubbed her, it happened again. The strange breathing, the tense posture. Like she was trying to keep only her pussy near me and nothing else. Like she was trying to keep her stomach from pressing into my forearm as I fingered her.
“Bee,” I said softly. “Don’t do that.”
She looked at me, all confusion. “Don’t do what?”
I let go of her neck and skated my fingers down her ribs to her waist. And then to her stomach. A new kind of tension stole over her.
“Let me feel you,” I murmured to her. “Please, baby. Let me feel you.”
She swallowed. “Okay,” she said, but there was hesitation written all over her face, as if I wasn’t hard enough to pound nails just from touching her. As if I hadn’t spent years rubbing myself raw thinking of her body.
She shook her head, as if internally chastising herself. “Sorry,” she said, shaking her head again. “I’m so used to having to think about the camera—about the angles.”
“You don’tneedangles, Bee,” I told her, gliding my fingers down to her entrance and slowly penetrating her, watching her melt bit by bit. Feeling her body arch and press into me the way it should. “You make me lose my mind. You make me fucking feral.”
I grabbed her hand and molded it over the stiff bulge of my erection. “Feel. Feel what you do to me.”
She shivered, scraping her hand up and down my denim-covered cock as I fucked her deep with my fingers. Her eyes flashed green, and then she said, “Christ, I can’t wait any longer. We have to fuck. Right now, we have to fuck.”
She was still in her sweater and leggings; I still had my boots on and I hadn’t even made her come yet.
“But—”
“I’ve been wanting this for ten years,” she said, yanking at the button of my jeans. “I can’t wait a second longer. Ineedthis.”
“Shit, me too, oh shit—” She’d pulled me out of my jeans and was working my rigid flesh with rough, expert pumps that had fluid beading at my tip. “But let me make you come first.”
“Oh, I’m going to come,” she said, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Do you have a condom?”
“Ah hell,” I said, clearly and painfully visualizing my wallet back in my room, keeping the gingerbread lotion and a half-drunk water bottle company on my nightstand. “I don’t.”
