When he tries to bend his head down to mine, I stop him, shoving my palm to his chest. I succeed at not wandering my fingertips over the defined muscles taut beneath them, but the hand that’s below his waist is not so resistant. It strokes him even harder. “And what time would that be?”
He moves his knee, and just when I think he’s about to get off me and go back to bed, he nudges it between my closed thighs. I don’t budge.
“Ten thirty,” he says. “And your ass is mine ‘til then.”
Rolling my head to the side, I check the time on the digital MP3 clock sitting on the nightstand beside the hotel telephone. It’s 5:53 a.m.
“Ambitious, aren’t we, McCrae?” I ask, loving the way he shudders when I move my hand that’s wrapped around him faster.
“One part ambition...” He reaches down and splays his hands on my thighs. He gives me a pointed look that clearly says he’s not going to tell me part two until I oblige.
Sighing, I spread my feet apart, curling my toes in the crisp white sheets. “Now, part two?”
He caresses two fingers back and forth between my legs, sucking in a breath at how wet I’ve become, and he whispers something unintelligible about how much he hates my panties. It takes every ounce of self-control I have not to moan.
I want him to feel what I am feeling. I want him to experience every flash of exquisite torture and numbing pleasure. And I want him to feel it now. I move my hand up the length of him and then back down again, and I feel a thrill spread through my veins as a slow but uncertain smile builds on his face.
“That’s my girl,” he whispers into my ear.
“What’s the other part?”
“Every time we see each other after this is all over, and you’re pretending like we don’t mean shit to one another, I want to think back on how tonight and every night before it, your pussy belonged to me.”
Without warning, he dips a finger into my panties and traces a heart around my clit. Wyatt’s always hated playing his guitar with a pick, so his fingertips are rough. It’s the most erotic, addictive thing I’ve ever felt—just a little painful but incredibly satisfying.
I’m not aware that I’ve let go of his cock, and I have started to dig my fingers into his back until a low noise slips from his lips.
“You tryin’ to draw blood?”
I drop my hands. “Damn, sorry. You screw me up, too. You make me want—”
“What? Tell me what you want, Bluebird.”
You make me want to keep trying.
But even Wyatt’s magic fingers, pierced lip, and unforgettable dick aren’t enough to make me want to go through all the emotional bullshit again. “You make me want to kick you in the throat for talking too much.”
When he throws his head back and laughs, I kiss the tattoo on his throat.
“You are fucking amazing,” he growls, pinning me back down.
He presses his mouth to his T-shirt that I’m wearing. My back arches as he skims his tongue around my breast, wetting the thin fabric. He pauses, his expression pensive for a few seconds, but then he makes up his mind. He shoves the tee up and over my head. Cupping my breast in his hand, he pulls my nipple into his mouth, sucking hard and using his teeth.
God, he knows what that does to me.
“You’ve always been amazing to me,” he says, in between strokes of his tongue.
His words push so many of my emotions to the surface at once that they all seem to crash into each other, causing my head to spin and my vision to cloud. What I feel is love, but there’s something else, too—something that’s bitter and nauseating, but not quite hatred. And I realize that I need to say so much to him before we’re done. There’s so much I hadn’t even considered when I came here to get away from him.
But putting everything out there will have to wait.
Because if Wyatt’s going to look at me a few months from now and think about what we did in our final hours, I want him to remember how I rocked his world, not how I turned into a sentimental sap.
I curve my fingers back around his erection. Racing my free hand up his chest, I bring my face up to his. When I clench the skin close to his neck, he groans and squeezes my clit between his thumb and forefinger.
“Fuck me,” I pant.
He leans over and rummages around in the nightstand drawer. “Shit,” he says in a harsh whisper. When his eyes meet mine again, his gorgeous features are worked into a frown. He rubs his palm back and forth over the top of his head, mussing his short blond hair. “Ah hell, I’ve cockblocked myself.”
Because my head is obviously not in the right place, I release an exasperated moan. “Well, stop.”
He makes a soft noise that sounds like a chuckle against the column of my throat. “Trust me, it was unintentional.” He rubs my center faster, and my legs tremble. “Damn, I need you.”
My hand finally closes around his neck, not hard but just enough for him to growl a curse against my mouth. “Why not now?” I demand as he pulls himself out of my grip.
He glances up at me for a moment. “Because as good as I know you’ll feel, I’m not prepared.”
Realization dawns on me that he’s condomless. I nod my head in understanding, even though for the life of me, I can’t fathom why a rock star would leave the house without protection. Before he even has the chance to think about asking me if I’m willing to go without, I shake my head.
“You’re not fucking me bare.”
He crawls down the length of my body and kisses the insides of my thighs. “We’ll just do this the hard way.”
My muscles grow tense as he sucks hungrily on my clit. My next question is muffled because I cover my mouth with my wrist to keep from crying out. Once I catch my breath, I tease, “Wake-up call, my ass.”
“Don’t worry. Tonight, your ass and that wake-up call are mine.”
What exactly does he call this then? He lowers his mouth to my sex again, and I bite down on my tongue as if it’ll keep me from making a sound, but finally, I whimper.
Because Wyatt knows me so well, he leans away from me for a split second. “Oh, you’re mine right now, Kylie. It only takes a little improv.”
“Improv?” I repeat.
He nods, his dark blond hair tickling my thighs. “Like this.” With one hand gripping my waist, he parts my wet slit with the other, and without warning, he pushes two fingers inside me. I ball my hands into fists, clutching onto the crumpled cotton sheets.
“And this.” The tip of his tongue races around my clit as his fingers glide back and forth inside me.
His rhythm makes me dizzy. I buck my hips toward him. He releases a low sound that seems to hum through my body. Wyatt and I have done this more than once. We’ve fucked so many times that I’ve lost count, but this is the first time that I’ve felt like I’ll catch fire.
Keeping his fingers deep inside me, the pad of his thumb replaces his tongue as he strategically kisses up my body. With one kiss on each hipbone, I shiver. After a kiss on my belly button, he pauses to circle it with his tongue, and when I try to grasp his hair, he catches my wrist. And then he kisses each of my breasts, using everything from his teeth to his piercing to get a rise out of me. By the time our bodies are flush with each other again, I’m a wreck.
“More improv?” I moan.
He hooks his free hand under my knee and wraps my leg around his waist. I follow suit with my other leg, clenching him tight.
“Mmhmm, like this.” His mouth covers mine, nibbling my lips and battling my tongue.
So, when I come intensely a moment later, whispering that I love him, my words are nothing more than muffled sobs.
***
Wyatt is in the shower when the alarm on my phone suddenly goes off at exactly six twenty a.m. At first, I don’t do anything to silence it. One, my legs are still shaky from his improvisation. Two, my phone is all the way across the room, lodged down in the back pocket of my jeans. And three, I love The Black Keys, and I could probably listen to my “Lonely Boy” ringtone over and over again for the rest of the morning. But when the person staying in the next room over taps gently on the wall, I suck it up and slide out of bed. As I steady myself and tiptoe over to my pants, I try not to think about why our neighbor didn’t knock on the wall five minutes ago.