Page 26 of Most Likely to Match (The Matchbooks #2)

I open the blinds all the way to let the light in.

My parents’ house backs onto a ravine, so unless there’s a literal peeping Tom in the trees across from my bedroom window, no one can see in.

“You okay with this?” I ask anyway. If someone were to catch a glimpse of my naked ass through the window, fine, but I don’t want to leave her unsafe or overexposed.

Especially when she’s giving me this , her trust.

She nods, and I snap a photo of her from here, next to the window. Her eyes are wide, her face open, hiding nothing. Because I’m selfish, all I want to do is keep going, dig deeper to find the secrets she’s buried.

I step onto the bed, the mattress dipping under my weight as I walk slowly toward her.

She follows me with her eyes, never looking away from me.

Like the camera isn’t even here between us.

“Stay like that.” I breathe the words, afraid even the slightest change in this equilibrium will break whatever spell we’ve cast on each other.

Click.

To keep my balance, I stand with my legs spread, wide enough that it feels conspicuous, even a little obscene, considering I’m also naked and she has an eye-level view of the blood rushing to my cock.

But when I tell her to look down, when I move in closer to catch a close-up of her hair falling across her lip, she doesn’t flinch.

She licks her lips through the camera lens, blinking from the camera to my cock and away again. At this point, I’m so hard, I’m surprised I can’t see the head of my dick in the frame. “You want that?” I ask, my voice hoarse as I record her reaction in one-sixtieth shutter speed .

Her throat moves as she swallows. “My mouth is watering,” she says, her voice soft, almost sweet, but sure.

Proud.

God, she’s beautiful.

The idea of my cock in her mouth on camera is too much, so I settle for my fingers.

Holding the camera in my right hand, I reach out with my left.

She opens her mouth without hesitation, and I drag the pads of my middle and ring fingers over her pouty lower lip and slip them into her warm, wet heat.

Click.

She closes her mouth around me, sucking my fingers deeper.

Click.

Her eyes flutter closed, her moan echoing through my skin, up my forearm, through muscle and blood and bone. I grip the camera tighter in my right hand, the only relief I can get for this sensory overload.

Click.

She opens her eyes. It would be easy, from the position she’s in, to play up a coquettish air, but my Chloe is serious. Especially about sex. I pull my fingers from her mouth, letting her spit dribble down her chin.

Click.

“Please?” she asks.

I take myself in hand, rubbing her saliva over my skin. “You still want this?” I move the camera away from my face. I don’t want anything between us when she gives me her answer, but she pushes the Nikon back toward me.

“I want it with pictures.”

A shiver runs up my spine. Goose bumps break out along my thighs and ass.

This is dangerous. I’ve felt this before.

The thrill, the intensity of letting go, of giving her exactly what she wants.

It put me in a bad place the last time I followed this instinct.

While I’m not a teenager anymore, and neither is she, the circumstances are very much the same.

We’re still a secret. There’s still too much left unsaid between us .

Instead of answering her, I shift forward a step, put the camera back up to my face.

Click.

Chloe asked me for trust. She’s giving it to me back. The least I could do is trust myself, too.

I follow her mouth as she reaches for me. Out of frame, her hands find my hips. Then she’s gripping me with her fist, tonguing me. Her lips wrap around the head of my cock, and she looks at me, at the camera.

There are three modes separating portrait and video on the camera dial, and I flick through them almost instinctively. I can’t keep up with this, with the way her mouth stretches around me, her fist at the base of my cock, the glimpse of her hand holding my balls.

Portrait mode can’t catch the wet sound of her spit and my skin, her swift exhalations through her nose because her mouth is so fucking full of me, her moan when I gently guide her up and down my cock with my hand in her hair, or my “oh fuck, baby; I’m sorry, baby” when she takes me so deep and I push too hard and hit the back of her throat.

Maybe I’m perverse, but distantly, I’m relieved that I will have the sound of her gagging on my cock on record for the rest of my goddamn life.

“Chlo,” I whisper. I’m not looking at her through the camera anymore. I don’t know if I’m even capturing anything. “Chloe, I’m gonna…”

Chloe takes me deeper. She presses my hand against the back of her head, urging me to push for her, guide her. I don’t want to hurt her.

“Chloe, baby, please.”

She moans around me, her own pleading. I push her deeper onto my cock, press into her with my hips.

Feel her swallow around me as I unload down the back of her throat.

I make sounds I’ve never heard before. My legs shake and sweat clings to my back.

I abandon the camera to somewhere in the mattress.

Hopefully the duvet will catch its fall.

I land on my knees, her head still in my lap as she draws every last drop of come from me.

“Stop,” I say, quietly. “Please. Stop. No more. Please.”

She pulls off me, her lips puffy and pink, shining with spit, and I cup her face in my hands, her cheeks and chin wet. I kiss her, lick her, suck her tongue into my mouth, greedy for the taste of her and myself.

A stupider man would let this moment get away from him, say too much, too loud, too fast, because his heart is pounding too hard in his chest and he can’t tell the taste of her from the taste of him on her mouth.

A stupider man would let the feelings of right now pull him into the past, when he was freer with his words. I’m not a stupid man. Not anymore.

I brush my thumb across her cheekbone, her lips. “Your turn.”

Chloe climbs onto me, straddling my still shaking legs.

Leaning back to make space between us, she takes my hand and guides me between her legs.

“You get so wet.” I breathe the words across her throat as I ghost my fingers along the soft petals of her lips, tease her with gentle pressure at her hole.

“Dean,” she says. My name sounds like a command at first, but quickly ends in a pleading, plaintive note. She shifts on my lap, looking for pressure, for friction. “Dean, please.” She huffs. I kiss her as I slip three fingers into her pussy, so I can feel the sound of her moan as much as I hear it.

“You know I’ll always give it to you, right?

” I ask as she slowly fucks my hand. I push her hair back, over her shoulder, off her face, so I can see all of her.

“When have I ever not given you exactly what you wanted?” I say with a smirk and a teasing tone.

But as I slide my thumb over her clit, as I grip her ass cheek with my other hand, it hits me how true it is.

Chloe grabs me by the ears and pulls me to her tits.

I follow with eyes closed and mouth open.

I suck each nipple into tight, pink peaks as her moans fill my ears.

She holds my hand between her legs in place, twists herself to cover my hand on her ass with her own.

“I wish I could take more of you,” she says between gasps.

“I wish you could fill me up, everywhere. I wish I could feel you everywhere. All at once.” She sounds frustrated, almost sad.

Like it’s only a wish, one that can never come true.

I drag my tongue along her skin, over her tits. She tastes like salt and sweat and smells like me. And I say, “You can.” I promise, “You will.”

Because fuck me, if she wants it, she’ll have it. “I’ll always give it to you, baby. Whatever you want,” I whisper.

Her lashes flutter open as she comes, her cheeks flushed. The sound she makes, the most relieved agony. Then, my name; the best part of all of this. “Dean” over and over and over until it loses all meaning.

Eventually, we hear things, like birds outside, the creaks and hums of a quiet house.

Eventually, we peel ourselves away from each other, bodies sticky with sweat and come.

We lie back down on our sides, face to face.

My cock is soft and strangely colder than the rest of my body, but I can’t bring myself to cover up with a blanket or clothes.

She runs her fingers through my hair, her eyes closed like the gesture gives her as much comfort as it does me. “You won’t edit those photos, will you?” she asks.

Fuck . I sit up, sifting through the bedsheets for the camera. It’s lodged under a pillow, teetering on the edge near the end of the bed. The recording was somehow turned off, but miraculously, the battery isn’t completely dead.

“I won’t,” I say slowly. I’m scared to open these photos. And to tell her that not all of them are photos. Fuck . “Um…so I did something kind of stupid in the moment.” I hand her the camera. I have to tell her. Or else all of this will have been for nothing.

She sits propped up on my pillow; she won’t look at the camera, only me.

I click the right buttons for her, so she can see on the display. “I should have asked first and…” I run my hand through my hair; it felt better when she was doing it. “I’m sorry. I’ll delete it. ”

Finally, Chloe presses the playback button. From where I sit, I can’t see what I captured, and there’s no speaker for any recorded sound, so I’m left to watch her face. The confused frown between her eyebrows, the way she sucks her lower lip into her mouth, the flush that glows deeper in her skin.

“I’m sorry,” I say again. There are a million excuses I could make: It was in the moment. I wasn’t thinking. I was overwhelmed. But all that really matters is: “It won’t happen again.”