His eyes are trained on the wet spot between my legs when he speaks. "Do you want me to make you come, Lydia?"
"I might die if you don't." I blurt the response out without thought and my pussy flutters in expectation as he smiles again like I'm amusing him in some way. He uses one thumb to hook my panties to the side and rubs the other through the triangle of hair exposed from the movement. I keep my eyes on his face while his are on the needy spot between my legs.
He slides his thumb across my slick flesh then sweeps it across my clit and—oh, God. Feeling his hands on me, watching his face as he touches me, it's intoxicating. It makes me want more. More of him, more of whatever he can do. More of his filthy words and wicked fingers. More, more, more. Then he presses his thumb firmly against my clit and I come. I don't think it even takes a full three seconds of pressure and if I was in any kind of control over myself I'd have held out longer because the feel of him touching me there is unlike anything I've ever experienced. I've had boys shove their hands down my pants before, hesitant touches and groping fingers, and it didn't do much for me.
This is not like that.
Nothing like that.
He doesn't stop and the orgasm carries on in a way I'm not familiar with from giving them to myself. I'm used to a quick burst of release that has me pulling my hand away as soon as it's hit. Rhys keeps his thumb in place, rubbing firmly back and forth across the wet nub even though I'm clutching at his forearms and squirming. It's too much and I want to wiggle away. I want to stay. I want the pulsing fluttering heaven to stop. I want it never to end. My head drops forward, while a repeat of "oh, oh, oh," falls from my lips.
When it's over I collapse against his chest, snuggled under his chin while my chest rises and falls and my breathing returns to normal. Rhys whispers into my ear, words of how beautiful I am when I come, how much he enjoyed watching me. It gives me an odd sense of pride for having pleased him.
"You're really good at that, huh?" I mumble into his neck. He definitely smells good, I decide. It's not just the couch. He smells like an autumn day in Tennessee. Crisp and clean and earthy and male.
His chest moves as he laughs, his breath warming the top of my head. "Good at what exactly? I barely touched you."
"Good at thumbs, I guess. I don't know," I murmur into his neck again because I'm busy trailing my fingers along his skin, the pads of my fingertips occupied with committing the feel of his scruff to memory. The clean shave line, the smooth skin beneath it. The muscles of his neck. I find everything about him really, really interesting.
"Where the hell did you come from?" he says while winding a strand of my hair through his fingers.
"Knoxville." I sit up and look at him. "Tennessee," I add when he just stares at me. It takes me another few seconds to realize the question was rhetorical and then I feel stupid so I ask him where he came from. It doesn't make it any better, but it's all I could come up with.
"Connecticut," he replies, because my question was not rhetorical. A small frown mars his forehead as he examines my face. Then he wipes the thumb he just got me off with across his tongue, his eyes not leaving mine. I suck in a breath, because wow. And now I'm wondering what he's thinking. What I taste like. If he liked it. I'm also reminded that only one of us got off.
"You're still hard," I say, stroking the length of him over his jeans. He really is. Hard. And big. I squeeze him gently through the denim.
"Who wouldn't be?" he replies on a long hiss of an exhale.
I glance at him, not sure what that means. Does it mean I'm some kind of sexual temptress capable of making any man rock-hard? Hmm, that would be pretty cool if that was true. Or does it mean I've just gotten off while he's gotten nothing and I should do something to fix it?
"Do you, um, want to?" Yeah, that came out well. I'm not even sure what I just offered. A hand job? Sex? Who knows? Why the heck isn't he taking charge? In my fantasy vision of this he tells me what to do so I don't have to bumble my way through it. He says stuff like, "Lydia, I want to fuck you. Let's go back to my place and do the fucking." I mean, obviously it sounds better when he says it—I told you my dirty-talking skills need work.
"Do I want to what?" He's looking at me under hooded eyes, his voice low and sexy as all heck. His gaze drops to my lips before returning to my eyes and it feels like a caress, the way he looks at me. It feels like he's smoothing a palm against my cheek and pulling me closer to him instead of simply running his eyes across my face. "Do I want to fuck? Do I want to alleviate this hard-on you've given me? Do I want to find out just how tight your pussy is? How slick and hot? Do I want to finger you to see if you're ready to fuck right this second, or if you'll need a second finger and some stretching before I can get inside of you? Do I want to know what your orgasm feels like fluttering against my cock while I'm buried balls deep inside of you?"
He pauses.
"Who wouldn't want that, Lydia?"
Whew. Okay, so same page then.
"Or maybe I'd like to try that pretty mouth first. I'd expect you to take it all, though. I'd squeeze your jaw open with one hand and feed you my cock with the other until you gagged. Then I'd slide it down your throat while you choked on me. Would that be okay with you, Lydia? Do you give sweet blow jobs with your pretty lips wrapped around nothing more than the tip? Or do you take it until your nose is pressed against a man's stomach and your next breath is reliant on him letting you up?"
Oh.
Well.
He'd have to teach me that bit, obviously.
"Not here, right?" I glance at the door and then back to Rhys. He can't mean to do all that here, in a bar office where anyone could walk in. And this couch isn't mine, or his even. What if it's messy? What if I… bleed on it? I feel myself flush in embarrassment and I suck my bottom lip between my teeth.
"Why not here?"
Um. Because. "Because." I shrug one shoulder and glance at the door again. Because I don't want to get deflowered on a couch in a bar, Rhys. Which reminds me that I'm still working on a better word than deflowering. Devirginating? I wonder if that's a real word or an Urban Dictionary word. "My place is close," I offer in what I hope is a helpful tone, deciding that this isn't the time or place to blurt out, I'm still a virgin, would you mind terribly divesting me of that?
He lifts a brow at my response. "Do you only fuck in beds, good girl? You're twenty-two, surely you've fucked in a back seat a time or two?"
"You want to go out to the parking lot?" He can't be serious, can he? I can't hide the surprise in my voice and I'm sure the expression on my face matches because he laughs.
"You're sweet. And this isn't happening."
And then he dumps me off his lap and walks out the door.
Ten
LYDIA
"'This isn't happening?'" I'm pacing the kitchen floor and repeating myself. "'This isn't happening' is even worse than 'whatever else you want!'"
"Great. So you're even now on saying stupid things." Payton takes a drag on the milkshake she made us stop to get on the way home. To be fair, we got it in the drive-thru at Del Taco so it wasn't a big detour. Also, I stress-ate an entire Queso Crunch Taco Meal before we made it back to the apartment so I've no room to complain about the stop.