THE KISS IS SO soft at first.
So completely contradictory to the man kissing me, to the rigid atmosphere suffocating us. It’s hesitant and unsure, like he’s braced for rejection, and it’s so utterly un-Nick. It does something to me, sparks something simultaneously mushy yet unyielding, that obliterates the icky ball that settled in my gut as I watched him stride out of the house earlier and replaces it with something needy.
I don’t want his hesitance. I want him to kiss me with the same clarity he uttered all those pretty, harsh words; like he means it. Like he wants me and he hates that he does. Because, God, do I know the feeling.
When I make an eager noise in my throat, my mouth opening ever so slightly as I sigh into his, I get my wish.
It’s a clash of tongues and teeth as Nick deepens the kiss with a groan, stealing every breath from my lungs with the intensity of it. I open myself to him more than eagerly, relishing in the taste of him—sweet and smoky like he spent the night nursing a count of rum, and fuck if that doesn’t make me kiss him a little harder. I’m so consumed by his mouth that I don’t notice when I’m hoisted onto the counter, not until greedy hands palm my bare thighs, forcing them apart and making room for a warm body to slip between them.
I gasp when his pelvis grinds against the hottest, neediest part of me and Nick swallows the noise, echoing it with a groan that I relish. “Fuck, Amelia,” he rasps between lashes of his tongue, nips of his teeth. “Sabia que seria assim.”
I have no idea what that means but I moan anyway, the husky timbre of his voice traveling straight to the throbbing spot between my thighs. They clamp around Nick, eliminating any semblance of space between us. A whimper of protest rips from my throat when he suddenly pulls away but the lack of contact lasts all of a second before scorching lips find purchase along my jaw and drag down my neck, teeth scraping my collarbone as he lavishes my sensitive skin. I find myself squirming frantically as my head falls back to allow for better, unlimited access, feverish with the thought of the marks he’s undoubtedly leaving and unable to control my hips as they rock against his, my hands twisting in his hair as I try to keep up.
And his hands, God, his hands. They’re everywhere, all at once, caressing every bit of skin they can access with a burning reverence I have no capacity to dwell on, to properly appreciate, not when one cups the nape of my neck with head-scrambling authority, holding me in place while the other slips beneath the fabric of my t-shirt to palm the bare small of my back with surprising gentleness.
I can’t say the same for myself; there’s nothing gentle about my grip on his hair. It’s got to hurt, how I’m practically ripping strands from roots, but Nick doesn’t seem to care, and neither do I. There is very little I care about right now, and nowhere on that microscopic list is the fact we’re making out in the middle of the kitchen for anyone to see. Or who I’m making out with. All I care about is keeping Nick’s hand and lips on me for as long as possible.
I’m nothing more than tangled thoughts and panting breaths and tingling flesh by the time Nick works his way back up to my mouth. His ferocity tempers as he kisses me slow and hungry, like he’s savoring the moment, like he knows I need to catch my breath but he can’t stop. He tells me as much, whispering it against my swollen lips, and I whisper back, urging him not to. I fear that if he stops, my brain will kickstart with the loss and reality will sink in and I really don’t want that to happen yet.
My stomach twists and flutters when Nick grips my thighs once again. Toying with the frilly hem of my pajama shorts, he coaxes them further up my legs, the pads of his fingers burning the revealed skin. When he grazes the crease of my pelvis, I stutter a breath, the next one released with a disapproving cry as Nick suddenly retreats. I try to follow, embarrassingly needy for more, but Nick evades me with a teasing smirk.
I wriggle impatiently, dangerously close to pouting and begging, doing nothing but causing Nick’s smirk to widen. He encroaches on me again but he doesn’t give me what I want. He hovers too many inches away, seemingly content to stare at me when I am anything but.
“Nick.” His name is half a whine, half a pant.
Fingers graze my cheek as he tucks a wayward strand of hair behind my ear. “Yes?”
“Stop staring at me.”
“I like staring at you.” The tingling in my lips amps up a notch when he swipes the bottom one gently. “Do it a lot.”
It’s a statement that, in any ordinary conversation, would immediately be classed as creepy yet coming from Nick, it’s a sweet nothing.
Shaking off the urge to melt, I lean until our foreheads clash again. “Nick,” I repeat, injecting more urgency into my tone because the throb between my legs is feeling pretty damn urgent. “Stop just staring at me.”
Dimples.
My demand earns me dimples, as if I needed another thing making me light-headed and boneless.
I get the inexplicable urge to call him an ass but it dies as soon as it’s born, replaced by an entirely unattractive squawk of surprise when I’m yanked to the very edge of the counter. Nick’s chuckle tickles my lips as he claims them again yet it’s different this time. Not as frantic and ravenous. >ore lazy and unhurried as though we have all the time in the world which for some reason inspires the rumblings of an impending freak out deep in my chest. As though he can sense it, Nick does what he does best; he distracts me. Every inch of me tenses in rapt anticipation when he snaps the waistband of my panties harshly against my skin.
“You know how many times I’ve thought about this?” The welcome assault on my lips comes to an infuriating pause so Nick can grind out an unanswerable question through gritted teeth. And, I suspect, so he can relish in my slack-jawed expression as he cups the slick heat between my legs without warning. We both groan, neither of us making any move to stifle the noise. “So many fucking times, Amelia.”
With my panties acting as a damp, useless barrier, Nick drags a knuckle through the crease of me, hissing at the wetness he finds—which is a lot. “Every time you wear those skimpy little dresses, I imagine how easy this would be. It’s all I could think about on my birthday when I had you in my lap.” His index finger teases the edge of my underwear, so close yet so far from where I desperately want him. “It would’ve been so fucking easy.”
Whimpering helplessly, I clutch Nick’s shirt tightly, my hips writhing in search of more than he’s giving me. Never in my life have I been this turned on, this dripping. Never have I wanted, needed, someone so badly. I’m not above begging and I’m not far from it, ready to do whatever it takes before I lose my damn mind.
But, as I’m about to, Nick does it for me.
Something downright feral glinting in his eyes, Nick begs.
“Please, querida. Let me.”
And what the hell else am I going to say other than a breathless, enthusiastic fuck yes?
A hand on my belly pushes me gently, a silent command to lean back on my palms, and that’s all the warning I receive before Nick drops to his knees, face set in an expression I can only describe as hungry. He wastes no time removing my shorts and panties in one fell swoop, absentmindedly tossing them aside.
There’s no chance to be shy about my sudden nakedness because Nick doesn’t allow me any. I’m too busy trying to maintain my balance—and my composure—as he maneuvers me to his liking; yanking until my ass hangs off the edge of the counter, hooking my legs over his broad shoulders, and bundling my t-shirt near my belly button before all but burying his face between my thighs.
If I thought the seemingly simple task of filling my lungs with air was insurmountable before, it’s nothing compared to now, as a speck of panic seizes the organ. It’s been a long, long time since someone last went down on me—Dylan claimed he didn’t like it, although he sure as fuck liked the reverse. Hell, it’s been a long time since anyone but myself gave me an orgasm. And it’s not that I’m shy or squeamish about it, not normally, but… this is Nick. Nicolas Silva. Playboy supreme. The king collector of campus pussy—the guys’ words, not mine. Through his own admission, he’s been with a lot of girls and it might be silly, it might be irrational, it might be unfair and judgemental and a million other things, but the knowledge sends a tendril of sour insecurity thrashing wild in my gut.
The first wet, hot stroke of his tongue and the appreciative groan that follows do a world of good in soothing me.
“Fuck, Amelia,” he grumbles against me, and I have to clamp a hand over my mouth to muffle my loud reaction. “Fucking killing me.”
I whine his name again, bucking my hips with all the energy I have.
“That’s it, querida. Fuck my face like you mean it.”
And with that cooed instruction, he fucking devours me.
Within seconds, Nick proves why his reputation is so stellar.
His talented tongue delves inside of me with reckless abandon, driving me near madness within seconds. A thumb joins, circling my clit hard and fast, the way I need it. My hands clutches his curls harder, an attempt to anchor myself that doesn’t work.
It’s almost laughable, really, that what had such a long build-up ends so quickly. I could blame it on his skills. I could blame it on my severe case of touch deprivation. But either way, an embarrassingly short amount of time passes before I go off like a rocket, every nerve in my body on fire as my back bows off the counter and a silent scream rattles in my throat.
Seconds, minutes, God knows how long passes before my body stops trembling, before Nick relents and lets me stop trembling. Another indiscernible length of time and I regain enough function in my limbs to move, propping myself up on shaky elbows just in time to catch Nick helping my limp legs back into my shorts, a shiver wracking my body at the sight of him licking his glossy lips. When he offers me a hand, I take it, letting him help me stand on unsteady feet, my cheeks red-hot as he resituates my disheveled clothing.
My gaze might be firmly fixed on his chest but there’s no mistaking the smirk in his voice. “You gonna look at me?”
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
Chuckling quietly, Nick props up my chin to gently redirect my gaze to his. “Whatever you’re thinking,” he smooths down what I can only imagine is a wild mess of curls, “stop.”
“I’m not thinking anything.”
“You’re panicking.”
“I’m not.” I am. I really, really am. With a capital ‘P.’ It’s flooding in with all the oxygen I was momentarily deprived of because what did I do? What did I let him do? What did I let him do on Lynn’s fucking kitchen counter? “We shouldn’t have done that.”
“Querida, relax.” A frown creases his forehead when I step out of his reach, not-so-subtly scuttling towards the nearest exit. “It’s not a big deal.”
And there it is. The final nail in my spiraling coffin.
To him, it wasn’t a big deal.
So, I guess it’s going to have to not be a big deal to me either.
Steeling myself against the shame and regret threatening to drown me, I square my shoulders and get ready to flee. “This didn’t happen.”
“Amelia…”
I don’t stick around to hear what he has to say, partly because the post-orgasm clarity is hitting me hard and a round of frustrated tears seems imminent, mostly because I have no interest in hearing the end of the speech Nick probably delivers to each of the notches on his bedpost after they succumb to his charm.
