Page 18 of Sexting the Coach (Pucking Daddies #6)

Elsie

Distantly, in some part of my mind, I know that knocking on Weston’s door is a bad idea. But that doesn’t stop me from walking down the hallway—wearing nothing but a little black nightgown—and standing in front of his room, heart pounding.

For a full minute, I try to convince myself to walk away. That I’m only here because he wants to keep me safe, and for no other reason. That it’s not a good idea for me to get tangled up with him, because I’ll definitely catch feelings.

When I raise my hand to knock, I freeze, fist held up in front of the door, heart hammering. How embarrassing would it be if he turned me away?

But he doesn’t. Instead, he throws the door open, body rocking forward like he’s about to walk out into the hallway himself. Our eyes lock, then my gaze travels over him, taking in his mussed hair, his rumpled gray sweatpants, the way his body leans toward me.

Then he’s reaching out, grabbing me, pulling me into his room.

I let out an embarrassingly breathless sound as he cradles me—one hand behind my head, the other at the small of my back—and presses me against the wall, his mouth slanting over mine, his tongue hot and seeking.

It’s just like that day in the elevator. Like the tension has snapped between us, and we can come together without word or discussion.

I press into him, hands sliding up into his hair, tugging, and I realize he’s not wearing a hat. It makes me feel special, chosen, to touch him like this. To have him all to myself.

We breathe into each other, Weston taking his time to kiss me thoroughly and completely, until I feel loose in his arms, limbs warm and limber, my thoughts scattering completely. The only thing I can think about is the press of his hips to mine, the promise of the bulge under his sweatpants.

His fingers toy with the hem of my nightgown. I slide my fingers under the waistband of his sweatpants. He pulls down the collar of my pajamas and runs his searing tongue over my nipple, eliciting another dark noise from me.

“Elsie,” he growls, his voice rumbling against the sensitive skin on my chest, his facial hair a rough contrast to his impossibly soft lips. “I’m going to fuck you now.”

I’m nodding before he finishes the sentence, my head knocking back against the wall as I do. He gathers me up in his arms, walks me backward to his bed. I fall back onto it, breathing hard, waiting for the weight of him on me, craving it like I’ve never craved anything in my life.

But it doesn’t come.

I swallow and prop myself up on my elbows, worried that I might find him realizing this is a mistake, pulling back, putting on more clothes and asking me to leave his room.

Blood rushes to my head when I realize what he’s actually doing.

Sinking down onto his knees, Weston grabs the back so my knees and pulls me, so my ass is flush with the edge of the bed.

Like a man possessed, he kisses the insides of my ankles, my calves, his hair falling over his forehead, his eyes practically black and shining in the dim light coming in through the balcony doors.

“Weston,” I croak, heart beating in my throat when I realize what he’s planning. His fingers press on the insides of my thighs, desperate and seeking, little noises coming from his throat that sound like barely-maintained restraint. “Are you—”

But the words die in my throat when he hooks his thumbs in my panties, drawing them down my hips. The cool air against my throbbing, needy pussy makes me gasp, but it doesn’t stay cool for long, because Weston follows with a swipe of his thumb through me.

“You’re wet for me,” he says, simply, eyes flicking up to mine. The atmosphere in the room is thick, hanging between us, then he tears his eyes away from my eyes and squeezes my thighs again, his gaze dropping to the core of me. “And so, fucking pretty.”

I shiver at the rush of pleasure that rolls through me at the compliment, and his mouth follows closely after. I contort like I’m possessed, my back arching up off the bed, and I gasp—my body has never done something like that before. Like I was out of control.

It’s not that Jonathan was bad at sex—I’d come most of the time. But he didn’t really like oral, and I was fine with that. The entire thing felt embarrassing, especially when he played it up as a big gift for my birthday or something.

But Weston acts not only like this is completely normal, but like it’s the only thing he’s been able to think about.

His tongue is unbelievably strong, lapping at me, consistent and thorough.

He alternates between providing just the right amount of pressure at the right pace, until I feel the edge of my orgasm on the horizon, and lazily exploring me, kissing the insides of my thighs, tucking his hands under my ass, and holding me to him so I can’t squirm away.

I’ve never felt anything like it in my life. It’s more than just his skill—it’s the insatiable way he moves, the noises he makes, like this is just as good for him as it is for me.

And it’s really, really fucking good for me.

Weston edges me for what feels like hours, bringing me to the very brink of collapse, then pulling back, and cycling through that until my entire body is shaking and I’m practically sobbing, begging him for release.

“Please,” I croak, gripping at the sheets, at his hair. When I try to touch myself, he bats my hand away, grinning wickedly up at me from his place between my legs. “Weston—please.”

And when he finally follows through, sliding two expert fingers inside me like he did in that elevator, I orgasm so hard and for so long I’m sure I’m never coming back down to earth again.

When I start to blink awake the next morning, surrounded in the cedary scent of Weston Wolfe, it takes me a moment to emerge from my dream and remember where I am. And who I’m with. And what exactly we did last night.

Weston is asleep on his stomach, his face buried in the pillow, several streaks of silver running along the crown of his head. It makes my stomach swoop, this private little peak into his life and his insecurities. And it also reminds me that I had my fingers in that head of hair last night.

“Oh, God,” I whisper, sitting up, heart racing, realizing that when he was finished with me, I’d snuggled right into the bed and fallen straight asleep.

He ate me out for what felt like hours, and the second he was done, I passed right out.

“What’s wrong?” Weston’s voice is tired, a little muffled, and I glance over at him, watching as he lifts his head, looking around the room like he might be able to find what’s bothering me.

“I—I—”

What is wrong with me?

Weston sits up, running a hand over his face, and I’m so mortified I can hardly stand to look at him. I’ve heard stories from Mabel and Hattie of going out with a guy, only for them to get their rocks off and fall asleep, not giving a shit about whether or not my friends got to come.

There were times with Jonathan that he’d nod off after, or I’d pretend to orgasm just so he’d stop with his pitiful attempts.

But last night, with Weston, the tables were turned. I happily took everything he was willing to give and fell asleep before he even returned from the bathroom.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, pressing the backs of my hands into my cheeks as an attempt to cool them. “Last night was—”

“—a mistake,” Weston finishes, clearing his throat and shifting away from me. “No, I’m sorry, Elsie, I should have—”

“Oh, right—” my heart is pounding in my throat again, but this time, not for a fun reason. Weston thinks last night was a mistake. He probably thinks I’m selfish. Or a dead fish—only able to take and not receive. “I mean—”

He raises a hand to me, “It’s okay, I understand. I don’t—I mean, we shouldn’t complicate things by being physically involved, right?”

I must have said that at some point. And he told me, point-blank, that he doesn’t have time right now for a real relationship.

My stomach lurches, and I stand, taking his sheet with me, cheeks flaming at the fact that I am still very much naked, and I’m about to drag his bedding out into the hallway with me to keep him from seeing me.

Even though he saw every part of me last night.

I can’t stay here and think about it for another second, or I’m absolutely going to throw up on his nice wood floor.

“Right.” I grind the word out and take care not to trip on the sheet as I hurry to the door. “No, absolutely, I understand—last night was a—well, it shouldn’t happen again. I’ll just—I’ll return your sheet later.”

And with that, I shut the door to his room, only to realize the corner of the sheet is stuck. Sucking in a quick, mortified breath, I let it drop and run the rest of the way to the guest room, my entire body flushed with adrenaline, lust, and disappointment.

Weston thinks last night was a mistake.

Of course he does. He’s used to sex with Leda Temple.

Or maybe he was telling the truth about not having time for something like this. Either way, I’m in trouble.

Because I didn’t feel like last night was a mistake. I got a taste of him, and I want more—more of his body, more quiet moments alone with him.

It’s terrifying, like my heart is breaking prematurely for something I know I’ll never really get to have. After hastily pulling on a pair of jeans a t-shirt, and running my hands through my hair, I do the only thing I can think of.

“You totally slept together, didn’t you?” Mabel asks the moment she picks up the call. I run into the bathroom, turn down the volume, and spend the next hour avoiding Weston and over-examining everything that happened with my best friends.