Page 28

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

EVE

T here’s a knock on the door while I’m toweling off.

Crap. He’s early again. Or—I glance at the alarm clock on my bedside table—exactly on time.

I keep digging through the drawer in a frantic quest for the black lace thong that’s the sexiest underwear I own. I finally locate them with a triumphant “Aha!” that dims to a vehement “Ow!” when my victory dance ends with a stubbed toe.

Another knock, and I’m naked except for a scrap of lace. Which is actually more than I need to be wearing for what’s about to happen, but I’m not brave enough to answer the door in my towel—or underwear. With my luck, Mr. Goodman would be out in his yard with his dog.

I grab the sweats and oversize T-shirt I wore to bed last night off my comforter and yank them on. Not the most enticing outfit, but I don’t have time to pick out anything else. Shaving everywhere took too long.

I toss a heap of laundry into the closet, slam the door closed, and then hustle down the hallway.

I’m breathing heavily when I yank the front door open, then stop breathing entirely, the full weight of this moment slamming into me like an avalanche.

I’m about to have sex with Hunter Morgan. If my freshman year–self could see me now.

“Hey.” Hunter’s smile is almost…shy, as he shoves his hands into his pockets. He’s changed since leaving the library, into sweats and a hoodie with Holt Hockey written on the front. His hair glints in the porch light, damp even though it’s not raining for once.

“Hey,” I breathe.

We stare at each other, and I wonder how many times he’s done this before. I know very little about Hunter’s dating-slash-hookup history in college, which seems extremely unfair since he knows all of mine. I’m a nervous mess, but I was expecting him to take the lead here. To act like showing up at a girl’s house for sex is a normal Friday for him.

Hunter raises a hand to rub the back of his neck, tugging his hoodie up a few inches. My mouth goes dry as I focus on that strip of exposed skin. On the glimpse of his obliques and the line of golden hair that disappears into the waistband of his sweats. My gaze moves lower, to the bulge below the waistband, the glimpses of his penis I got in the shower and the hot tub flashing in my mind like a neon sign.

Heat pools, low in my stomach, settling right between my thighs. My breasts feel heavy and achy, reminding me I ran out of time to put a bra on. My breasts are big enough to make that obvious, even if my nipples weren’t hardened to horny peaks.

“Can I come in?” Hunter asks.

Warmth floods my cheeks when I realize I’ve just been standing and staring at him. “Oh, yeah. Come in.” I take a step back, holding the door open as wide as the hinges will allow.

He chuckles. A rough sound that sends another bolt of heat surging through me.

I inhale deeply as he passes. He smells very masculine, mixed with a whiff of laundry detergent, and I think that plus his wet hair means his stop at home involved showering and putting on clean clothes.

That consideration triples the nerves.

I shut and lock the front door, then spin around to face him. Hunter’s standing by the bookcase, studying the painting hanging next to it. “Did you paint this?” he asks, not looking away from the wall.

I swallow before walking over. “Uh, yeah. It’s supposed to be my mom’s hair salon.”

The painting is a collection of colorful shampoo bottles, mixed with few spiky cacti and one candle. All sights I associate with home. Before she could afford to rent a chair at a salon, my mom used to see clients in our apartment. Most days when I came home from school, there was a woman sitting in our living room getting highlights or her bangs trimmed. And since we didn’t have a yard, my mom would buy me plants. Succulents, and then cacti, when it became obvious I have whatever the opposite of a green thumb is.

“Do you want anything to drink?” I offer.

He’s still staring at my painting, and I feel as self-conscious as I did when he was looking at my sketch in the living room of the rental.

“Sure, water sounds good.”

“Coming right up.” I head into the kitchen, and Hunter follows me.

The bowl of yogurt and granola I made before realizing I didn’t have time to eat and shower is sitting out on the counter. I forgot to stick it in the fridge before hustling to the bathroom.

“Late dinner?” Hunter asks, spotting it.

“Just a snack,” I say, grabbing a glass out of the cabinet and filling it with water before setting it down in front of him.

“Thanks.” He glances at the bowl. “You gonna eat?”

“Oh. No. I’m good.” I grab the bowl and stick it in the fridge.

When I turn back around, Hunter is watching me. “You can eat, Eve. I’m not in a rush.”

Yeah, there’s no way I’ll be able to stand here and eat while he’s a few feet away. When we’re about to have sex.

“I’m good. I just brushed my teeth.”

One corner of his mouth kicks up in that almost-smile that he flashes a lot more freely than a full one. “I like the taste of yogurt and granola.”

My cheeks burn. Based on the way Hunter’s lips move a half inch higher, he noticed my blush.

My pulse picks up, hammering wildly in my fingertips and especially in that wet, secret spot, and it’ll be a miracle if I make it through tonight without having a heart attack. I’m freaking out just from the suggestion that Hunter’s going to find out what I taste like. That he’s going to kiss me soon.

I want this. I want this so badly it feels like I’m living in a hallucination of some wild fantasy that’s far removed from reality. And I’m scared. Terrified, actually, that I won’t be what Hunter expects.

“I’m not hungry,” I manage to say.

“Okay.” He picks up the glass of water I poured and drains it in one sip.

I watch the cords of his throat work as he swallows, mesmerized by the smooth motion.

I find Hunter fascinating. I always have. He’s a puzzle I haven’t solved. One I don’t have most of the pieces to. Everything I learn about him prompts more questions.

The empty glass lands on the counter with a soft tap, and then he’s walking toward me.

Before I can speak, before I can become more nervous than I already am, he’s cupping my jaw with one hand. Sweeping a calloused thumb across my cheek and sliding his fingers into my hair. And then, his warm mouth is covering mine with a perfect pressure it feels like I’ve waited an eternity to experience.

I’ve spent an embarrassing—and guilt-inducing, before my breakup—amount of time wondering what kissing Hunter might be like. Considering I can’t stand near the guy without worrying about self-combustion, it seemed like a dangerous prospect.

Turns out it is.

This is what a first kiss is supposed to feel like , some distant corner of my mind decides.

And I no longer have anything to feel guilty about. For the first time since that awful night at La Bella Napoli, I’m thrilled about being single. That gaping terror of being alone doesn’t feel big or scary. It’s freeing, like I shed a weight I didn’t realize I was carrying.

Maybe because I’ve never felt so safe.

Hunter makes a deep, sexy groan in the back of his throat when I start kissing him back. It vibrates on my tongue, sending shivers dancing down my spine as I press closer to him and seek out more contact.

My overwhelmed brain isn’t doing a great job of remembering any make-out tips. I give up quickly, attempting to mimic Hunter instead.

He’s an excellent kisser. Right angle, perfect amount of tongue. When he tugs my lower lip between his teeth, I moan so loudly I shock myself.

What feels like a full smile curls against my lips, and I’m annoyed our mouths are so close I missed it.

His hands land on my hips, squeezing once. “Where’s your bedroom, Eve?”

“This—this way.” I break out of his light hold, stumbling down the hallway like I’m failing a sobriety test.

I am drunk. Just not on any substance. On him.

I’m still nervous. Very nervous. But it’s now mixed with an overdose of lust and anticipation, which is an intoxicating combination.

He kisses me again in my bedroom, and I stumble back against my dresser. Hard wood is literally the only reason I’m staying vertical.

“Mint’s good too,” he tells me when our lips separate for a necessary breath.

I’m blushing again, even though him tasting my mouth is no longer a hypothetical. His eyes dance as he looks at my red cheeks, more animated than I’ve ever seen them. Darkened with amusement and—I hope—arousal.

Our eyes hold for a few seconds, the entertainment in his slowing and then going still. “You’re sure you want to do this?”

He’s really asking. It’s not an empty offer. If I said no, I’m positive Hunter would walk away and never mention this night again.

But I don’t have to think about my answer. “I really want to do this.”

Hunter nods, something that looks remarkably like relief flashing across his handsome face before I’m spun around and tossed onto the comforter. Tossed . He picks me up like I weigh nothing and I land, sprawled on the soft mattress, a second later.

My heart is beating so fast I’m not even sure there are separate beats. It feels like one endless pulse pumping adrenaline through my body.

I’m still registering the sudden change in position when he tugs my sweatpants down. One firm yank, and they’re a ball of fabric on the floor.

I gasp when a gust of cooler air hits the wet spot on my underwear—lace isn’t known for its absorbance—and clamp my thighs together.

Hunter instantly hesitates.

I open my knees a few inches, gnawing on the inside of my cheek as a wave of self-consciousness swallows me. He can’t see everything, but he can see a lot , and spread out half naked in front of your crush is a very vulnerable position to be in.

Hunter swallows twice before speaking. He’s not touching me, just staring. “You still good?”

“Yeah. Good.” In a humiliating turn of events, my voice cracks. Right between the Go and the od , an abyss I wish I could disappear into. If he had any questions about my limited sexual experience, I think this is answering them. I clear my throat. “Just a little cold.”

“Cold, huh?”

Hunter’s hand lands on my bent knee, thumb tracing circles, and tiny shockwaves dance across the surface of my skin.

His palm slides higher. Higher. Higher , until he’s toying with the flimsy scrap of lace sitting on my right hip. He hooks it with one finger, then reverses course back down my thigh.

The left side hangs on for a few seconds, then slips too.

His jaw tightens when another wave of cool air hits wetness, letting me know I’m naked from the waist down. That’s his only reaction as he pulls my thong down to my toes, and I’m not sure if that’s a good or a bad thing.

The charged atmosphere between us crackles with a new intensity as my underwear join my sweatpants.

I should say something. Like I showed you mine, now show me yours or Need me to talk you through it? Something teasing and sexy. But I’ve never been that girl . The one who always knows what to do or say. The one who’s seductive and smooth.

So I simply look up at him, my mouth so dry I doubt I could speak anyway.

“Eve…” He utters my name like a prayer, tone a little reverent and a lot awed, and some of the self-consciousness recedes.

My legs widen another few inches, my calf no longer blocking my view of his crotch. The bulge is bigger than it was when I checked his dick out earlier, and seeing that reaction helps my confidence too.

“It’s short for Evelyn,” I whisper.

He half smiles again. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I reply, resenting the side of his mouth that stays flat. I want to see his full grin.

“Hunter isn’t short for anything,” he tells me.

A surprised laugh bursts out. “I figured.”

He nods, half smile still in place, and then his head ducks down.

I don’t realize what he’s doing until the first swipe of his tongue parts my slit.

“Fuck” slips through my surprised lips, because it feels good . His fingers dig into my upper right thigh, holding me spread wide, his other hand lifting my left leg and resting it on his broad shoulder. His tongue circles my opening with teasing licks, then his lips close around my clit and suck.

I swear again—a lot louder. The sudden assault of pleasure is startling. It feels like I’m floating, my only anchor the spots buzzing from his touch. The familiar surroundings of my bedroom are a blur of color, the sparks skittering across my vision otherworldly.

This is what it’s supposed to feel like? Oral sex has never been unpleasant, but it has mostly felt like wet lapping. A nudge of pleasure that faded quickly. Not the inferno that’s blazing now.

Hunter’s tongue is stroking with the same skilled focus he kissed my mouth with, and I realize… I’m not going to have to fake an orgasm.

I’m fighting to keep the pressure from shattering, because I want to memorize how this peak feels before I fall. It’s a shimmering bubble I want to remain in forever.

Hunter’s grip on my thigh relaxes, his mouth moving higher and his fingers filling former emptiness. My back arches when he starts to fuck me with two fingers, my inner muscles clutching at them greedily.

I only last three pumps before losing the battle. I come calling his name, strong convulsions wracking my entire body as my toes flex and my fingers fist the comforter so tightly my knuckles turn white.

It doesn’t stop. Doesn’t fade after a few seconds. The waves of bliss don’t disappear until my muscles are shaking and my throat feels raw. Even then, I can still feel the faint echo of pleasure in lingering twitches.

I’m still panting, still stunned, when Hunter raises his head. His lips and chin are glossy with the evidence of my arousal. He smirks at my slack expression, running a tongue along his bottom lip before resting a knee on the bed. The mattress beside my hip dips as he joins me, springs squeaking softly.

“Still cold?” he asks casually.

I manage a “No” between pants as he sprawls out beside me, fully clothed. “Um, thanks.”

When I gather enough energy to glance over, he’s smiling at the ceiling. “You’re welcome.”

Well, aren’t we polite.

I’m waiting for him to make another move, but he seems content to relax on my bed.

I wasn’t expecting him to go down on me. If I’d known he was planning to, I would have told him not to bother, since it’s always ended with disappointment and embarrassment on both sides. I thought we’d come in here, have sex, and then he’d leave.

Be brave, Eve .

I sit up, which is harder than it’s ever been before. My muscles are languid and loose, completely uncooperative. My limbs feel like limp, overcooked noodles. I could have just woken up from a coma.

Hunter’s head rolls to look at me, his blue eyes alert and assessing. They darken to near-navy as I straddle his hips, the ridge of his erection reigniting the needy ache he just alleviated.

“Do you have a condom?” I ask.

He nods. “In my pocket.” His hands grasp the hem of my shirt and lift, skimming my ribs so the fabric bunches beneath my boobs. “Take this off.”

His voice is low and husky, yet still manages to sound authoritative.

I yank my shirt the rest of the way off. As soon as it’s gone, Hunter cups my breasts in his broad hands.

I lean into his touch. The swells that have often seemed too large settle perfectly in his palms. His thumbs play with the points of my nipples, managing to make the throb feel better and worse.

“They look even better like this than they did in that Beatles shirt,” he says.

I smile, glance at my shirt, and then frown. There’s no logo on it.

“Not tonight. Freshman year.”

I stare at him sprawled on my mattress, stunned. “You’ve been thinking about my boobs for four years?”

“Not just your tits. But yeah.”

I reach into his pocket, propelled by a fresh sense of this urgency. This need is new to me. It’s a desperation that’s deeper than physical desire.

The heat of his skin sears through the pocket’s thin fabric. Hunter’s thigh is hard and firm, thick muscles tensing beneath my touch as my fingers close around a foil packet.

I’ve never put a condom on a guy before, even though I’ve never had sex without one. That’s what happens when you’re raised by a single mother who got pregnant at sixteen, I guess. When it comes to sex, I’ve never felt like there was such a thing as too careful . I’ve thought Was that worth getting pregnant over? after sex. Tracked my cycle so I knew exactly which days I was ovulating. I have plenty of unhealthy hang-ups about physical intimacy—maybe emotional intimacy too—that I try to ignore most of the time.

But I’ve never been less aware of them than I am right now. Rolling the condom over Hunter’s dick has nothing to do with safe sex. I want to touch him this intimately. To memorize the shape of what’s about to be inside of me.

I scoot backward so I’m sitting on his thighs. My grip on the foil packet is getting sweaty, so I drop the condom on my comforter and use both hands to work the elastic waistbands of his boxers and sweats down his hips.

Some of my courage withers when I get my first glimpse of his bare erection.

I saw his size before, during Dickgate. But that was a quick peek in a motel bathroom’s shitty lighting. And he wasn’t hard.

I reach out slowly, trailing my fingers along the soft skin pulled so taut it looks shiny. The tip is shiny, flushed an angry purplish red.

This is for me . Because of me .

Hunter grunts when I fist the flared head, pre-cum smearing my palm.

“I know this sounds like a porn line,” I start, and his eyebrows lift with interest. “But are you sure it’s going to fit? Because I’m…not.”

His chest rumbles with a low laugh. “Yeah. It’s going to fit.”

“You don’t sound worried.”

He smirks. “I’m not.”

“Well, I am. I have a really low pain tolerance.” My first time hurt like hell, and Dean Ackerman’s dick was half the size of Hunter’s.

But I pick up the condom and tear the wrapper open, because that isn’t enough of a deterrent. Because I trust Hunter.

He groans when I roll the condom down the thick length of his erection. I can feel the raised vein pulsing through the thin layer of latex.

“I’m going to try to make this last,” he tells me as he sits up. “But it’s been a while.”

Talking takes me a minute, because he’s just yanked his hoodie off. His blond hair is boyishly mussed, but his body is all man.

I know hockey is a physical sport. Know athletes work hard to keep their bodies in peak condition. But I’ve never been on a bed with someone in this sort of shape, and it… Honestly, it’s a massive turn-on. There’s some primal part of me that loves how masculine Hunter looks. How soft his hardness makes me feel. How safe his strength makes me feel.

“How long?” I ask, a little breathlessly, as I shift onto the mattress so Hunter can pull his sweats the rest of the way down.

“November.”

“ November ?” He hasn’t had sex since last year ? I thought he was going to say a few weeks, at most.

“I was focused on hockey,” he tells me, tossing his sweatpants on the floor. “This season was our last chance to win a championship.”

“That’s a lot of dedication,” I comment.

“I’m a dedicated guy.” A strange shadow passes across his face after he says it.

I’m distracted by him moving over me. We’re both completely naked, and I start moaning from the first glide of his cock through the slickness between my thighs.

All thoughts of possible pain disappear as he teases me, only giving me an inch or two at a time before withdrawing. I’m the one wriggling and begging, trying to lift my hips and take him deeper.

His hands move from massaging my breasts to squeezing my hips. And then move lower, cupping my thighs, lifting my legs up, and then shifting me so that I’m basically folded in half. The center of my body is on full display to him.

“Can you take me like this?” he asks.

I nod quickly—I’d agree to any position right now—and he chuckles.

And then he thrusts, the burn of my leg muscles stretching fading in comparison to the way my pussy is parting to accommodate him. It’s not pleasant, but he was right. It doesn’t hurt. And my body is adjusting, widening with each tiny pulse of his hips as he works his way inside. He hits a spot that makes me gasp, already knowing my body better than I do.

I slept with two guys in high school. One, I dated for a few months. The other was a drunken fumbling at a party the summer before I left for Holt. Then, I met Ben, and at some point I concluded I’d had sex for the last first time.

I’ve always enjoyed sex, aside from my first time.

But I’m realizing I’ve never been fucked before.

And I’m learning that sex can be more than enjoyable .

It can be this maelstrom of sensation—electricity and desperation and feeling like you might die if it stops. A flood of feelings that fills you up so there’s no space for anything else. No thoughts. No fears. No worries. No dreams.

The one thing I’m aware of right now—not my name, not any fears of getting pregnant, not any insecurity about how I compare to other girls he’s been with—is that I was right about Hunter.

Whatever unconscious draw that’s existed since the first moment I saw him? I was right .

Reality is supposed to be subpar to fantasy.

But I’m worried Hunter just ruined me for anyone else.