Page 122 of Off Limits: The Firsts

There’s an intimacy I’m not used to from him.

An intimacy I’ve slowly begun to crave and fear at the same time. One that spooks me and fulfills me in ways I’m too overwhelmed to contemplate in the moment.

So I avert my eyes. I lean up and take my own nip of his collarbone as I move my hands from his and scrape them up his flanks. “Let me ride you,” I murmur into his ear as my hand slides between us and my fingers circle around him at the hilt of his cock and squeeze.

I take control, pushing us back into familiar territory. Into the physicality of our motions. Into the carnality of our movements.

He emits the sexiest groan when I turn my back to him, straddle his hips, and lower myself painstakingly slowly on top of him. He’s heaven, hell, and everything in between as the stress of the week releases with each inch of him I accept until he bottoms out inside me. When I begin to rock my hips, I lose myself to him.

I lose myself to him.

His hands grab my hips and help guide me up and down.

I ignore the look in his eyes from moments ago and how being with him has made me feel lately.

Our moans fill the room, one after another.

And how wanting more from him scares the ever-living shit out of me.

I let my head fall back and we give ourselves over to the pleasure and desire and fall under its all-consuming haze.

Getting close to someone means getting hurt.

There are no sweet words whispered afterward. No soft kisses or snuggling.

This is how we are. We are let’s meet in a hotel somewhere, work ourselves into an exhaustion of sexual satisfaction, and then part ways before we fight or spar or whatever it is we do that makes us want to get away from each other. But as I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror, there’s a churning in my stomach and an ache in my heart.

This doesn’t feel like enough anymore.

The question is, why?

I see my flushed cheeks and swollen lips. I see the truth staring right back at me.

I’ve fallen for Hunter Maddox. I’ve fallen for him when we agreed this was casual, when I don’t let myself get close to anyone, and when he doesn’t do relationships. I’ve fallen for him when we agreed to meet at hotels instead of our places so we’d prevent this from becoming routine or take the excitement out of it. I’ve fallen for him when I’ve never allowed myself to fall for anyone.

I’m an emotionally unattached girl. It’s easier this way. It prevents the hurt of knowing it’s going to end badly.

But his eyes . . . the way he looked at me. The tenderness in his touch when we’re typically fire and brimstone and bruises and teeth marks . . . there’s something more on his end too.

Panic sets in.

Full-blown panic . . . because this isn’t us. This isn’t what we agreed to. And hell, I’m looking at his actions through love-colored goggles so of course I’m going to read too much into everything. Of course I’m going to when I’m the one who went and fell.

I bring a hand to my chest as if it’s going to allow me to catch my breath, when I know it’s not going to do shit.

When I know falling for Hunter isn’t going to make him want any more from me than the hot sex we find ourselves in. Even if he did, we’d crash and burn into an ugly mess before we even began.

How did I let this happen?

I take my time getting dressed. Each item of clothing I put on, I talk myself out of my revelation. I haven’t fallen for him. This is just sex. We’d never work. He doesn’t do relationships.

I almost believe it, until I walk into the room and see him. His pants are pulled on but unbuttoned, his chest is bare, and a bottle of beer is in one hand when he looks up to meet my eyes. Every part of me wants to go and kiss those lips, run my fingers through his hair, and tell him I want more with him. Six months flew by and doesn’t seem like enough.

And then the truth is clear. My heart already hurts. My head is already spinning. The words I need to say—to tell him I’ve fallen for him—die without ever finding sound. He’s not in this like I am. He’s not ready for more.

His eyes narrow. “Where’re you going?”

“I’ve got stuff to do,” I stammer.