18
MITCHELL
“You’re talking to a summa cum laude.” I crawl onto the bed like a lion on the prowl. My voice comes out hoarse, animalistic, though I’m willing myself to exercise control.
She bites on her bottom lip. “And that’s supposed to mean what? You’re up to the challenge?”
My vision hazes much like I’m drunk on my father’s aged zin, so high from the possibility of being with her and in her. “I won’t have to rise to it—I’m the one who’s going to set the fucking bar for you.”
I hear her take a breath. Wrapping my arms around her waist, I pull her back so her face is below mine, black hair in a halo around her head. But she’s no angel, because her eyes are dancing, daring my next move.
Damn, the woman won’t stop. Her attitude won’t quit; she refuses to submit.
And it fucking turns me on.
“I’m going to kiss you again,” I growl. “And I won’t stop with your lips or your neck. No, I’m going to taste every part of you, and I’m going to take my sweet-ass time. After tonight, you’re going to beg to give me that A.”
I’m beset with satisfaction when Bryn shivers underneath me. Point: Dunford. And when she spreads her legs open so I can rest between them and press against her heat, satisfaction turns into anticipation.
Starting at her brows, I plant kisses down her face, embedding my fingers in her hair until a mewl escapes her lips.
“Oh, Mitchell.”
I smile against her neck. “That’s all I want. For you to moan my name.” My tongue finds its way to her earlobe, circling it once before nipping it gently. I trace the outline of her flower tattoo down the back of her neck. Her legs swing wider to accommodate the increased pressure I’m placing against her, and I watch her eyes roll backward with pleasure. My lips trail to the notch just above her breastbone, and this becomes a milestone.
From here, it’s all downhill, in all the best ways.
I cup her breasts over the thin fabric of her tank. Her nipples pebble against my touch, drawing my thumbs to them. They graze over the stiff peaks, and she responds by arching her back.
“You like that?”
She rakes her teeth over her bottom lip and nods. I follow my fingers and close my lips over her breast, lick against the fabric, while my other hand cups and squeezes the other breast. While her fingers thread into my hair, I run a hand around the bottom hem of her tank, enjoy the silk of her skin. Gently I raise her tank over her head, and watch as goose bumps pepper her exposed skin, up to her dark brown nipples.
I don’t realize how ravenous I am until I take a nipple into my mouth. The rhythm of her breaths becomes my metronome as I rush through wanting both, licking one nipple and then the other, and back again, and then slow down to take my time. I listen for her gasps of pleasure, the growls that escape her throat.
Her body is perfect and beautiful, a river of soft skin, curves, and muscle. She smells like the garden and a hint of citrus. “You’re fucking amazing.”
I’ve never met anyone like her before—someone who could drive me to confusion one second and have me mesmerized the next. She pushes me to the brink of frustration, but I can’t get enough of her. From here on, I know this contact won’t be enough. I’ll want more. I’ll want her, totally and completely.
Bryn must like what I say, because she lifts my face to hers and crashes her lips against mine. Our tongues vie for domination—even while kissing, her competitive streak doesn’t falter. Her fingers trail down to the waistband of my jeans. They flip the button off, and my zipper opens against the strain of my erection. I feel the slide of her skin against my sex, her firm grip on me.
She speaks into my mouth. “What are you grinning about?”
“You can’t just let me take care of you.” I stop her hands from spurring me further, pull them so they’re above her head. I run my hands down the back of her jean-clad thighs, my fingers pressing against where she’s burning hot for me.
She wiggles against me, as expected. She hates being called out. I take advantage of the momentum and flip her so she’s on top, straddling me. Her hair drapes over her shoulder, ends covering the top of her breasts. She’s even more stunning from this view.
And my erection has her full attention, with my jeans low, front wide open. Eyes flashing, she leans down, hair covering me, her fragrance a canopy. I breathe in her scent, take in her lips as they work magic on me, punctuated by a slow grind of her hips. It’s me who groans now, but this time, it’s a plea.
Okay, her on top has to happen again, and often.
My body rises as she grinds down into a rhythm, while her lips move under my chin. Holy shit. She’s going for it . . . under, to my Adam’s apple, up to my earlobe, to my spot.
I suck in a breath. “Fuck. Bryn.”
My heart pumps like a turbocharged engine. My hands maneuver her hips, cup her ass, and squeeze. My fingers crawl into the waistband of her jeans, and in one pop, set the button free. It’s as if these jeans have a life of their own, because they wiggle down as we grind, so the curve of her ass shows, and just beyond her shoulder, I see it working over me, rising, rotating, until I can’t stand it any longer. I lower her jeans and palm her soft skin.
“Oh yes,” she purrs.
I turn us to our sides to rid ourselves of these clothes, but just as my hand slides below her navel, she stills.
And it’s like someone turns up the lights a little bit brighter.
Her expression is a sign; the moment’s hesitation means she’s doubting how fast we’re going. Red flags flash before me as I retrieve my hand from her jeans. It’s time to think of ice cubes, sick puppies, and rotting grapes. Got to think about anything else to siphon the blood flow from my throbbing cock.
But Bryn’s still kissing me. When she threads her fingers into mine, I realize she doesn’t mean no forever. I lay it out on the table. “I’m cool with going with your flow, Bryn.” I sweep her hair off her face, skin slick like mine. Slowing the momentum is much harder than ramping it back up, but in the end, it’ll be worth it.
Her lips flatten into a slight smile. “This all feels so right, so natural.”
I gauge the hesitance on her face. “But . . .”
“But we have the show. And what if . . . what if we complicate things by doing this? We see each other every day, and while this feels like the next step, this isn’t real life. We’re an arranged couple. You didn’t know my birthday. I don’t know yours.”
“It’s September 4.” My response is quick, despite the truth Bryn’s uttered. After a couple of breaths to ease the physical pain from our change of heart, I nod. “But I get it.”
Going into this half-cocked might end up with all of us being hurt, and it’s not just us on the line. We’ve got money depending on it. I’ve got an entire legacy riding on this live stream.
She gazes up at me through her dark eyelashes. “What do we do?”
“We do the right thing, I guess. Stop.” While I could be persuaded otherwise, Bryn’s no longer feeling the urgency. Which means it’s over, for now.
“Are we okay?”
“Definitely.” I rake my hair to the back. Though I don’t know how I’m not supposed to kiss her right now and every single time I see her. Heaving a breath, I sit up. “But yeah, I should go before my balls fall off. Take a cold shower or pull my truck down the hill or something.”
She grabs on to my arm, laughing. “Would it do too much damage to your balls to stay?”
“Really?”
“I’m behind marathoning my favorite show. Want to watch it till we fall asleep? Or is that too much? Should we not do that either?”
The idea of having a full night’s sleep with this woman is suddenly the best second prize. “You kidding? It’s your birthday, and you can have anything you want.”
Fifteen minutes later, we have a bowl of popcorn between us, backs against the headboard of her bed. Gilmore Girls is playing on the screen, and with the volume on high and the main characters verbally sparring, I’m properly de-escalated thanks to the G-rated action on the screen.
Except I can’t really understand what the hell’s going on, because Bryn is that person who talks through shows. Yep, she’s the one no one likes to sit next to, the one you wish you could muzzle until the credits run. I crunch through popcorn while she speaks hurriedly between scene breaks, and I can’t tell who’s mad at whom and why.
Still, I don’t say a word even if I have the urge to kiss this woman’s face so she will shut up. This loosened version of Bryn is hilarious and even more irresistible.
After one episode, Bryn changes into shorts and a tank. I keep my shirt off but my jeans on. Once propped up on pillows and settled under the covers, she presses play on the next episode, and slowly we snuggle into each other. Despite the warning flags waving that a sleepover still might not be wise, the warmth of her body works faster than a tranquilizer, and I feel myself slip into what I know will be dreamless sleep.
But before I finally close my eyes, I plant a chaste kiss on her forehead. “Happy birthday, Mary Bryn Aquino.”
Her breath is warm on my cheek. “Thank you for spending it with me, Mitchell Dunford.”
“It’s David.” My eyelids are heavy, but I fight them for this last moment. “My middle name is David.”