Page 31 of The Groupie

His hands are on my hips and his eyes on my face, intense and glassy. He lifts his head and kisses me. Surprised, I don’t know what to think because it feels so good, but it’s too much. I sit up, lean back, and wriggle my hips to take back control. Pins of pleasure shoot through me in all directions.

“That’s it. Ride me.” His voice is hoarse, and he moves me up, pulling his shaft from me, and the buzz ripples through me.

“Oh my God. Zak don’t stop.” I slam back down on him. “I want more. Harder.” I can hardly talk now because I’m concentrating on the sensations, staying in the here and now of life, taking in every feeling of being in the moment.

He growls as he does what I ask, moving me and moving his hips in a hurried rhythm. I open my eyes to take him in, his intense expression revealing that border between pain and bliss, alive to the extreme, energy pouring from him, sweat pouring, his muscles straining, the tension of his every fiber permeating the air.

The circles of sensation at my center tighten, and I slam harder and faster, and he keeps up.

“Fuuuck. Rylee…” The strain in his voice drives me harder, and I ride him like he’s indestructible, like I need to try my best to destroy him, to destroy us both.

His hand comes between us, and his thumb presses exactly on the swollen nub on the verge of explosion. I throw back my head, coiling my thigh muscles as tight as they’ll go, and close my eyes, screaming bloody murder as if my life depends on this orgasm that rises inside me. I picture myself rising in the air inside the halfpipe, ready to emerge above the world, higher than everything as the explosion hits me from the inside, and I let out a scream that only I can hear.

I find myself collapsed on top of him, breathing like I’ve been on top of Mt. Everest, gasping and gulping air. His arms shake as they wrap around me, and I would wonder if he came because I was oblivious, except I feel the hot sticky evidence seeping between us.

“Rylee…”

“What happened to Buttercup?” I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to share more than bodily fluids tonight. Or ever. Buttercup is safer.

He chuckles softly, and I dart a glance to see his exhaustion. “You played a hockey game tonight—and that was nothing compared to—”

“Having you play with my stick?” He smirks.

“Go to sleep, Zak.” He chuckles again, but there’s no energy in it, and I feel his body settle into relaxation and then sleep before I rise to clean up.

When I come back from the bathroom, I glance at my clothes and then back at his sleeping form. He really is a gorgeous specimen. There’s no harm in spending the night, is there? Especially not if it means morning sex.

My conscience soothed, I get back into bed and fall asleep next to him, close enough to feel his warmth, but separate.

* * *

Something smacks me in the face, and I hear a moan as I wake, sitting bolt upright in the dark. It’s him. It’s Zak, and as I get oriented in the shadowy room, I realize the indistinct moaning is him, his body writhing, and alarm zips through me, shutting down all but the instinct hard-wired in my brain to help someone in trouble.

Leaning over him, I know he’s asleep, and when I touch his face, it’s wet. He must be having a nightmare. Sweet Jesus. It’s like the group home all over again. Only it’s not me crying in agony. It’s Zak.

There are fucking tears on his cheeks.