True Divide (15 page)

But Jake is so much to take in. So much that I can't stand feeling less than perfect. I close my eyes and tip my head down. None of this mattered when he had my dress shoved up around my waist on my desk, and he's only seeing the other half of me now, but somehow that changes everything.

His hand finds my chin and prods, but I don't give in. At the very least, I need a minute to get straight here. Maybe down a fifth of whiskey. Either/or, really.

“Hey. What's going on?”

I shake my head. “Nothing.”

“Liar,” he whispers. He tries to nudge my head up again. “Tell me what's wrong. I'll fix it.”

A half snort of a chuckle happens at my hearing his words, which makes me feel even less sexy. Where is the ability to utter a husky moan, à la some bygone movie siren, when you need it?

“Take your shirt off. Something. I'm feeling a little uncomfortable right now. I need us a bit more evenly matched in the clothing department.”

Without a word, he pulls off his shirt, and because I still refuse to lift my head, all I can see is the lowest part of his stomach, the space just above where his unbuckled belt lies open. That didn't help at all. Other than to distract my hands, because I can't resist touching him now, fingers tracing over each ridge, palms nestled where I can feel his breath moving.

“Lacey, please look at me. You're making me nervous. And I'm already nervous enough, so I need you to look at me. Show me that pretty face so I know what's going on here.”

How this moment turned, I don't understand. Yet it has and I'm seriously considering sending Jake on his way, putting on my sloppiest clothes, and pretending this never happened. I thought I could handle this, him, but maybe I can't. Not with him. Not when the man standing in front of me is good and sexy and more than I should probably hope for.

When I raise my gaze, the look on his face shouts that I've ruined this whole thing. His brow is nothing but frustrated creases, eyes crinkled at the corners in confusion, lips slightly parted as if he wants to say something but can't decide exactly where to start.

“If you don't want to do this, just say that, Lace. It's fine. No pressure.”

I slip my hands up his chest and lean forward to kiss the space where his clavicle leads to his pecs. If we end up getting dressed because this is a disaster, I want to know I at least got a little taste. Jake groans the instant my lips press there.

“It's fine? You wouldn't be the least bit disappointed?”

Another groan. “Well, yeah, of course I'd be disappointed. I'd probably need a few minutes alone to deal with how hard I am. Then we'll have to play Yahtzee all night to keep my mind engaged. But I won't push you. If you don't want to or you aren't ready, whatever, I'll deal.”

Previously too entranced by his abs, I didn't notice the erection straining at the front of his pants. Now, at his reference, I'm a little surprised I missed that. Seeing it helps, though. I continue to kiss across his chest but let my hands drop to trace the outline of his cock with my fingers.

“Is this for me?”

Jake coughs uncomfortably and then offers a small growl. “Are you kidding me? I can't believe we're actually having this conversation.
Yes.
Christ, obviously it's for you. Because of you. You and that ass, those tits, how good you smell, how crazy sexy you are. Yes. Every inch of how hard I am right now is because every inch of you turns me inside out. Was there a question in your mind about that?”

I shrug my shoulders a little and continue to trace his length, using the full breadth of my hands now. Jake grabs my hands and brings them up, then kisses the tips of my fingers a few times.

“Are we OK here? I said I wouldn't push, but I can't play around like this if you aren't ready. It's too . . .
hard
.” He closes his eyes and sighs. “And, yes, all puns apply to what I just said. Too. Hard.”

Murmuring a laugh, I return to kissing across his chest, biting the flesh every so often, and losing my hang-ups a bit more with every grunt he emits. When I dip my head down enough to flick my tongue over his nipple, his entire body stiffens and he croaks out a plea so quiet I almost can't make out the words. “Are we good? You have to stop unless—”

I nod into the next kiss, and murmur the sound of wanting him.

“I need the words, Lacey.”

“Yes. We're good. I want this.” Jake groans and drops my hands so he can grab me into a hug. “I just needed to know you want me. That you like the way I look.”

When his hands find my ass, he doesn't pause to stroke or trace gently, simply takes and lays a heavy slap against one side. The harsh contact against my bare skin is exactly what I need, surprisingly. His hand punishing the flesh for just those seconds drives a long moan from my throat. Then his hands stroke, knead, grab until I'm nearly writhing against the length of his body to encourage him.

“Never question if I want you. It's a straight-up fact. I want you. I think you look like my every freaking fantasy. If you need reminding, just feel how hard you make me. But if you question me too much, your ass is going to be sore. Got it?”

Whether he's asking to incite further punishment or to comfort my anxiety, I don't know, but the growl he speaks with has me leaning toward punishment. Craving another round of his hand admonishing me, I don't respond. He does exactly what I want but just a touch harder, taking the other side.

“Now turn around. Let me get a good look at you from the back side.”

Thank God the bed is right here. Because when I turn and find the security of the mattress, knees bracing there and arms stretching forward to find something to fall against, it's the only thing keeping me vertical at this point. The sound of Jake pulling his belt off and tossing it where he put his coat makes my eyes droop closed. Followed by the noise of his zipper coming down. I want to turn again, see him, finish the work of getting his clothes off, but his hands are on my body too soon, draping over my shoulders and then drifting down my back, in a wide path that means the tips of his fingers brush the side of my breasts. If I could twist enough to encourage his full grasp, I would. But his hands linger nowhere, moving down and down until they land at my waist.

“Oh hell. What do we have here?”

When I feel where his fingers have started to trace in slow motion, I cringe and then groan. We were doing so well there, body issues shelved for the moment. Now this.

I have a tramp stamp. And I hate it. Loathe it. Detest it.

Not only is it poorly done, but the design is so lame I usually try to avoid catching even a glimpse of it in the mirror. A pink butterfly, surrounded by the outline of a black heart and bunch of uneven tribal work woven around it. You couldn't fit another piece of flash in there if you tried. It's already faded badly, but I pray that someday I'll wake up and it will have simply sloughed away completely.

I sigh. “Go ahead, make all the fun of me you want.”

Jake's fingers stop tracing. “Why would I make fun of you?”

“Because it's so stupid. I'm like a walking cliché. The blonde with a tramp stamp.”

He laughs and starts tracing again. “I don't know, I think there's something kind of hot about it. On you. Since it sounds like you don't go around trying to show it off, the fact I get to see it when you're like this makes it even better.”

“Still, dumb decision and a waste of money. I was twenty-two and drunk. Yet another cliché.”

Jake moves his hands to curl around my waist, urging me to stand up straight, abandoning the way I was bent over and resting on the mattress. Over my belly, he moves his hands upward until he can put them right in front of my face.

“See these?” The small tattoos on his knuckles that he tried to hide at the bar are clearly visible. On each hand, tattooed in black ink, a heart, spade, diamond, and club. “These are cover-ups. Care to guess what outcast cliché I had inked on my knuckles when I was nineteen?”

I let my body fall into the security of his, my head rolling back to rest against his shoulder.

“It used to say ‘lost soul' across my knuckles. It was a toss-up between that and ‘P-U-N-X.' Like the Transplants song. You know, ‘P-U-N-X tattooed on my knuckles.' ”

Giggling, I shake my head. “Oh yes. The Transplants song, of course. That's my favorite one.”

A kiss lands on my cheek. “Anyway, I'm a member of the lame-tattoo club, too. One day, I looked down and realized that shit was a self-fulfilling prophecy, so I had them covered up. But as long as you don't mind these hands doing this”—both hands come to cup my breasts, the flesh heating the minute he begins to push them together, drawing his thumbs over the peaked nipples—“then we should be fine.”

As his hands work there, holding me steady under the strong grasp, my hips start to twist and move.

“See, I don't mind at all that you're pushing that tramp stamp up against my dick right now. I fucking love it.”

Prompted by the words, I continue. Jake's hands grip my breasts harder, shifting just enough that he can trap a nipple on each side between his finger and thumb, increasing the pressure and tweaking them for good measure.

When I lose my breath under that harsh touch, he notices and loosens his grip. If he thinks I don't like it, he's wrong. I like it. The sharp edge of discomfort, the sensation of drowning in that uneasy panic, trying to guess how far he might take it. I shove my ass against him again while arching my back to encourage his hands, but Jake instead lets one hand drop away. Gently tracing my side, down to my hip, with his knuckles. As his fingers move between my legs, I tense a little, waiting for him to dip low and deep enough to feel how ready I am, how desperate my body is for the slip of his fingers there, either thrust inside or circling my clit. When he does, the guttural curse of discovery he offers,
“so fucking wet,”
sounds like praise.

Only a few rubs in, my body pressing toward his hand as much as it can, Jake slows the pace and nearly stops. It takes all my self-control not to whimper when his hand disappears. At the noise of a condom wrapper ripping open, I manage to push away from his body and bend at the waist again, hoping to lock my knees and elbows sufficiently enough to take him as hard as I'm hoping he's willing to give.

The latex under his guidance squeaks a little, muffled slightly by his shaky breathing. He steps forward and lets his cock slide between my legs, teasing and preparing. I shimmy my feet out a bit, inviting him with a circle of my hips.

“Ah, shit, we can't . . . Hold on, let me think straight for a second.” Jake grabs my hips and pulls back on them, hard. Then stills completely.

I turn over my shoulder to see him, eyes clenched and fingers suddenly gripping harshly into my flesh. “Jake. Please.”

Jake growls and smacks my ass. “All I want to do is fuck you, bent over just like this. Hard and fast. But it's our first time, so that's not cool, right? We need to go missionary or something the first time. Look at each other and shit. But, God help me, I just want to take you right now.”

Dropping my head forward, I sigh. “But it's not our first time.”

“I know, technically it's not. But it
is
, you know?”

Jake continues to dig his fingers into the skin of my hips, and if he doesn't let go soon, he's going to break the skin. Which wouldn't be all bad, except that he's only doing it because he's tense and unmoving. Way different from if he were gripping that way to keep me in place while he pounds my body into next week. I nearly laugh at the absurdity of what I think he's trying to do. I don't need him to treat me like a seventeen-year-old virgin again.

“Come on, Jake, you've got a blonde with a tramp stamp bent over, legs spread, and going out of her mind she wants you so much. You know how she really wants it. Give me everything.”

Slowly, his fingers begin to loosen, hips urging forward with annoyingly tiny thrusts so his cock can continue to slick along the space where I need him so badly my head is beginning to swim under the pressure of waiting for it. He lets out a tense, edgy exhale.

“Can you handle
everything,
Lace? Are you fucking sure? Because if you say yes, I plan to go at this so goddam hard you won't be able to do a fucking thing but take it. So be sure before you answer.”

I wait a beat before answering in a ragged whisper,
“Yes.”

Suddenly, my right knee is in his grasp, jerking it up to rest on the edge of the bed, his other hand pushing down on my back, urging my chest to the mattress. The position drives my hips up, ass first, opening my body to him so quickly I immediately grab fistfuls of the duvet cover simply to have something to secure my position. Jake's cock pushes against my opening perfectly, absent of any awkward adjustments to find the right spot, but he gives only the head. One quick nudge. At first, I think he's teasing me, and I want to curse out for him to knock it off, but when he takes me again, it's with all of him. Instantly I know it wasn't a tease, it was merely him setting me up. Giving me a brief moment to prepare for taking him in one shove, one perfect thrust to fill me properly.

Once he's there, so deep, I let out a moan that ends in a sigh, the pressure of him so right I almost can't remember how any other man felt before this.

“There it is. There's that little sound I love.”

Jake takes a few long, tempered strokes as his hand comes around my body to find the spot just above where we come together, the flats of three fingers circling as he continues to move. When he starts to let loose, the strokes turn shorter, harder, and less rhythmic until he gives in and comes to cover my body with his. My back entirely draped in the press of his chest. His head tucked into my neck. His powerful guy legs, rubbing against the smooth skin on the backs of my girly legs. All of this means he's deeper. With every push, his groans evolve into something that nearly sounds like pain, and if I didn't suspect the difference, I would worry, but between the sounds, there are words. Words about how good I feel, mutterings about being so perfect, how bad he wants this, how close he is to losing it, telling me to give him a scream when I come.