LYDIA

I bend over Rhys and kiss him. He smells like man and leather. Or maybe the leather I'm smelling is the couch we're currently making out on, because I'm that girl now. The girl who makes out on couches in the back office at a bar. To be honest, I feel pretty good about this life development. Anyway, he smells good and he feels good and he looks, well, he looks really, really good.

And he's so nice. Like he hasn't even tried to get my shirt off yet, which I'd totally let him do if he wanted to, but I guess he's taking this slow. I wonder if I'm supposed to take off my own shirt? That can't be right. What if I just whipped my shirt off right now and he was like, Whoa, Lydia. I only like you a kissing amount, not a shirt-off amount?

That would be terrible. Like the worst ever.

He really likes me a kissing amount so I don't want to blow it. I move my fingers up to his neck and kiss him again. His hands are stroking the backs of my thighs, long smooth strokes from mid-thigh to my butt, but he stops there, his fingertips trailing along the edge of my underwear where it rests against my ass. Then he slides his hands back down. His palms feel huge on the backs of my legs, his skin warm against my skin, his fingers squeezing as he drags his hands up and down and all of it is making me crazy.

As in wet and horny and damn near out of my mind. I feel as though all the nerve endings in my body have moved to one spot and I just want to press myself against him to ease it. I'm aching with the need to be filled, to have him inside of me, so I'm making do with grinding myself against his leg. I wonder if I'm squeezing his thigh too hard?

I drop my lips to his neck and kiss him. He's got the hottest scruff ever and it abrades my cheek and the tip of my nose as I run my lips across his skin. I lick the side of his neck too, because I just have to taste him. He groans and uses one hand to pull me tighter against his leg and fists the other in my hair.

The hair-fisting almost makes me come. I'm so close. I drop my forehead to his neck and then he's whispering in my ear. I love the sound of his voice no matter what he's saying, but the low gruff whispers might be my undoing.

"Are you dirty, good girl?"

"Maybe," I reply with a shrug, because who knows really? But I think I might be dirty. If the hair-tugging is any indication, then yes. Firm yes. Sign me up for a one-way ticket to Dirtyville.

"Are you wet?"

Wait, did he really just ask that? What if I reply, "So wet, Rhys," and he has no idea what I'm talking about because what he really said was, "I'm bored, get off of me?" Logically one sounds nothing like the other but you never know, do you? Also I'm not accustomed to this kind of dirty talk. Once in college I was making out with a guy and he said he was gonna throw his dick up on my lips. That's an actual quote, I didn't misunderstand that one. I know this because I asked him to repeat himself. Which he did. Word for word. I don't know if that line had worked for him in the past but it was a no-go for me. Anyway, the point is, I have a limited skill set on the dirty talk and I don't want to blow this so I keep my head buried in his neck and rub my palms across his nipples while I wait to see how this plays out.

"I can feel you on my leg," he adds. His lips are at the soft spot behind my ear and his voice is gruff. His breath whispers against my neck and I shiver. Except—

Oh, my God. Am I making his pants wet? I'm going to die.

"Do you always get this wet, Lydia? You're soaking me right through your panties. Riding my leg like I'm your personal fucktoy. Using me to get yourself off." He tugs my hair so I have to lift my head and meet his gaze. "Aren't you?"

I'm going to melt. My breath is caught in my throat and I'm impossibly hotter and wetter and slightly humiliated and all I can think about is how damp my undies are against his leg and how freaking warm it feels there and how I need just a little something more. Just a nudge.

"Tell me, Lydia. Say it."

I can't. So I simply nod and avert my eyes as some odd sound comes out of my mouth that is half embarrassed squeak and half I-might-die-if-I-don't-get-to-come-soon groan.

"Do you know how hot you are? How insane you're driving me? How hard you're making me?"

"No." I shake my head, glancing back to meet his eyes once again. "I was hoping I was but I wasn't totally sure, you know?"

He looks at me, a hint of confusion crossing his face before he smiles as if I've amused him. I smile back because he's beautiful.

"You're a little tease, aren't you? You know exactly what you're doing to me."

Well, I can feel him pressing against my leg so I'm not totally oblivious. Also, I think this means he likes me more than a kissing amount so I grin in response.

"You love being filled with cock, don't you?" he asks but it's more of a statement than a question. My eyes flare and I can feel the blush covering my cheeks. I suck my bottom lip between my teeth for lack of anything to say to that.

"I bet you're tight as hell. You probably have to get this wet to take a dick, don't you? I bet you'd stretch so tight around my cock I'd have to fight not to come the moment I pushed inside of you."

Good God. No one has ever spoken to me like this. I sit up a bit and trail my fingers along the light path of hair from his belly button to the top of his jeans. Then I move my hand to the outline of his dick where it's trapped against his leg and stroke him. I want him inside of me. I feel… empty. There's no other way to explain it. I'm empty and aching to be filled with him.

He exhales on a groan when I touch him and it sounds like heaven. The low timber of sound, not even a word. His hands have moved to the tops of my legs now that I'm sitting up again. His thumbs are on the insides of my thighs, his palms on top, and he's repeating the stroking motion he was making on the backs of my legs. My skirt is bunched around my waist, allowing his hands to slide all the way up, his thumbs resting on the taut muscles of my inner thigh where I'm stretched across his own leg. His hands stop, his thumbs kneading my heated skin before brushing along the elastic seam of the crotch of my panties. I know the fabric between is wet. I can imagine how my damp curls look, the wet fabric clinging and transparent. Pale pink stripes. That's the pair I put on today when I got out of the shower after the pool. A pale pink pair of cotton high-legged briefs with thin white stripes. Anything other than plain white I'd always considered kinda sexy. I can't imagine it stacks up against the skimpy thongs made of lace and silk he must be used to seeing a woman wear.

His eyes are trained on the wet spot between my legs when he speaks. "Do you want me to make you come, Lydia?"

"I might die if you don't." I blurt the response out without thought and my pussy flutters in expectation as he smiles again like I'm amusing him in some way. He uses one thumb to hook my panties to the side and rubs the other through the triangle of hair exposed from the movement. I keep my eyes on his face while his are on the needy spot between my legs.

He slides his thumb across my slick flesh then sweeps it across my clit and—oh, God. Feeling his hands on me, watching his face as he touches me, it's intoxicating. It makes me want more. More of him, more of whatever he can do. More of his filthy words and wicked fingers. More, more, more. Then he presses his thumb firmly against my clit and I come. I don't think it even takes a full three seconds of pressure and if I was in any kind of control over myself I'd have held out longer because the feel of him touching me there is unlike anything I've ever experienced. I've had boys shove their hands down my pants before, hesitant touches and groping fingers, and it didn't do much for me.

This is not like that.

Nothing like that.

He doesn't stop and the orgasm carries on in a way I'm not familiar with from giving them to myself. I'm used to a quick burst of release that has me pulling my hand away as soon as it's hit. Rhys keeps his thumb in place, rubbing firmly back and forth across the wet nub even though I'm clutching at his forearms and squirming. It's too much and I want to wiggle away. I want to stay. I want the pulsing fluttering heaven to stop. I want it never to end. My head drops forward, while a repeat of "oh, oh, oh," falls from my lips.

When it's over I collapse against his chest, snuggled under his chin while my chest rises and falls and my breathing returns to normal. Rhys whispers into my ear, words of how beautiful I am when I come, how much he enjoyed watching me. It gives me an odd sense of pride for having pleased him.

"You're really good at that, huh?" I mumble into his neck. He definitely smells good, I decide. It's not just the couch. He smells like an autumn day in Tennessee. Crisp and clean and earthy and male.

His chest moves as he laughs, his breath warming the top of my head. "Good at what exactly? I barely touched you."

"Good at thumbs, I guess. I don't know," I murmur into his neck again because I'm busy trailing my fingers along his skin, the pads of my fingertips occupied with committing the feel of his scruff to memory. The clean shave line, the smooth skin beneath it. The muscles of his neck. I find everything about him really, really interesting.

"Where the hell did you come from?" he says while winding a strand of my hair through his fingers.

"Knoxville." I sit up and look at him. "Tennessee," I add when he just stares at me. It takes me another few seconds to realize the question was rhetorical and then I feel stupid so I ask him where he came from. It doesn't make it any better, but it's all I could come up with.

"Connecticut," he replies, because my question was not rhetorical. A small frown mars his forehead as he examines my face. Then he wipes the thumb he just got me off with across his tongue, his eyes not leaving mine. I suck in a breath, because wow. And now I'm wondering what he's thinking. What I taste like. If he liked it. I'm also reminded that only one of us got off.

"You're still hard," I say, stroking the length of him over his jeans. He really is. Hard. And big. I squeeze him gently through the denim.

"Who wouldn't be?" he replies on a long hiss of an exhale.

I glance at him, not sure what that means. Does it mean I'm some kind of sexual temptress capable of making any man rock-hard? Hmm, that would be pretty cool if that was true. Or does it mean I've just gotten off while he's gotten nothing and I should do something to fix it?

"Do you, um, want to?" Yeah, that came out well. I'm not even sure what I just offered. A hand job? Sex? Who knows? Why the heck isn't he taking charge? In my fantasy vision of this he tells me what to do so I don't have to bumble my way through it. He says stuff like, "Lydia, I want to fuck you. Let's go back to my place and do the fucking." I mean, obviously it sounds better when he says it—I told you my dirty-talking skills need work.

"Do I want to what?" He's looking at me under hooded eyes, his voice low and sexy as all heck. His gaze drops to my lips before returning to my eyes and it feels like a caress, the way he looks at me. It feels like he's smoothing a palm against my cheek and pulling me closer to him instead of simply running his eyes across my face. "Do I want to fuck? Do I want to alleviate this hard-on you've given me? Do I want to find out just how tight your pussy is? How slick and hot? Do I want to finger you to see if you're ready to fuck right this second, or if you'll need a second finger and some stretching before I can get inside of you? Do I want to know what your orgasm feels like fluttering against my cock while I'm buried balls deep inside of you?"

He pauses.

"Who wouldn't want that, Lydia?"

Whew. Okay, so same page then.

"Or maybe I'd like to try that pretty mouth first. I'd expect you to take it all, though. I'd squeeze your jaw open with one hand and feed you my cock with the other until you gagged. Then I'd slide it down your throat while you choked on me. Would that be okay with you, Lydia? Do you give sweet blow jobs with your pretty lips wrapped around nothing more than the tip? Or do you take it until your nose is pressed against a man's stomach and your next breath is reliant on him letting you up?"

Oh.

Well.

He'd have to teach me that bit, obviously.

"Not here, right?" I glance at the door and then back to Rhys. He can't mean to do all that here, in a bar office where anyone could walk in. And this couch isn't mine, or his even. What if it's messy? What if I… bleed on it? I feel myself flush in embarrassment and I suck my bottom lip between my teeth.

"Why not here?"

Um. Because. "Because." I shrug one shoulder and glance at the door again. Because I don't want to get deflowered on a couch in a bar, Rhys. Which reminds me that I'm still working on a better word than deflowering. Devirginating? I wonder if that's a real word or an Urban Dictionary word. "My place is close," I offer in what I hope is a helpful tone, deciding that this isn't the time or place to blurt out, I'm still a virgin, would you mind terribly divesting me of that?

He lifts a brow at my response. "Do you only fuck in beds, good girl? You're twenty-two, surely you've fucked in a back seat a time or two?"

"You want to go out to the parking lot?" He can't be serious, can he? I can't hide the surprise in my voice and I'm sure the expression on my face matches because he laughs.

"You're sweet. And this isn't happening."

And then he dumps me off his lap and walks out the door.