Offensive Behavior (Sidelined #1) Page 9

  “Move, it’s okay to move. It’s going to be so good.”

  He pulled back almost all the way and pushed back in again, his eyes fighting to stay open. She brought her knees up and his chin tipped back and he swore and pushed inside more forcefully.

  “Zarley.”

  The crackle in his voice, the lack of focus in his eyes, the tension and astonishment and playfulness—she needed him now. “Reid, fuck me hard.”

  He lost it. Thrusting and reversing and thrusting again till he shook with the pleasure of the rhythm he’d set and she trembled, clutching at the bed covering, willing herself to come with him, but he stopped, went rigid and shouted her name, shaking through his orgasm then sinking to his elbows and dropping his head to her shoulder.

  She sighed and wrapped her arms and legs around him, kissing his cheek, smoothing his hair back.

  “I have to pull out,” he murmured, almost slurring.

  She gripped him, reveling in the way he still trembled and not quite ready to feel that loss. “In a minute.” A minute of luxurious kisses, gone caramel sweet and lazy, and then he shifted to the side, flopped on his back.

  He fumbled for her hand and brought it to his chest. “Are you okay?”

  “More than okay.” For a first effort it was mighty. And they were far from finished with each other, but he was exhausted and she had no desire to leave his bed.

  “Did you?” he asked.

  “No, but close, it was good. I’d had sex a dozen times before I had an orgasm, before I even got close, and with a new partner it can take time.”

  “Do we have time for me to learn how to get you there? Will you stay?”

  She wanted round two and if it was going to happen, they both needed to get under the covers and sleep. “Hmm, I’d like that.” Mostly what she liked was that he asked with enough hesitation to think she might leave. The not being taken for granted thing was a huge buzz.

  He roused himself, tugged at the bed covers. “Can I get you anything?”

  There was a box of tissues on the floor near the bed. There were rainclouds outside, there were hours still to sleep, to have his body again. “I have everything I want.” She moved to let him pull the covers over them. His sheets were crispy and cool, they smelled freshly laundered. She even approved of his firm pillow.

  They resettled in the bed side by side, not touching, and she was on the edge of consciousness when he said. “Can I hold you?”

  She rolled over to look at him. He didn’t have a script for this afterward stuff. And hers was mostly about getting dressed and going home or counting the seconds until the man did. Virgin territory for both of them. Reid lay looking at the ceiling. “You don’t have to. We should sleep.”

  “I want to.” He turned his head. “That was. I don’t know how to. I feel like I flew the space shuttle, explored the cosmos. Like I invented the space shuttle and built it with my own hands. Like I don’t know what year it is and I don’t care. Like I’m human.”

  She smiled at him. “Human?”

  “A real person at last. Not alien, something apart.”

  Oh, her heart flipped. He was uncertain, his emotions so raw he was the most human of men to her right now. She moved closer and wrapped her arm over his chest to snuggle him.

  He rested his cheek on her hair. She pressed her body to his side. “Who knew?”

  “No one.”

  “Not your friend from the alley?”

  “Owen. No. He knew I didn't date. I let him assume I’d had occasional women in my life. It was easier.” He took a deep breath that swelled his chest. “You have all my secrets.”

  “They're totally safe with me.” She lifted her head and kissed him, then broke away and turned on her side, tugging his hand so he’d roll with her.

  He scooted up behind. Close enough she could feel his warmth, but not touching her. It might be nice to be held again while she fell asleep. “You can hold me.”

  He arrived at her back with a bounce that shook the bed. His arm looping over her waist, his knees tucking up under hers. “Try and stop me.”

  The first time she’d been in this bedroom she’d said something similar to him. She’d had no idea then she’d be here so willingly now.

  He nuzzled the back of her neck. “Thank you.”

  “You don’t need to thank me.” No way this encounter had been a duty.

  “The hell I do,” he said gruffly, sleepily. His arm was heavy and his breathing had slowed.

  “We’ll argue about it later.”

  She smiled into the pillow when she realized the only reason she’d won that argument was that he was asleep.

  ELEVEN

  It was annoying to be awake; to be wide awake and to be in bed with Zarley, and for her to be sleeping still. It was going on midday, they’d had maybe four hours sleep, waking her would make him an inconsiderate bastard.

  Holy fuck, he wanted to wake her. She was just there, on the next pillow and that pillow was butted up against his and he didn’t have to extend his arm full length and he could wrap it around her, or he could play with her hair, which had stuck to him in wet strands earlier and now was dry and soft, fanned out on the pillow.

  But if he did that she might wake.

  And if she woke, maybe she’d want to shower, dress and go home. And do all of that alone.

  Damn, but she smelled good, enhancing his clean lemony linen with a different scent. Like that indescribable smell before it rained. He took a deep breath and held it in his lungs. Soap and sweat and them. She smelled of sex. Of what they’d done together. He wanted to snort her up, feel her up, kiss her, have her hands and her lips on him, have her cock-zapping sighs and little squeals breaking over him while he eased inside her slippery warmth again.

  If he touched himself, he was in all kinds of trouble. It was difficult to keep his hands still. That taste test he’d gorged himself on, that was only enough to demonstrate what a starving man he’d been. How had he lived so long without knowing how to be with a woman? How had he pretended to know anything about anything without knowing how it felt to be inside that tight, wet channel, to have the livewire of a woman’s body in his arms?

  He was worse than an alien. He was an imposter. And how the fuck had he managed to get this woman to do what she’d done, to let him . . . God, what he’d done.

  He’d had a blackout once in college from drinking too much. A total blank space in his memory about where he’d been and how he’d gotten back to his dorm covered in leaves and twigs. He’d been drinking heavily, consistently, the last month to hangover nastiness, but not blackout stage. What he’d felt with Zarley was powerful and freaky like a blackout only it was white, an out of body brain flashing that reset his synapses and left him addicted to the concept of going there again and again.

  Would she let him have her again? He lay there and willed her to wake so he could hear her voice made super husky from not enough sleep, look in her eyes and know whether this thing between them had run its course or only just begun.

  If she glazed over and started rumbling in her bag for clothes, he wasn’t above begging. At sixteen, eighteen, twenty, that might’ve been endearing. He was five years older than Zarley and should know how to handle a woman in his bed, in his apartment, the next morning. He gingerly prodded the lump on the back of his head, he’d almost given himself a concussion when she put her lips around him in the shower and then inside her, he’d been so lost in the sensation he didn’t know if she’d come. Nothing about that was appealing.

  All he knew was that spine-jarring brain flash was something he wanted again, harder, for longer, made more intense because he’d learned how to give her one too.

  He scrubbed his face. He needed a razor and a toothbrush at least before he faced her. He needed not to have a stiffy you could swing from.

  He couldn’t lie here any longer. He had to stop being pathetic and get up and do something about the state of himself while preparing to beg.

  He ea
sed out of the bed, snagged sweats and a t-shirt, bypassed the en suite and headed to the main bathroom so he wouldn’t wake her. He showered, got himself together and went to the kitchen where he put the coffee pot on. Then he swigged from a carton of juice, hung off the refrigerator door and stared at the various containers Dev had left. There had to be something he could offer Zarley.

  “Hi.”

  He turned to find her on the other side of the counter. She had a silky black robe on. Not his. He should’ve thought to leave her a t-shirt or something. Isn’t that what women who slept over did, wore your stuff and looked outrageously cute in it?

  She looked better than teddy bears and kittens. God, he’d only just got rid of his erection. The refrigerator door beeped and he let it close, not taking his eyes off her.

  She returned his stare. “That would be, hello Zarley, did you sleep well? Can I get you coffee?”

  He put the empty juice carton on the counter. “Hello, Zarley.” He loved her name. Wild and unusual, it suited her. He needed to say it more often. “You look beautiful and I can hardly believe you’re here. I had the fucking time of my life with you and, Zarley, I’m wondering how you feel about letting me repeat the exercise.”

  She slipped onto the kitchen stool with a wry smile. “I still want the coffee.”

  “I still want to learn how to make you come.”

  She laughed. “You got close.” Her cheeks went pink. “I had a good time, Reid. You don’t need to prove anything to me.”

  He needed to prove he was a keen remedial student so she’d agree to be his ever-loving dedicated tutor. “I still believe a thank you is in order.”

  “Dude, I’d settle for coffee.” She gave him a look. “Don’t try me before coffee.”

  He turned to collect mugs and make the brew, and when he faced her again she had her elbows on the bench and chin propped on her fists. He tensed for a tricky question and got, “Why do you only have one stool?”

  Too easy. “I only have one ass.”

  “You never have friends over?”

  “I worked with my friends and you’re the only woman aside from my mom and my cleaner who’s ever been here.” He put a filled mug down in front of her.

  She wrapped her hands around it. “You don’t think two stools might look, less, um, lonely?”

  “One was a concession. I didn’t think I’d ever sit there.”

  “Not to eat?”

  She wanted to talk about stools and all he could think about was sex, specifically Zarley on her knees, water spraying her skin, her lips wrapped around him, or maybe Zarley beneath him her knees folded into his sides, flushed and trembling.

  “I’m rarely here. Cereal for breakfast, but I eat that standing over the TV news. I work out, shower, change, play games and sleep here.” He remembered she took milk and sugar and lurched at the refrigerator for milk, hopeful he had some and it wasn’t off.

  “And then you lost your job, fell down a pity well, became a bum and hung out at dodgy club girly bars.”

  “Yeah, that.” He sniffed the carton, and she laughed at him, but happily added milk to her coffee while he opened cupboards and drawers looking for the ugly pottery sugar bowl Mom had given him. Dev would know where it was. Ah, there. He took it out of the cupboard and lifted the lid. A couple of Mickey D’s sugar satchels nestled inside.

  Jesus, he was smooth. She’d caught him drinking out of the carton and he didn’t even have the basics, bread, milk and sugar, reliably to hand. She’d probably be horrified to learn he ate Dev’s meals out of the plastic containers they came in and he’d only incidentally changed the sheets the day before.

  He put the sugar bowl in front of Zarley. She had the longest eyelashes, could be fake, and the most incredible lips and she was looked at the sugar bowl with raised brows. A spoon, she needed a spoon. He got her a spoon. At least he knew where they were kept.

  “Now that you don’t do that drunk bum thing anymore, it might be nice to get another stool.”

  He poured his own coffee, black and simple, no unnecessary mucking about. “Still only have one ass.”

  She smiled, tearing open a satchel and stirring the sugar into her coffee. “If you can afford the rent here, you can afford a second stool. Think dangerously, Reid.”

  “I own this place. Wait, are you saying you might want to bring your lovely squeezable butt into my kitchen on another rainy day?”

  She looked behind her at the empty living area. “You own this.” Never had not bothering to furnish it seemed more like a dumb idea. She turned back to face him. “I’m saying it’s not totally crazy.”

  What was crazy was how much he wanted that to happen. The two them, sugar that wasn’t stolen in the sugar bowl, a stool each, eating together using plates and glasses like they were more to each other than a thing. That was ridiculous. That was sex messing with him.

  “Tell me about things.” He gestured between the two of them. She had that piece of silk wrapped tightly around her, no cleavage, but nipples, yeah, he could see nipples and he hadn’t had his mouth on them yet. “How long do they last?”

  “That depends?”

  “On?”

  She sipped the coffee. He should be trying to fix food for her. He usually microwaved a random container but that seemed careless in the light of the current milk, sugar situation. He’d rather look at her, wonder what it would be like to clamp his teeth down on her earlobe while he slid his fingers inside her, than futz about with food.

  “Oh, lots of factors.”

  How many fingers was too many? “Like.”

  “Sometimes it’s a one-time thing.” Part of him might feel actual physical pain if that was the case.

  “Otherwise it’s about compatibility. How much two people like being together? If they have fun. How good the sex is?”

  “I’m a bum who only has one stool, but I really like being with you, Zarley, and the sex was—”

  “Best you’ve ever had.” She rolled her eyes and laughed.

  He shook his head and rounded the counter. That robe was hellishly short. She was all neatly crossed legs on the stool. He put his hand on her knee and swiveled her so she faced him. And she let him do that. That had to be a good sign. Did she have underwear on under there? He trailed his hand up her thigh under the silk, flicking it aside, as he skated around to her ass. No underwear. He moved his hand over her sacrum looking for those dimples.

  “That was mean, Flygirl, and you’ve been nothing but generous.” He meant that to sound jokey.

  She didn’t take it that way. She sighed, stood on the stool rung and wound her arms around his neck. She was almost eye to eye with him. God, she still smelled of sex. Fantastic.

  “I wasn’t being generous. I like being with you. I’ve never stayed over. I’ve never woken up in someone else’s bed or had anyone wake up in mine. If I didn’t like you, I’d be out of here so fast you wouldn’t see my triple salto dismount. You are my first too.”

  He went to object to the comparison but she put her hand over his mouth. “Have you been thinking about sex the whole time we’ve been talking?”

  Her hand drifted into his hair. Zero point lying. She only had to look at him to know it. “Yes.” She tightened her fingers on his skull but she didn’t seem put out.

  “I don’t think we’re finished with this thing yet.”

  Oh thank fuck. Would it be okay to kiss her till his lips burned?

  “I think we should go back to bed and put that attraction to me you have going on in those sweats to good use.” She leaned in, her mouth close to his ear. “What do you say?”

  He pushed into her, his hips to hers. Ah, that was good, that press of hardness against her body, the feel of her almost sitting in his hands, his thumbs resting in those dimples.

  “I find myself agreeing with you about the merits of a second stool.”

  “Is that right?” She ran her nose over his, one hand grabbing a good hunk of his hair and tugging before he could finagle
a kiss. “And about making use of this thing we have?”

  “Completely on board with that.”

  Did words come out of his mouth? Did they make sense? She got him so quickly to the point where his brain went reptile and all he wanted was the pleasure hit. He was reduced to heart rate, breath, body heat and balance, everything else was instinct and his instinct said his very survival depended on getting her on her back and burying himself deep inside her.

  She nibbled along his jaw, made it worth the shave. “This is a very nice kitchen counter.” That spot, right there on the neck, that felt—son of a . . .

  “The right height.”

  “What?” Too much talking. If there was a question there he missed it, because she had her hands under his shirt and danger, danger, danger, he wanted more of that so the shirt had to go, urgently. He brushed her hands aside and pulled it over his head, then grabbed her off the stool and lifted her to the counter.

  “That’s it.”

  No, it wasn’t because her robe had a belt and there was a knot and his fingers weren’t working. Reptiles didn’t have fingers, that was the problem.

  “Reid. Take a breath.”

  Yes, that he could do, but the knot, the knot was stopping him getting . . . Ah fuck it, he pushed the robe off her shoulders and now he could get his hands on her glorious skin, his lips, his tongue. Going for her neck like she’d done to him. And she was the right height to wrap her legs around him, look at that, feel that—good goddam, Jesus Christ.

  He ran his hands down her thighs and jerked her closer till he slotted against her but there was still too much fabric and she was laughing. It broke through his haze and he snapped his eyes to hers, stilling his hands. He’d fucked this up somehow.

  “I think we might be better off on the bed. We can do household surfaces when you’re a little less excited.”

  The only word he understood was bed. He put his shoulder to her middle and picked her up like a bag of cement. She squealed and her hands went to his back to hold on. He carried her to the bedroom to the sound of her laughter, to the rush of heat to his chest and his thighs. He had one objective. All her skin on all of his, warm, close, tight, wet.