Page 12 of The Groupie

“Fantastic.” Is it a lie? I can’t answer that, can’t let myself think about that or anything else except for this moment and feeling my cock as she sucks me inside her impossibly tight wet pussy.

I groan low from somewhere deep inside me as the sensations hit my nerve endings, ping-ponging with frenetic speed through my system, driving my blood in a blinding rush to fill my cock past its capacity.

“Oh God…” I breathe the words as I hold myself over her, plunging in and then out. Beads of sweat drip from my face to hers while I watch her face, her eyes glazed, her lips parted and panting small puffs of whiskey and mint-laced air that hits my nostrils and fills me with knowledge of her, piling onto the endless barrage of sensations from our connection.

“Baby, you’re so fucking sexy.” The words tear from my throat, ripping my skin and veins open, as if her body is becoming part of mine, exposing me down to my bones, down to my soul.

“Yeeesss.” The one syllable she utters, long and hard, as I move faster, in and out, out of control like a rogue locomotive rocketing to the ultimate crash at the end of the tunnel, fires me into oblivion.

Without warning, I explode in a thrust driven by a deep primal force, devoid of thought or plans or talk or anything but a guttural cry, loud and violent, as I shudder with world-ending black-out ecstasy.

* * *

Some time or no time later, when my mind flashes back to the here and now, I find my hand between her thighs and her hips bucking against me as I twirl my thumb around her marble-like clit. My heart beats wildly, and she pants with urgency, her wanton eyes glassy, close to release.

I press my thumb down hard on her clit until it pops, and her juice spreads over my fingers as I watch her face, the silent scream, the delirious pain of bliss creasing her forehead, her hair stuck to her glowing skin.

On instinct, my body surrounds her; my arms and legs envelop her, absorbing her spasms. My mouth covers hers, taking in her scream, my name shattering the space between us as I swallow it, feeling like she’s given me her whole self as if we’ve melded together, and the separation between us is impossible to find.

As the beating of our hearts and our breathing normalizes, I blink in the semi-darkness of the room as her clothes tossed randomly on a chair across the room come into focus. I let go of her, suddenly self-conscious of our connection, unsure of the experience I just had, and trying to fit it somewhere in the realm of past exploits, anywhere familiar compared to other nights and other women.

My chest tightens with the slightly disoriented feeling, but when she leans up on an elbow, stares at me with those heart-stopping eyes, and strokes my jaw with a half-smile in place, a feeling of warmth loosens my tension.

“That,” she says, her voice shaky and authentic, “was un-fucking-forgettable.”

“What she said.” My grin matches hers, and my eyes feast on her as I let a hand wander down her body. Then I remember when I see the sheets tangled around her legs. “How’s your ankle?”

She laughs. “What ankle?”

I laugh with her, but I sit up and untangle the sheets. “Let me take a look.” I don’t know why I feel compelled to play doctor, but I do, and I examine her ankle, gently touching it, feeling around the bones, and checking the swelling and bruising. She puts up with my exam with an amused look on her face.

Shit. The bruising is darker and has spread since earlier, and the swelling is up. It’s probably sprained, and she might have an avulsion fracture, but I can’t be the one to break the news. I’m not a doctor. I’m a fucking banker-slash-hockey player, and one charade a night is more than enough.

“You need x-rays and an ultrasound, Buttercup. I know a good doctor if you need one.”

“No. Thank you, though.” She yawns. “You’re a very nice man, Zak. You know that?” She reaches up and strokes my chin again. Her hands are impossibly soft. She tugs at me to lie back down next to her.

I chalk her words up to exhaustion and resist her pull. Instead, I get out of bed to retrieve another ice pack from the kitchen. When I return, her eyes flutter as she watches me place another pillow under her foot and put the ice pack on her ankle.

“Rest,” I say as I watch her lazy smile and her eyes flutter closed. I pull the covers over her to keep her warm against the ice.

“I need to leave soon. Can’t stay,” she murmurs.

I lie down beside her, leaning on one elbow. “I know.”

Of course, she’s not staying overnight. Especially not tonight. I have an early skate. But I don’t budge as I watch her drift to sleep, listen to her light breathing, and watch the rise and fall of those magnificent breasts, the softness of her face, peaceful and carefree—those long dark lashes on her pale cheeks like a perfect doll. Unreal beauty. The only thing more gorgeous is when they’re open and those smart sapphire eyes are staring at mine, the dark line of her lashes framing them like jewels. Shit.

This isn’t good. Lying back, I pull her close with one hand resting on the soft, warm skin of her flat belly. Relaxing into the rhythm of her breathing, I close my eyes.

Fuck it. Why not? Why isn’t this a good idea? Why can’t I fall asleep with a woman in my arms? It’s just one night…

* * *

I wake at dawn, and the first thing that hits me is the scent of a woman, the very specific scent of Rylee, aka Buttercup. Turning my head, I get an eyeful of dark, lush hair splayed on my shoulder and pillow. The warmth of her body, spreading the length of mine, hits me next.

After a deep inhale of her sexy scent, something sweet and exotic that I can’t place, I shudder. What the fuck? I move, attempting to get some separation from her. What the fuck was I thinking? I can’t believe I let her spend the night. I can’t believe she stayed.

I don’t remember the last time I spent all night with a woman. Not that it’s a rule, but my experience says it’s best to avoid the awkward morning after. Most—no, make that all—the women I know don’t want a guy seeing them first thing in the morning anyway. And none of them wants to put on their clothes from the night before to go home.