Run (7 page)

       But I let him turn me around. Let him run a single finger down the length of my spine, follow the curve of first one wing, then the other.

       Massive black wings, feathers rustled in preparation to close up tight, covered my back. It had taken quite a bit of time and money to do, the shading intricate. The rounded tops took up most of my upper back, curving into a double tipped point sitting on either side of the base of my spine.

       Shock bolted through me as he brushed the end of my ponytail aside, his teeth closing over the nape of my neck, teeth scraping along skin, his hands sliding up to cup my breasts. Whatever steps we’d skipped in the seduction dance were being made up for now, as this quiet, unassuming man set out to devastate me, his hands molding my breasts, tongue slicking a line of wet heat along my throat, nipples catching between his fingers. And as he tugged and pulled and pinched, I arched into the touch, pushing my ass into his groin. The thick ridge of his cock, straining against his jeans, brought on a fresh rush of wetness. If I didn’t get out of the rest of my clothes soon, my panties would be ruined.

       “Fuckin’ hot,” he growled, voice rough with desire. He found the button of my jeans and flicked it open, deft fingers slipping under the waistband of my panties and into the soaking heat between my legs. Rub. Rub. Rub. He withdrew his fingers, tugging his hand free when I clutched at his wrist. “Take your pants off for me, darlin’.”

       I pushed the denim down my legs, my underwear following close behind. I turned around. He had a twisted sort of smile on his face, and I fought the urge to cover myself. “You, too,” I croaked. I wasn’t going to be the only naked one here.

       His belt came undone quickly enough, even as my fingers grew fat and clumsy. I fumbled with the fly of his jeans, managing to get the zipper down. He’d neglected to put on boxers. Or underwear of any kind. Nothing but his naked cock, hot against the backs of my fingers.

       He hissed. Reaching out, he tangled his hands in my hair, our mouths meeting in a clash of want and heat. It was artless and slippery and perfect, a shard of craziness piercing the weight of the moment.

       We tumbled onto the bed. I lost myself in the surge of arousal, limbs twining around each other, his dick hard against my thigh. Muscles bunched and moved, hips shifted, and it would be so, so easy to take him inside.

       Not yet. Not that way. Bareback implied a level of trust neither of us had earned. I twisted my hips away, moving out of temptation’s reach, wishing I had something to rub against because the craving for friction was becoming too much. “Wait,” I murmured. “Probably should have talked about this before the clothes came off.” Or before we slept together for the first time. “I’m clean. Always use protection, on birth control. That first night…I should have said something then.”

       He stroked a hand over my body, pausing at the dip of my waist. “Same. And it’s not all on you. I didn’t say anything, and I should have, especially given what we were about to do.” He gave me a quick kiss. “Lie back. And no touching.”

       On my back, Trevor braced above me, he kissed his way down my body, absorbing the jerks and shudders with a chuckle and redoubled effort. He teased my nipples with his tongue, learned the lines of Lady Justice with his fingers. Arousal thickened my blood and dampened my thighs. It was embarrassing. I’d been turned on before, the night we’d met, nerves holding me back. That wasn’t happening here. I was pretty sure I could come from the anticipation alone.

       Then he blew a raspberry on my stomach.

       I almost choked on the laugh, surprise batting away some of the tension. He took advantage and dove in, the broad flat of his tongue causing the laugh to die in a sob of need. “God. Do that again.”

       He did.

       He was smart. He took his time, trying long, firm licks, short flickers of his tongue, his teeth grazing my clit, one finger, two, twisting and curling, drawing back to trace my flooded folds with the tip of his tongue. I squirmed, hands scrabbling and clutching at the sheets. Too much. He was trying to learn it all now, so he could use it against me later. “Trevor.
Stop
.”

       Another lick, and I whined. “You sure about that?” He slid a finger inside and stroked. “Maybe I want you to come all over my face.”

       An image of him, face buried between my thighs, tension stringing me rigid, flashed in front of my eyes. “Do it,” I whispered hoarsely.

       The tip of his finger flirted with my clit, twitching and tapping. I glanced up to see him studying me. “No.”

       No? Bloody hell. No?

       He wiped his chin with his hand and crawled up my body. My taste was thick on his lips and tongue. “No,” he repeated. “I want to see your face when you come.”

       Pinned by the fierce need in his eyes, I couldn’t argue. He stretched across me and got a condom out of the drawer, sitting back on his heels to roll it on. It was one of the hottest things I’d seen in a long time, watching him stretch the latex over his dick. It meant he’d be inside me. In seconds.

       Less than.

       One burning thrust, splitting me open, and I arched off the bed, still unused to the invasion after having gone so long without. “Christ. Forgot how tight you were.” The tendons on his neck stood out, and I wanted to bite them. So I did. I reared up and closed my teeth around one.

       “
McKenna
.”

       His hips drew back, plunged forward, the movements steady and even. I snuck a hand between us, needing to chase my orgasm, having been left teetering on the edge of it for so long. I was fit to burst, and I couldn’t stand the teasing any longer.

       The first firm rub drew a groan from him as my inner muscles fluttered in response. “Keep going.” He spat the words out. I lifted my hips to meet his thrusts, fingers pinching and rubbing that hot spot, fighting the need to shut my eyes against the intensity of his gaze.

       The flutters became a pulse, stronger, stronger, building to a heavy throb that threatened to blank my mind. What would it be like to feel him naked inside me? Thick and hard, pushing through slick and swollen tissue. The thought knocked me off the ledge, and I smashed my hand between us as release stole everything, the air in my lungs, the words in my throat, laying waste to everything in its path.

       He stilled, chest heaving. “You been holdin’ out on me.” His hips snapped against mine. “Again.”

       I shook my head, nerve endings oversensitive and on high alert. “I can’t,” I gasped.

       “You can.” He switched to short, shallow thrusts, rocking his hips so his pelvic bone rubbed my clit with each nudge. “C’mon. Come all over my cock.”

       Sweat dripped and stuck our skin together, dampening the sheets, the salty tang sliding over my tongue as I licked along his collarbone. He was doing it again, coaxing my orgasm back to life, the aftershocks growing stronger as they mutated and became a new wave of release. I wound my legs around his waist and my hands gripped his back. I struggled to keep my eyes open. I wanted to see him. Wanted that moment where he broke apart and reformed.

       One more thrust, his hips circling and pushing into mine, and I fell apart, barely aware when he cursed and held himself deep inside me.

       A roaring noise filled my head, sweeping away the whispers and doubts. Calm. Utter calm. Limp, loose calm. I’d sleep tonight, no doubt. The next couple of nights. He pinned me to the bed, his face buried in my neck. “Fuck,” he mumbled. The sticky, heavy weight of him had me dreaming of things I had no business dreaming of. My head on his shoulder, the shadows dancing around us as we lay there. The room empty and silent except for our murmured, rambling conversation about nothing of importance. Nothing I’d get, not after one night. Maybe not after many nights.

       Being lonely was like being in your own personal hell.

       I winced as he withdrew, the cool air rushing over my superheated flesh welcome as he got up to deal with the condom. When he came back, he lay next to me, groping around until he found my hand. He brought it to his lips, the sweetness of the gesture causing a hitch in my breathing. “So is that what it takes to make you come? Dinner first?” he asked.

       I twisted my head to the side, saw the grin. “What?”

       He rolled and propped his head up on his hand. “Took a blow that night, ya know. Knowing I got off and you didn’t.”

       Oh, you— I scowled. “If I was after an orgasm, I could have just gone home that night and had a hot date with my hand.” Which I had, after I’d left him.

       His gaze heated. “I’d like to see that sometime. Watch you.”

       I’d watch him. Fisting his cock, the head slick with pre-come, breathing shallow as his face twisted in a rictus of pleasure.

       The sheets were bunched under me, and I shifted, trying to smooth them out. It didn’t work. I sat up and glanced down. “Okay if I shower?”

       His teeth flashed in another grin. “Only if I can join you.”

       My blood heated as my heart thudded to a stop. He was after my body. Mutual pleasure. It had to be part of who he was, those absent, sweet gestures. The gestures that, at the end of it all, meant nothing more than he was a nice guy.

       I worked up a smile for him and headed into the bathroom. The tap flipped on with a creak of pipes, and I waited for the water to hit lukewarm before stepping under the spray.

       He came in as I was reaching for the soap. “Probably ought to change the sheets. Though we’ll just end up messing them up again.”

       I peered at him as water dripped down my face, edging against the wall of the shower so he had room to stand under the spray. “Am I staying?”

       He drew me under the spray, bodies plastered together. “Night’s not over yet. You got somewhere else to be?”

       “No,” I murmured, and his smile, his wicked, wicked smile, sent a river of want and affection streaming through my veins.

Chapter Eight

       “Looks like someone got lucky.” Celia brushed past me and grabbed a couple of empty coffee mugs by the handles.

       “Charlie does have that glow about him, doesn’t he?” It had been six hours and fifteen minutes since I’d rolled out of Trevor’s bed, five hours and fifty minutes since I’d last seen him. Counting wasn’t something I did. In the past I’d glance at the clock or the calendar and idly note I hadn’t seen Scott in a couple days. I might have called him; more often I went on with whatever I’d been doing. Our relationship had been easy and fluid. Good in bed, comfortable out of it, but despite its length—almost three years—it never came close to the intensity I’d shared with Trevor last night.

       “Charlie always has a glow about him. It’s called sweat.” Celia snickered and danced off to her table. I shook my head and went back to rolling silverware.

       People drifted in and out, the diner filling with the spicy scent of the chili Charlie cooked up for today, chairs scraping over linoleum, the bells jangling over the door every so often. I was dead tired. Not that I was complaining. It was the result of being kept up most the night by a man who had a very creative tongue. I considered texting him to see if he wanted to do it again, then discarded the idea. Going home and stretching out on my crappy bed, broken springs and all, was my only plan for the evening.

       We hit a lull in the lunch rush, and I moved to the counter to take care of some of my side work, refilling ketchup bottles and checking salt shakers.

       “So you’re not gonna tell me, are you?” Celia poked me with her elbow, and I jostled the container of salt I was trying to pour into a shaker.

       “Tell you what? That I got laid? Apparently it’s all over my face, so I don’t have to.” I set the salt on the counter and swept up the excess, dumping it into a bus bin.

       She pouted. “Why not?”

       “Because I don’t kiss and tell.” I glanced over at the door when the bells went off, and the rest of my words died in my mouth. A man stood in the doorway. Tall. Blond hair. His features just blurred enough, and just familiar enough, for panic to spark and flare in my chest. Long, long legs in battered jeans, a hole ripped in one knee. My heart tripped into a staccato beat as I waited for him to step out of the sunlight blinding my view of his face. The sweet, languid happiness I’d soaked up last night fled in a wave. Not Trevor. Someone else. Someone I’d thought I’d never have to see again.

       
You should have said something, you stupid cunt. You should have helped her
.

       I’d tried. I’d tried to get through to her. I’d failed.

       The man moved, his face bursting out of the fuzzy haze of sunlight, and the world came rushing back. It wasn’t him. It was some random guy off the street, some random guy with the same build, same facial structure that when thrown into shadow scared me enough I dropped a salt shaker on the floor.

       The man took a seat in my section, and I edged around Celia to pick up a menu, ignoring her puzzled look. Smile. Be polite. Friendly. Try not to peer too closely to confirm no, he really wasn’t who I thought he was. “Hi. I’m McKenna, and I’ll be your server.”

       He took the menu with a grunt, and I retrieved a glass of water for him, hurrying away to the kitchen to retrieve the broom and a dustpan. Charlie may have said something. It was a buzz in my ears. Nothing more. One day. One whole day where the calm lasted and I didn’t want to curl into a ball. It was so little, and too much to ask.

       I greeted another table, handed out menus and waters and silverware. The ghost from the past ordered the chili, and I drifted around the restaurant, scrambling to recover my equilibrium.

       The guilt, the whispers and doubts, were getting worse. It had been three years. Three years, drugs, therapy, a year of moving from place to place. And none of it had worked. Supposedly the guilt would go away, or I’d learn to live with it. When? When would that happen? When would I wake up and not immediately think
today
’
s another day I could have been teaching except I screwed up so badly I lost a student
?