“Oh.” I dither for a moment. I like that he has plans for my pussy. I’d very much like to find out what those are. But I also can’t stop staring at his erection. It looks uncomfortable, maybe even painful. And it feels like I should help him relieve that burden, if I can.
It’s the Christian thing to do.
Swallowing, I step forward, reaching for him slowly. I want to give him the chance to stop me, if that’s what he really wants. His eyes hone in on my movement, his jaw clenching. “Helen,” he says, but he doesn’t tell me to stop.
I touch him almost clinically at first, exploring this thing I’ve heard about and read about but never actually experienced for myself. It’s both harder and softer than I thought. He’s solid as a rock, but the skin is smooth, almost silky. I run my fingertips up and down the base, testing it a moment, before experimentally wrapping my hand around it. “Like this?” I ask, tilting my head to the side to study it.
Thad swears as he closes his hand over mine, adjusting my wrist and then guiding it back and forth a few times before releasing me to do it on my own.“Fuck.”
I watch him, fascinated, as I continue the motion he taught me, experimenting with pressure and speed. Whatever I’m doing must be okay because he is almost incoherent in his want. The Big Bad Wolf who was threateningpussy plansa few moments ago has been completely and totally tamed.
It’s a good thing he’s too preoccupied with his need to pay much attention to my face, because I’m sure it’s cartoonishly dorky—wide eyes, gaping mouth. In all the studying and researching and reading I’ve done about sex, there was nothing that prepared me for this—the vulnerability and the power, the heady thrill of watching someone come apart because ofyou.
With an abrupt grunt, Thad reaches down, stopping my hand. For half a second, I worry that I’ve done something wrong, made some beginner’s error, until he half moans, “I’m going to finish if you don’t stop.”
Oh! Well, if that’s all. “I don’t care,” I insist, reaching for him again.
“I do,” he says to me through gritted teeth. “I haveplans.”
Before I can laugh at the absurdity ofthatstatement, Thad surprises me by lowering himself down onto the deck, lying down flat on his back and urging me down with him so that I’m straddling him. I’m aware of too many things all at once—my nudity, my weight, whether or not I’m crushing him, the position I’m in and if it’s making anything bulge or hang weirdly.
His voice pulls me back from the brink of a mini panic. “I’ve been wanting to do this ever since that day you were wrestling me in my car for your phone.”
My mind cuts back to that night—me pinning Thad down with my thighs, our breathing thick and labored. “Do what?”
I’m distracted by movement behind me, and I turn to see that Thad has taken hold of himself and is pumping energetically. As I stare at the sight, hypnotized, his other hand grips my hip, urging me forward until?—
“Oh, God!” I half gasp, half shout.
Forgive me, Lord. I can’t help the profanity, truly. Not when I’m sitting on his mouth and he’s exploring me with lips and teeth and breath and tongue. Pleasure so intense it’s almost painful courses through me, muting out anything but this sensation, his hand on my hip, urging me on, the frantic pumping behind me.
When I implode, I try to be mindful of where my body goes so I don’t crush him and he can breathe, though honestly, it takes Herculean effort to stay even that cognizant. He follows me a few moments later, his body jerking up all at once underneath me, then going prone again.
We lie there, the two of us, bodies awkwardly tangled as we try to catch our respective breaths. “Oh my God,” I sigh finally, when I’m able to breathe.
“Oh my God,” he agrees, one hand coming up to languidly caress my thigh.
Chapter 39
Thad
As we walk back to the hotel, Helen is glowing. To me, she’s always been beautiful, alluring, and more distracting than I’d like her to be; but tonight, she is turning heads everywhere we go. And it isn’t just because of the outfit. (Fuck me, that outfit. I was almost relieved that Dean wasn’t on the boat once I saw her, because there was no way I would have been able to focus on anything but her all night.)
For as long as I’ve known her, Helen has been a turtle, hiding inside of her shell. The oversized sweaters, the messy buns. And even though she might have been making some moves to occasionally come outside of that, it was obvious she was still hiding a part of herself, not quite wanting to be seen.
She isn’t hiding anymore. Everything about her begs to be noticed, from the way she carries herself, to the warmth and happiness she exudes—and yes, to the incredible body on display in that barely there fishnet dress.
Her glow isn’t just from us fooling around, either—I mean, I’m sure the multiple orgasms didn’t hurt, and I’m sure I’m walking around wearing one of my rare, shit-eating grins, myself. I think she’s proud of herself, for trying something new, and everything about her radiates with pleasure and confidence.
And I think, maybe, just maybe, it has a little bit to do with me, too. We can’t stop smiling at each other. Touching each other. Her hand gripping the sleeve of my shirt, my hand touching the small of her back, her body angling into mine to let other people pass. If I were seeing anyone else behave the way we’re behaving now, I’d probably sucker punch them on principle for being so obnoxious, but I can’t make myself stop.
As we near the hotel, I clock yet another pair of guys craning their necks to look after Helen as she walks by. Some of my innate sourness returns, and my face falls back into its usual, easy scowl. If I had a suit jacket, I would have found a reason to wrap it around her shoulders, even though it’s an unseasonably warm night—anything to keeptheireyes offmywoman.
My woman. The thought makes me smile again, despite myself. My librarian femme fatale, too sexy to be a good girl, and too sunny to be a vamp. Helen. The only woman in the world, so far as I care.
My expression must be contagious because she sees my face as we step into the lobby and grins back at me, almost shyly. “What?”
I wouldn’t know where to start without turning into mush. This thing I’m feeling is both overwhelmingly strong and incredibly delicate, like if I say the wrong thing or blink the wrong way, it’ll snuff out. “Just thinking about how much I love New Orleans,” I hear myself saying, like a prize idiot.
