“Uh-uh, that is not the correct response.”
“Mmm, shut up and keep kissing me?”
He smiles against my mouth, and I bask in the authentically crooked feel of it. “Now you’re getting it.”
My hands slip under the hem of his shirt, holding his sides so tight I might be bruising his ribs. “You know,” I pant as my hips roll, seeking friction against the zipper of my jeans. “I’ve gotten plenty of handjobs before—and blowjobs. It wouldn’t be anything new.” He feels so different, I think to myself as my hands explore the hard planes of his body. Hard abs instead of a soft belly. Muscular pecs instead of breasts. I flick a nail over the barbell in his nipple, trace the divot of his hip bones, thumb across his nearly flat belly button—technically an innie, but barely.
The brush of my thumb across his navel pulls a sexy noise from Tahegin, something between a gasp and a moan. “Goddamn you,” he mutters, and I swear his voice is quivering.
I roll the interior nub of his belly button beneath the pad of my finger, and he arches back with a cry, our lips separating for the first time in what feels like ages. Mine are swollen—too swollen. I probably look like I got stung by a fucking bee. Ignoring the way they ache like a bruise, I grip Tahegin’s sides firmly and tilt his body back far enough that I can dip down to tongue his exposed navel. He shouts a curse and flexes his hips, the brush of his hard length against my collarbone enough to jolt me out of my lust-induced haze. Worried I’ll fall into his all-consuming gravity once more, I do the only thing I can think of and toss him away.
His body bounces at the foot of the bed, and he scrambles to remain on the mattress instead of tumbling to the floor. The glare he shoots me is only half-assed. “I understand why you did what you did,” he states. “But for the record, you were seconds away from getting that blowjob.”
Oh, I am so fucked for this man.
CHAPTER 21
TAHEGIN ELLINGSWORTH
“Taking things slow” apparently meant stealing Hendrix to my home and making out with him until we passed out from sheer exhaustion.
When I wake in the morning, my lips are still tender. Hendrix is sprawled across most of the bed, one arm behind his head and his other hand buried in his boxers. I don’t mind him taking up so much space because it means there is so much more of him for me to touch. He’d shed his shirt sometime during the night, and I savor the view of him bare-chested in my bed. The duvet is bunched around his thighs, so most of his body is on full display for my admiration.
I could stare at him all day.
Unfortunately, we don’t have time for that. I’ve already slept in later than I usually allow myself to, and kickoff is at noon today. I have a feeling the whole team will be half-asleep, but me? It’s hard to convince myself I’m not still dreaming.
Hendrix—the man who hated me the first time we met—confessed feelings for me last night. Feelings that I very much reciprocate. I’d thought it was hopeless, that I was going to spend however long trying to get over him while being just friends, but I was wrong. He likes me. He wants me.
Yeah, and you almost ate his brain through his dick last night, you harlot.
Okay, that, while accurate, is a little harsh, I tell my internal voice.
The fact is, I always rush into relationships way too quickly. Not in the emotional sense but in the physical aspects. Intimacy, sex, moving in together. I’m a habitual gun jumper, not going to lie.
I want things to be different with Hendrix because I feel different with Hendrix. I don’t have to hide the darkest parts of me; he already knows them all. He doesn’t let the fact that I have depression get in the way of us being happy. If my smile falls short, he doesn’t demand to know if I have taken my meds or not. Save for the one time I had to assure him I wasn’t drinking, he’s left me alone about what drink is in my hand at parties or the club. He trusts me. Just as I have trusted him with every one of my secrets.
It’s nice being able to share that burden, and I also appreciate the fact he has let me take on some of his. It’s as if I have found someone as broken and healed as I am, and for once, I’m on a level playing field.
And the worst thing I can do is dive in ass over tits.
With an exaggerated stretch, I lazily rub my body against his, savoring the feel of his hairy legs against mine. He’d torn my shirt off me the minute we stepped in my house last night, so I am also only in a pair of boxer briefs. My bare stomach presses against his equally as bare side, and I shiver at the contact. God, it has been too damn long since I had someone, and I’ve been dreaming of Hendrix beside me for more than half that time.
“Rix,” I coo softly in his ear before gently nipping at the lobe. The hand in his boxers sleepily drifts lower, forearm and bicep flexing as he groggily pets his morning wood. I let out something between a chuckle and a low hum, letting the vibration echo between us. “I could get used to waking up like this.”
Damnit, Tahegin! What the fuck? What happened to taking it slow, not jumping the gun, not offering to fucking live together 0.2 days into the relationship?
Wait, relationship? Are we dating? It sure the fuck sounded like we both wanted that last night, but maybe Hendrix only wants to keep it casual without a label?
“Mmm.” Hendrix lets out a satisfied sound, arm still flexing. His voice is a low rumble filled with sleep. “Either get up and take a shower or sit back and enjoy the show, but right now, I’m hard, and I have last night’s hot-as-fuck make-out session on repeat in my head. What do you say—keep it slow and play it safe, or skip the line a bit?”
Jesus, he’s just as bad as I am!
Closing my eyes, I take a deep, calming breath—which doesn’t really help because all it does is fill my nose with the scent of his morning musk—and say, “I’ll go shower. I told you, I want to do this right.”
“Fuck, T,” he groans, and I can’t tell if he’s complaining about my abstinence or if he’s imagining my hand in his boxers stroking him. But then the movement of his body stills, and I open my eyes to see him already watching me. He gnaws on his lip, considering the words dancing on the tip of his tongue. Finally, he asks, “Do you . . . find me attractive?”
“Of course!”
“I mean in a way that makes you want to do things with me. You seem to have a lot of self-control when it comes to me asking for sex, and I’m not sure I would be able to stand my ground as easily as you are.”
“Maybe I should be on Broadway, then, because I promise it’s all an act. I want you, Hendrix. Desperately. But I also want to be smart about this, and I don’t want to drive you away by pushing too far too fast. You’re fine to lay there and imagine I’m getting you off, but would you reciprocate? Have you thought about touching me that way? Rushing into a bad experience could make you nervous to try anything else—and that is why I can so easily hold back. I’d rather go slow and keep you in the end than rush and lose you.”
“Oh.”
“But please, please, do not stop making your offers. I like knowing you’re thinking about me and that you are beginning to want me in that way. Now, I’m gonna go shower and jerk off thinking about you in here making a mess of my sheets, okay?”
He releases an anguished groan, arm muscles tightening. “Leave the door cracked?”
Too soon, too soon, too soon.
Instead of entirely shooting him down since he is already worried about my feelings for him, I toss him a playful wink as I stand, muttering a cheeky “You wish.” I slip into the bathroom, softly shut the door, and let the shower warm up as I stare at myself in the mirror. In all the excitement last night, I hadn’t taken my contacts out before bed, so now they are dry and cloudy, making it nearly impossible to read my affirmations.
With deft hands from years of practice, I swipe my contacts out and let my eyes breathe as I strip and step into the shower. Hot water sluices down my back, loosening the muscles there, pulling a sigh of relief from deep within my chest.
God, how long have I been holding on to the tension of wanting Hendrix and knowing I shouldn’t? Too long, if the way my shoulders finally relax is any indication. I swear they drop a good few inches, no longer attached to my ears with worry.
I wasn’t lying when I told him that I will be thinking of him while in here, but no matter how good my hand feels while soaping my skin, I don’t give in to the desire to rub one out. It almost seems like it would be a disappointing step down now that I know Hendrix wants me.
