Page 49 of Holding On

“Sex on a hard salty deck isn’t as great as it looks in the movies, I bet,” he whispers, and despite the tension, I laugh as he lays me in the nest of pillows. Grabbing both my wrists, he straddles me and then leans down, and the last of my laughter evaporates with a deep kiss.

As he straightens up, it’s as if he’s sucking the air from me, and my chest rises and falls as he breaks away.

“Only one of us has their pants off,” I say, and though I smile, there’s a desperation there he can sense.

I know because, in a moment, my jean shorts are lying on the floor.

“Touché.” I make a come-hither gesture with my hand. “But now the shirt comes off, Travis Russo.”

His weight shifts as he peels off his T-shirt, and the small movements of his hips on mine make me want to grind against him. His pecs flex and move, his skin stretching over muscle, his abs flinching when I touch his chest.

My sex, dripping and slippery as hell, burns at the edges to take him in. It’s got a mind of its own right now. I struggle slightly to move him off me. My hips have to buck.

Immediately, he rolls to my side and then slides a finger under the lace along the collar of my tank top. I close my eyes. I swear, if I see his lips so close to me, if he says one word, I will come right now.

I have never felt this way so fast.

Balanced on one elbow, he slides his other hand under my shirt, pulls it up to my throat, and gently massages both nipples. His hand is warm and large and spans half my chest. I can feel his fingers skimming the valleys between my ribs and running over my skin. It’s exquisite.

A moan escapes and I open my eyes. He dips his head to play with one breast. His tongue flicks it to a tight nub, and a quiver runs deep through my core.

Again, I moan. “Travis,” I say with a deep, throaty voice I hardly recognize as my own. “Please. Please just—”

I gasp as he moves a hand down to my crotch and slips a finger inside. Thighs tightening, I clench my sex unconsciously and arch up. My ribs expand as if I can’t breathe, and then he kisses me again, his tongue finding me, his mouth over mine, our breathing synced as he strokes my inner folds.

A wave trembles deep inside me, desperate to launch, and I have the presence of mind to stop him. I grab his wrist.

“Wait,” I gasp.

“You’re stunning, Maya. So beautiful,” he says, his own voice husky.

“Do you have a condom?” I’m too focused on the next moment to react to compliments.

He slides a leg over mine and positions himself on top of me, holding my arms crisscrossed above my head. He’s so gentle. I can still touch his face and return to his grasp.

“I just had a negative STD test,” he says. “And you’re on the pill, right?” His penis is hard, throbbing against my left thigh. He must have seen them when he helped me move in.

Dear Jesus.

I can’t help myself, and it turns out I don’t have to, anyway.

I nod slowly, and he kisses me while moving my legs apart with his thigh. With his waist leaning into my pelvis, creating a pressure that’s about to explode, he leverages himself and moves up slightly before sliding into me. His hands hold my wrists tighter so I can’t move my arms, and I can see him watching me through half-closed lids.

I’ve never had sex in broad daylight—so exposed. So present.

He begins to move his hips, slowly, so slowly I’m not sure if he’s leading or I am. Then he buries his head in my neck and releases my wrists.

I move my fingers through his hair and down his neck, cupping his head for a kiss, and then I find his back, muscles taut, hard. His ass flexes as he starts to increase his tempo and rhythm. I hold him, urge him, press him with my hands with each deeper thrust.

“Maya, you are so beautiful. I can feel you,” he says, his breath coming is gasps.

“You are incredible,” is all I can say as he drags himself nearly all the way out, puts a thumb over my clit, and then shifts his hips sightly and thrusts even deeper.

I come so suddenly, it’s like delicious waves of something almost painful. In response, a carnal sound comes from my throat, and I reach up and grab the top edge of the mattress with one hand, the other on his shoulder. Then I let go and grab his face with both hands and look deep into those golden eyes as my sex clasps and unclasps his cock. I feel him shudder—once, twice, again—and then he tears his head from my hands. He bucks even harder, his stomach working, his arms shaking as he supports himself. His semen is hot inside me.

Placing a hand on either side of his waist, I try to help hold him up as he finishes. My name comes from his lips in broken syllables, his chest heaves, and then he slowly, gently, lies on top of me.

Usually, I feel guilty after I’ve slept with someone. It’s because I always have to fake an orgasm. It’s another way I lie. Part of me always thought I was frigid or too controlling, and that’s why I couldn’t come.