She slides them down and steps out of them, and she's naked in front of me, and I'm looking at her like she's the only thing in the world because right now she is.
"Come here," I beg. "Please. Straddle me. I want to feel you."
She climbs onto the bed, swings a leg over my hips, and settles her weight onto me, and the pressure of her — the heat, the softness, the full gorgeous reality of Ella Rujkowski sitting on top of me — makes me groan so loud the neighbors probably hear it.
"Is this okay?" she asks. "Your knee?—"
"My knee is perfect. Everything is perfect. You're perfect." I grip her hips with both hands, feeling the curve of her, the give of her skin under my fingers. "Show me, Ella. Show me what you do when you think about me."
I have zero concern for the fact that she’s my roommate’s sister. Right now, she’s the hottest woman in any universe, and she’s naked for me. She reaches between us. Her fingers find the place she needs, and she starts to move — slow, tentative at first, her eyes half-closed — and I watch her face, and I hold her hips, and I think: this is it. This is the moment I can't come back from.
I don’t just lust after Ella Rujkowski. I'm pretty sure I’m in love with her, and she's on top of me, and she's touching herself, and I'm about to be inside her. Nothing, not the tutoring, not the right guy, not her brother, not my father, none of it matters as much as the expression on her face right now.
She opens her eyes and looks down at me and says, "Bernard."
Her fingers flutter faster as she stares into my eyes.
I'm done for.
Chapter 15
Ella
As I rock on top of Bernard, touching myself in ways that have always been private until now, one thought repeats itself: I want him.
Not as a tutor. Not as practice for some mythical “right guy,” but just for himself. He’s beneath me, his massive body solid and warm, eyes hooded, words so encouraging, and I want him.
My fingers circle and press in a rhythm I’ve used with Bernard on my mind, and nothing about this feels like practice. His hand grips my hip, an anchor. His eyes are dark, fixed on my face, filled with want.
Everything adult Bernard has done since I arrived in Pittsburgh has been in service of my safety and comfort. Rides to work. Actual interest in my studying drama. He says he thinks I’m capable, and I can feel the truth of that.
I look down at him, on the verge of coming, and the hunger on his face is real. Not performed or rehearsed.
"I want you inside me," I say.
His jaw tightens. "Are you sure?"
"I've never been more sure of anything."
I watch him swallow, feel his erection against my bottom as I squirm on top of him. “Ella, I want you to be ready. So it doesn’t hurt as much…”
"Right. Okay." I let my hand drop to his belly, feeling the skin of my thighs against his flanks.
His hands slide from my hips to my thighs, thumbs tracing slow circles on my inner skin. And then one thick finger presses inside me, slow, careful. I gasp, and his eyes flash, concerned. "Does that hurt?" His voice is rough with restraint.
"No. It’s so good.” The sensation is strange, full, and intimate.
He adds a second finger, and I moan —fuller now, a stretch that borders on too much before it settles into something warm and deep. His thumb finds my clit and begins to circle, and the combination of his fingers inside me and the pressure outside makes my vision blur at the edges.
"I'm going to make you feel so damn good, baby,” he says, and the words are a promise and a prayer, and I believe him completely because Bernard Houser has never once broken a promise to me.
He works me with his hand — patient, attentive, reading my body the way he reads the ice, adjusting pressure and rhythm based on the sounds I make and the way my hips move. I brace my hands on his chest and let the wave build, let it crest, and when I come this time, it's deeper than before, a full-body pulse that makes me clench around his fingers and cry out his name.
He holds me through it. Steady. Solid. His other hand on my hip, grounding me while I shake. I feel my belly against his, soft against solid, but I’m too far gone in pleasure to worry that he might not like the sensation.
"God, Ella," he whispers. "You're incredible."
I'm still trembling when he reaches toward the nightstand. The drawer slides open, and I look over. And then I start to laugh.
