“Tully.” It’s a plea this time. “Please.”
He makes a low sound in his throat—half groan, half relief—and lifts me like I weigh nothing. My legs wrap around his waist on instinct, ankles locking at the small of his back. I unhook my bra and toss it, and he curses when he glances down.
“Holy fuck,” he says, when he sees my nipple piercings. “That’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
The friction of his belt against my lace makes me whimper. He carries me to the bed, and we collapse together, a messy tangle of limbs and heat and everything I’ve tried to bury.
His jacket hits the floor. Shirt next—buttons popping because neither of us has any patience left. My hands are greedy, relearning the hard planes of his chest, the ridge of a scar on his left rib from colliding with another player’s blade, the tattoos I haven’t seen yet. He’s even more gorgeous than Iremembered. So beautiful it hurts. I trace the line of hair down his stomach and love the way his muscles jump under my fingertips.
When he hooks his fingers in my underwear and drags it down my thighs, I lift my hips to help. The cool air hits my wet core, and I shiver. He pauses, just looking at me spread out beneath him, and his eyes cover every inch like he’s memorizing me.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says.
He lifts my hand to his mouth and kisses the anchor tattooed on the inside of my wrist. And then his tongue traces the flowers on my arm. He leans back, and his fingers trail over my compass rose and the flowers on my thigh. His tongue flicks my nipples and catches the tip of the right barbell. The sudden cool-warm contrast makes me gasp. He does it again, slower, then closes his lips around the bar and nipple together, sucking gently. The tug is exquisite—sharp pleasure that shoots straight between my legs.
I arch into his mouth with a soft moan. “Tully…”
He hums against me, the vibration traveling through the piercing and deep into my breast. His hand comes up to the left side, fingers finding the other barbell. He rolls it between his thumb and forefinger—slow, experimental—then gives a gentle pull. Every tug sends fresh sparks downward, pooling hot and urgent between my thighs. I’m soaked and aching. He switches sides, tongue swirling around the left barbell before he bites down lightly—not enough to hurt, just enough to make me cry out. Then he pulls back and blows cool air over the wet metal. I’m panting now, shameless.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, eyes flicking up to mine while his fingers keep teasing both piercings in lazy circles. “So fucking perfect. These make everything sharper, don’t they?”
“Yes,” I gasp.
Then he leans in closer, his eyes narrowing, and I lean up to see why he’s paused.
“What does that say?” he asks. His breath catches when he sees the word high on my side. “Trouble,” he whispers.
He bends down and kisses the word so gently, tears fill my eyes. He looks up at me, and I wish I could bottle up the smile on his face.
Oh, this is going to hurt so bad tomorrow.
Then he shifts down until he’s between my legs, lowers his head, and puts his mouth on me. I lift off the bed with a choked cry. His tongue is slow at first—teasing circles, gentle pressure—then firmer, hungrier. One hand pins my hip to the mattress, and the other slides up to lace his fingers with mine. I’m trembling already, thighs shaking around his shoulders. He knows exactly how to build it, how to keep me teetering right on the edge without letting me tip over. He still reads my body so well.
“Tully—God—please—” I’m begging now. My free hand fists in his hair, holding him there.
He hums against me—vibrations straight to my core—and finally, he sucks hard. When his finger tugs my barbell at the same time, I come with a broken sob, hips jerking, vision whiting out. He doesn’t stop until the aftershocks fade, licking me through every last tremor.
Then he crawls back up my body, kissing every inch he passes—stomach, ribs, the underside of my breast, and my nipples, one by one. When he reaches my mouth, I taste myself on his tongue, and it makes me dizzy all over again. I reach between us, fumbling with his belt, his zipper. He helps, shoving everything off.
His cock bobs against his stomach, hard and hot. I stroke him once, twice, and he hisses against my neck.
“Lola—”
He lifts off of me and stares into my eyes.
“Are you sure?”
I nod. “I’m sure.”
He grabs a condom and slides it on. He notches at my entrance, pausing in case I change my mind. I wrap my legs tighter around him, my heels digging into his ass.
“I’m sure,” I whisper.
He pushes in slowly, stretching me until he’s seated deep. We both groan—long, ragged sounds that mingle in the dark, and for a second we stay like that, our foreheads pressed together, breathing each other in.
When he starts to move, it’s not gentle anymore. It’s years of hurt and desire poured into every thrust. Hard. Deep. Possessive. My nails rake down his back, and he growls, hips snapping faster. I meet him stroke for stroke, rolling up into him, chasing that perfect angle.
He hooks one of my legs over his shoulder and goes even deeper, hitting that spot that makes stars burst behind my eyelids. I’m loud, but I don’t care.
