I’VE NEVER BEEN a fan of romance books.
Not modern romances, anyway. I blame my dad; he raised me on the classics, made me a literature snob from a young age, and everything else seems to pale in comparison. And in all these idealistic stories detailing a perfect happily-ever-after, people like me are the villain. I’m the sleazy guy the main character gets fucked over by before being swept off their feet by the love of their life. I’m the distraction, the placeholder, the temporary blip before the universe rights itself. I’m the asshole catalyst that triggers a metamorphosis and changes them forever, steers their life in a new, better direction while I end up miserable and alone and lamenting over the one that got away.
Right now, though, surrounded by a sea of romance books, I don’t feel miserable. I’m definitely not alone. And in all honesty, I have very little intention of ever letting the girl kissing the life out of me escape.
A growl of frustration leaves me when I try to slip a hand up Amelia’s skirt and I’m hindered by sheer black fabric. I liked her outfit when she floated in here and brightened my day with only a smile—I’m never going to complain about a short skirt, even if the turtleneck and cardigan she wears with it deprives me of seeing my marks on her pale neck. But I didn’t foresee how fucking annoying the tights would be.
“How pissed would you be if I ripped these?” I murmur against her lips as I cup between her thighs, the heat of her pussy seeping into my palm.
Amelia shivers, grinding against my hand, and I would take that as a green light if not for the jerky shake of her head and the reprimand in her breathy tone. “I am not going to class in crotchless tights, Nicolas.”
Fuck me, she’s not going to make it to class if she keeps calling me Nicolas.
I press closer to her, one hand braced against the—thankfully really sturdy—bookshelf at her back, the other creeping upwards. The pads of my fingers glide up her waist and curve over a tit, a tortured groan escaping me when all I feel is the thick material of her bulky-ass cardigan. “You’re wearing too many clothes.”
“My sincerest apologies for being cold,” she quips sarcastically but she deftly slots large, round buttons free from their fastenings. If ripping her tights would piss her off, I reckon she’d be fuming if I wrecked her top, so I take what I can get, palming her through the damn dark green turtleneck that I can’t believe I find sexy.
Through the thick fabric, I can just about feel a pert nipple straining for my touch, and I want nothing more than to whisk her somewhere more private than between the crowded shelves of my workplace and undress her slowly, worship her properly. But I’ve got about ten more minutes until my coworker notices my quiet absence, she’s got maybe double that before risking being late to class, so I’m going to have to pretend a quick grope is enough for me.
When dainty fingers coast beneath my sweatshirt, skimming the sensitive skin of my lower stomach, I come to the hopeful realization that maybe it’s not enough for her either.
I groan her name when she undoes my jeans, her eyes locked with mine as she confidently slips a hand past the stiff denim. “Amelia,” I can barely speak as smooth fingers trace the outline of my cock, painfully hard as it always strives to be when in her presence, “what’re you doing?”
“You always touch me,” she damn near purrs. “I never get to touch you.”
I hiss a breath when she grips me—a little too gently for my liking but I have every intention of teaching her my preferences and taking great pleasure in doing so. Like an eager, horny teenage boy, I thrust into her hand. “You have full permission to touch me whenever the fuck you want, querida.”
Even if I am slightly worried about finishing my shift covered in my own cum—I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. Literally.
Or I won’t cross it all.
Stroking agonizingly slowly, Amelia rises on her toes and whispers in my ear, “Are there cameras in here?”
I shake my head, my eyes all but rolling to the back of my hand when her grip tightens. My boss is a little old lady whose knowledge of technology barely surpasses Facebook—the extent of security around here is nothing more than the lock on the front door. I’m tempted to quip that Amelia wasn’t concerned about cameras every time I’ve had my hands down her pants in this very spot but any concerns, jokes, or intelligible thoughts vanish when my pretty girl drops to her knees.
Ah, merda.
I act on barely restrainable instinct. As she works my jeans down my hips, bundles the hem of my shirt up near my bellybutton, and peppers kisses along the waistband of my boxer briefs, I unclip the weird spiky claw thing holding her curls hostage and toss it aside. Gathering silky strands in my fist, I cup her jaw, tilting her face up to me. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” I assure her, my cock pulsing in protest that I ignore.
“I know,” Amelia offers her own soft reassurance in return. “I wanna.”
My cock gets impossibly harder as I trace full, glossy lips with my thumb, the mere idea of them being wrapped around me, leaving a mess of saliva and shiny pink lipgloss, enough to drive a guy to the brink. “Then go ahead. Suck my cock, querida.”
God, the things I would do to take a picture of her face in the seconds that follow my crooned command. Eyes hooded, her cheeks pink, the tiniest tremor in her hands as they tug my underwear down until the rock-hard length of me is set free.
A bone-deep satisfaction settles when Amelia’s expression morphs into what I can only describe—while running the risk of sounding like a cocky asshole—as awestruck. Teeth tugging her bottom lip into her mouth, she tentatively brushes a finger from root to tip, the barely-there contact enough to coax a pearly bead of pre-cum to leak from the head of my cock.
I can’t help myself. “Where’s my confident girl gone?”
Amelia’s gaze snaps to mine, pure determination replacing any hesitance in the blink of an eye. Bold once again, she licks her lips and grips me tighter than she did a moment ago. Without breaking eye contact, she leisurely takes me into her mouth, and she doesn’t stop until I hit the back of her throat, evoking a hissed curse that makes her hum in satisfaction, the noise traveling up my cock and almost bending me over like a punch to the gut.
My knees threaten to buckle at the feeling, the sight, the fucking sounds coming from her as she bobs up and down on my cock at a furious pace that I’m not even setting. I still have one hand tangled in her hair—the other is braced against the bookshelf again to keep me from fucking collapsing—but it’s all her, all my wild fucking girl. Every time she rocks forward, she pulls at my hips, urging me to slam into her and I’m powerless to do anything but thrust and groan her name far quieter than I’d prefer.
Wicked tongue flicking and throat swallowing eagerly, she’s sucking me off like it’s her life’s mission to make me come embarrassingly quickly, and Jesus Christ, she’s close to accomplishing it.
Fuck me, I can’t believe this is happening.
Caught between disbelief and awe, I gaze down at Amelia in a haze, lost in pure fucking bliss, oblivious to everything but her. I have no idea how long passes before a white-hot telling heat shoots up my spine but I hold off, reluctant as fuck to let this end.
Amelia dashes any chances of that when she cups my balls, nails gently scraping the sensitive skin. She moans around me, the noise vibrating through my entire fucking body. “Fuck, querida, I’m gonna come.”
Bright, teary eyes smolder at me. So come, they seem to say.
With a long groan, I do as she says, spilling down her greedy throat, and she laps up every last drop.
The second she slides off with an audible, sloppy noise, her throat bobbing in a deep swallow, I’m tucking myself away with one hand and yanking her to her feet with the other, crushing us together in a searing, desperate kiss. She yelps in shock but sinks into me easily, a palm settling right over my pounding heart. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
She smiles against my lips. “This distracting thing is fun, hm?”
The sun has barely risen and I’m already in danger of thoroughly embarrassing myself. You don’t have to be a frequent gym-goer to know popping a boner mid-workout is frowned upon, and I’m teetering on the edge of breaking the unspoken rule. It’s not my fault, though.
All the culpability lies with the barely clothed redhead vigorously attacking a man donning focus mitts.
She’s killing me, for fuck’s sake. Teeny tiny shorts hidden by a billowing t-shirt—my t-shirt. Dripping in sweat. Hair in a state of disarray, partially because I’ve put us through our paces this morning but you can bet your ass I mussed it up good and well before we rolled out of bed.
It’s all payback for waking her up early, I think. Usually, I’m better at sneaking out for my early morning workouts—I’ve been training twice a day this month—but my stealth faltered this morning. I made it up to her, obviously, but I reckon she’s going to keep torturing me and throwing me side-eyed daggers until I get at least three coffees in her.
“You don’t have to join me,” I’d assured her as she rolled out of bed with a barrage of curses.
“Lying in bed alone doesn’t sound very appealing,” she’d snapped back, such a fucking grump but I couldn’t help but smile.
Moody or not, I’m glad she’s here. I like when she’s here. I like watching her do something I love, watching her start to love it too. She’s gotten good—it’s selfish but it puts me at ease knowing she can throw a decent punch if she, God for-fucking-bid, ever needed to. Again.
She looks stronger than she did when we first met. Less frail, less angular. More confident too—she stands a little straighter, doesn’t hold herself like she’s waiting for the right moment to disappear. Bit by bit, the protective shell she keeps herself tightly wound up in is melting away, and I have no idea what’s happening exactly to thaw it, but I’m not tempting fate by asking. And I’m sure as fuck not making any sudden movements lest it shoot back up again.
I thought watching her come apart on my fingers, on my tongue, was the hottest thing in the world but I’ve been proven wrong. Watching her slowly, achingly slowly, trust me is far superior.
It’s as exhilarating as it is terrifying.
It’s a struggle to focus on my own workout—skipping doesn’t compare to watching Amelia attack a man at least three times her size—but I manage it. And then I have to wait another agonizing few minutes while Amelia finishes raining calculated punches down on Luka. A fellow punching-bag fanatic but while I box for fun, Luka’s on his way to being Sun Valley’s very own heavyweight success story.
He’s a nice guy, for the most part. A bit of an arrogant prick but I suppose it comes with the territory. His reputation with women would give mine a run for its money but he’s all business with Amelia, nothing but respectful as he barks out combinations and corrections. When they’re done, he bops her on the shoulder before helping her undo her gloves, all smiles as he mutters something that makes Amelia smile bright in return.
“Your girl’s not bad,” he tells me with a wink when I wander over.
Slinging an arm lazily around Amelia’s sweaty shoulders, I ignore how she tenses slightly, and I ignore how she opens her mouth to correct Luka, cutting her off before she can. “What can I say, she’s got a good teacher.”
Her lips clamp shut, quirking upwards as she rolls her eyes playfully. They’re mid-roll when they suddenly redirect, narrowing into slits zoned in on me when Luka asks, “Excited to see him in action this weekend?”
Ah, shit.
I know I’m in trouble even before Amelia questions in a meticulously neutral tone, “What’s this weekend?”
“He has a fight.” Luka finds way too much satisfaction in Amelia’s cluelessness and the death glare I fix on him. “You didn’t tell her, Silva?”
I ignore him as I tug Amelia gently. “C’mere for a sec.”
Sparing Luka a wave goodbye, she’s just short of willing as she follows me into the locker room, her expression too blank to be natural as I sit her down on a bench. “It’s fine.” She clears her throat, doing a shit job of acting unbothered. “If you don’t want me to come, it’s fine.”
“I do,” I rush to answer, jerking open my locker and fishing around until I find what I’m looking for. I got her tickets weeks ago—I’ve been chicken-shit about handing them over. I know she said before that she wanted to come to my next fight but a lot has changed. For one, I’ve become the king of overthinking.
“It’s not a big deal or anything,” I explain over a tight throat as I hand her the tickets. No one actually comes to these things to see me—my part is some amateur exhibition shit, like the amuse-bouche before the main course—and her expecting anything else would be fucking embarrassing. “But there’s an open bar and the guys are coming so it might be fun.”
I can’t read her expression, her face dropped to stare at the tickets. “Four?”
“In case Luna, Kate, and Sydney wanna come.” I figured Luna wouldn’t be able to bear a night away from Jackson, and I doubt Kate would miss an opportunity to watch me cop a punch.
The quietest sigh leaves Amelia, her head shaking almost imperceptibly, and I’ve never wished I could read her mind more. Tipping her face up to me, she reveals a soft smile. “That’s really sweet. Thank you.”
I sag with relief. “So you wanna come?”
“Yeah.” Amelia smiles, standing and looping her arms around my waist. “I really do.”
