26
LARA
Week 4: Friday Night
“Okay, we’ve exhausted favorite color, favorite movies, fought over whether or not mushrooms should be banished from the world . . .” Ian tops off my wineglass. “There’s only one more vital piece of information left to be exchanged.”
I pick a piece of rogue pepperoni off my plate and nibble it. “Birthdays?” I say at the same time Ian says, “Worst lay you’ve ever had?”
I nearly choke on the pepperoni. “That is not a first-date conversation.”
“Isn’t it? Sorry, I’m new to this. I’ll try again . . . worst lay you’ve ever had?”
I laugh. “I’m not answering that.” Mike Lanter, junior year of college.
“But—”
“Next question,” I say with a smile, enjoying his cockiness.
“All right,” he says, sitting back in his chair. “What’s going to happen with the FBI application?”
My smile drops. “I’ll answer the other question. My most awkward sexual encounter was—”
“Come on, Lara,” he says, reaching out and grabbing my hands when I move to clear our empty plates. “We have to talk about this.”
“There’s nothing to talk about. My boss said he’d write me a letter of recommendation once I had a big win under my belt. You being guilty was supposed to be that win. You weren’t. End of story.”
“It’s a pretty shitty story,” he says, rubbing his thumb along the inside of my wrist. “You should get the letter of rec because you did a good job.”
I shake my head. “Actually, I shouldn’t. Getting into Quantico’s competitive. A junior investigator who does a thorough job with an informal investigation on someone who was innocent isn’t going to stand out. An investigator who just won a big formal investigation on someone who’s guilty . . . that’s got the wow factor.”
I expect him to argue, but he nods, which I appreciate. He trusts me to know more about my job than he does, which is a refreshing break from other guys I’ve dated who liked to mansplain everything.
“I’m sorry,” he says, still not releasing my hands.
I shrug. “Me too. But it’s just a timing thing. The FBI’s not now, but it’s not never.”
“Have you told your parents?”
“Not yet.” I fiddle with my napkin. “I’m too afraid they’ll be relieved.” I look up. “Did you tell your foster father that we closed the case?”
His smile is faint. “Not yet.”
“How close are you guys?” I ask softly.
He shrugs as though it doesn’t matter, but his shuttered expression tells me it does. “Close enough to stay in touch. Not close enough for me to call him Dad.”
“Do you want to?” I ask.
He looks up. “I did once, a long time ago. Hoped for the whole adoption fairy tale. It didn’t work out, but I get it. Who the hell’d want to take on the hassle of a teen kid with a chip on his shoulder?”
He smiles, but it’s strained, and my heart aches both for the kid who wanted so badly to be wanted enough to be adopted and for the man who still doesn’t think he was worth the effort.
“How do you feel about dessert?” he asks abruptly, standing and picking up the plates.
I grab the wineglasses and follow him from the dining area to his kitchen. “I feel like I love the idea in theory, but I can’t fathom eating another bite of anything.”
“Good,” Ian murmurs, pulling me close as soon as I set the glasses on the counter by the plates.
A little part of me thinks I should protest. That it’s too soon, that I’m not ready . . .
They’re lies. It feels like I’ve waited forever for someone to want me the way he does. And I’ve definitely waited forever for someone to make me feel the way he does.
I don’t feel like playing shy. I don’t want to be coy.
I want him.
The kiss starts slow and a little sweet. The kind of soft teasing of lips that’s a deliberate, delicious buildup promising more to come.
It escalates in little, sexy ways. His fingers digging into my hips, a little desperate. My nails scraping at his shoulders through the shirt, a little greedy.
His tongue coaxes my lips apart, and the moment it brushes mine, the kiss turns from sweet to scorching.
I don’t know if he moves first or if I do, but a second later I’m pinned against the counter, his palm cupping the back of my head, his mouth slanted over mine as we devour each other.
Without breaking contact with my mouth, Ian lifts me up on the counter, and my legs wind around his waist, pulling him close—needing him.
All of him.
I’ve never felt this way, never felt like all that really matters is within arm’s reach, if only I’d be brave enough to take it.
I want to be brave.
My fingers slide under his shirt.
Ian goes still, pulling back just enough that I can still feel his warm breath on my mouth. “Lara.”
My hands glide farther up his back. “Ian.”
He presses his hand over mine. “I don’t have a lot of control right now. If you touch me, really touch me, I’m going to have to touch you, and then—”
“So touch me.”
He pulls back farther and pins me with that ridiculously attractive blue gaze. “You’re sure?”
I take a deep breath, and before I can chicken out, I pull my shirt over my head. “I’m sure.”
Ian makes a sound that’s half prayer, half strangulation as he looks down at my black lace bra.
Hey, I’m not going to say I planned for this, but I prepared. Just in case.
He trails his fingers lightly across my chest as his eyes greedily take me in, as I shove the shirt farther up his abs. “Off.”
He reaches down, pulls it over his head. He’s not wearing an undershirt. It’s just him, and holy hell, can you say perfection?
He’s tan and toned, and everywhere I look, he just gets better and better.
I touch my hand to his stomach. “Abs. I’ve never been with someone with actual abs.”
“Abs are boring,” he says, reaching around to unclasp my bra. “These, though,” he says reverently as my breasts fall free of the lace. “These are spectacular.”
My boobs are average. I know this. But the way Ian worships them, first with his hands, then his mouth, makes me feel like the most beautiful woman in the world.
His tongue strokes wetly over the tip of one breast, then the other, until I can’t catch my breath. Then his eyes flick up to mine at the exact moment he wraps his mouth around my nipple and sucks, an unapologetically wicked moment.
With every lick, every light scrape of his teeth, he seduces me a little further until I’m arching into him with unmistakable invitation.
Ian’s hands skim down my calves, ensuring my feet are hooked securely around his waist before scooping me off the counter.
“Impressive,” I murmur, skimming my lips over the hard plane of his cheek as he walks me toward the bedroom.
And it is. I don’t have a lot of experience, but the scoop-up-and-carry routine has been the stuff of my dirty fantasies, not real life.
But Ian’s real. He’s real, and he makes me feel both feminine and powerful, and it’s a delicious feeling.
At least until he lays me on his bed and reality sets in.
He’s in the process of unbuckling his belt when I jolt upright and crab-walk backward for some distance.
He goes still. “Lara, I’m sorry. I thought—”
“No,” I say, holding up a hand. “No, you thought right. It’s just being here in your . . .” I look around at the unmistakably masculine room. “I’m just suddenly aware that you do this a lot. Maybe in this very bed. And I . . . don’t.”
His eyes light with understanding, and though he finishes removing his belt and kicks off his shoes, the pants are still very much on when he casually plops on the bed.
He pats the spot beside him. “C’mere.”
I shake my head.
Ian rolls his eyes and reaches out, hauling me to him. I gasp a little when my bare breasts collide with his chest.
He tunnels his fingers in my hair, locking his gaze on mine. “Use that brilliant brain of yours to listen and listen good. You’re the only woman I’m thinking about, the only woman I’ve thought about since I saw you that first day in the break room.”
“Really?” I search his features but see only honesty there.
He brushes a kiss on my cheek. “Swear to God, woman, I’ve never wanted anyone like I want you. I’ve been waiting for it to pass, but something about you’s got me wrapped around your sexy little finger.”
“So it hasn’t passed?” I ask, setting my hand on the center of his chest, watching as I spread my fingers wide.
He takes my hand and gently lowers it until it’s resting against the unmistakable bulge in his slacks. “Definitely not.”
I move my hand slightly, stroking him.
He squeezes his eyes shut. “Lara.”
Emboldened by the huskiness of his voice, I unfasten his pants, and the rasp of the zipper as I pull it down electrifies the moment.
Sitting up, I wiggle out of my jeans before returning my attention to him, easing both pants and black briefs over his hips and down his legs, until I see Ian Bradley as he was meant to be . . .
Utterly naked and utterly mine.
Ian props himself up on his elbows, watching me with hot eyes as I run my hands over his perfect body.
I lick my lips. “I’m so out of my league.”
His gaze drops to my chest. “Not from where I’m sitting.”
Feeling bolder than I ever have in my life, I slowly wrap my fingers around him. The velvety steel leaps against my hand.
Ian’s head drops back down onto the pillow, and the way he growls my name in needy desperation causes a relentless throbbing between my legs.
I caress him tentatively, then more surely as his groans urge me on.
Until this moment—until him—I had no idea that pleasuring someone else was the most potent form of foreplay . . . for me.
Addicted to the feeling, I shift slightly so I’m on my knees. Then I bend and touch my lips to his straining erection.
“God. Lara.” His hand tentatively touches my hair.
I open my mouth and take him in. He tastes salty-sweet, and this time there’s nothing tentative about the way he touches me. His fingers tangle in my hair now, holding it back as he unabashedly watches me suck him.
I alternate between fast and slow, teasing and sure, listening to his pants to learn what he likes.
My eyes fly open as I feel his free hand skim down the length of my back, over my hip and butt. Then I moan around him as his hand nudges my thighs apart, and he works his way beneath the lace of my thong. His fingers slide over me, in me, fingering me with such torturous skill that it takes every bit of focus to keep doing what I’m doing.
It’s a wicked battle of wills, his fingers teasing me senseless, getting me close but never letting me go over the edge. I return the favor, finding the exact rhythm that makes his hips buck, only to ease back at the last minute.
Neither of us wins. Or maybe we both do, when Ian pulls me up and rolls me to my back.
His mouth captures mine, kissing me deep as his body pins mine to the bed.
I arch, and we both freeze when his cock nudges against the damp V of my underwear.
He gives me one last kiss before pulling away and opening the nightstand drawer. Ian tears the foil packet with his teeth and rolls on the condom. Then he eases my thong down my legs and tosses it to the ground.
His gaze drops between my thighs as he parts them. “Later,” he says quietly, “I’m going to lick you here.” He runs a single finger down my wet seam, and I cry out, both from the touch and his words. “But right now,” he continues, slowly resting a palm on each side of my head as he raises himself above me. “Right now, I need to be inside you.”
Ian eases forward slightly, his expression pure concentration as he watches my face. I’m tight and he’s big, but the friction is delicious.
He’s breathing hard as he withdraws, then pushes back in slowly. He’s the picture of restraint, clearly trying to take his time, for me, for us. To make it last.
There will be time for that later. Right now, I don’t want to be teased. I want to be taken.
Greedy, I reach down and cup his butt, urging him forward. “Hard.”
He looks in my eyes first, making sure. Then he gives it to me. His hips drill into me hard, and I arch to take him in, my body providing soft give to his hard strength.
Can you die from pleasure? If you can, this is the way I want to go, with Ian pounding inside me, his hips circling with every thrust to rub in exactly the right place until I’m aching, needing . . .
“Come,” he says when my vision starts to go blurry with passion. He nips my breast with his lips. “Come for me, Lara, just like this.”
I cry out, arching my back, and he meets me there, his body jerking as he lets go with a low groan.
I’ve always thought orgasms were orgasms. Always good.
Wrong.
Sometimes they’re so blisteringly good you’re both terrified it’ll never end and terrified that it will.
Ian drops beside me, still breathing hard, and I muster the energy to roll toward him.
He turns his head slightly, pressing an absent kiss to my forehead before gathering me close. “Well.”
I smile. “Well.”
Ian shifts to look down at me, his fingers finding a lock of my hair and stroking it with his thumb. “You never did answer my question.”
“Which one?”
“Worst lay you’ve ever had.”
I bite my bottom lip. “Oh. Gosh. I had a different answer before, but . . . wow, this is awkward. I feel like I should at least let you get dressed before I answer. You know, to save your pride.”
He tilts his head back, then lets out a laugh of pure masculine confidence. “All right. What about the best lay you’ve ever had?”
I roll my eyes. “Do you put notches in your bedpost, too?”
“Maybe.” He gives a quick wink.
He rolls toward me until I’m on my back once again, and his eyes return to mine. “Ask me.”
“Ask you what? Worst lay you’ve ever had?”
“A gentleman never kisses and tells. Ask me the other one.”
“Best lay you’ve ever had? You just said a gentleman never—”
“You.” He stamps a kiss on my lips.
When he pulls back, I mean to roll my eyes again and call him out on the line. But then I see it . . .
Embarrassment. His cheeks are just the slightest bit pink, and he looks at me, and he’s . . . fidgeting. There’s a sweetness to his nervousness that undoes me.
I set both my hands on his face. “Ian.”
“Yeah?”
I lift up slightly to brush a kiss across his mouth. “Me too.”