Underneath It All (The Walsh Series #1) (19 page)

“Don’t stop but please don’t keep doing that,” I said.

He froze for a moment, then pulled out. “What’d I do? What’s wrong?”

I rolled over and settled in his lap, my back to his chest, knowing this position always worked for us. We’d tried them all, and determined our strengths and preferences quickly. I guided him into me, and we sighed when I sank down over him. “You can still be a caveman while being gentle.”

We moved together slowly, undulating in a patient rhythm with his arm braced over my breasts and his mouth on my neck and shoulders. This was sleepy, middle-of-the-night sex, quiet and calm and instinctual, with the only sounds coming from hushed moans and skin sliding across skin. I felt Matthew—all of him—swallowing all of me until there was no delineation between us.

We weren’t frantic and we weren’t primal, and we weren’t hiding behind filthy bucket lists, alcohol, or a certain degree of anonymity. We’d needed those things to come together before, to be whatever, whomever we wanted—at least I needed them—but we didn’t need them anymore. This was where we knew each other, where we anticipated every sound and shiver, and we didn’t need anything else. It was just us, just Matt and Lauren, and we only needed this.

He brought his hand to my pelvis, holding me there and pressing, and we felt my walls closing around him, magnifying the fullness. I laced my fingers with his, guiding him.

“I want your fingers on me, just like…” I demonstrated, my fingers scribbling over my clit while I arched into him. I was right there, so close
so close
, but I wasn’t ready to go over yet, and I stiffened, holding back and fighting off the first tickles of release. My clit couldn’t take any more stimulation right now, and I moved our fingers lower, to where he moved in me. Our pace slowed to an aching roll, and we moaned in concert when we rubbed the base of his cock.

“Tell me what you need,” Matthew said against my throat. His voice was strained, almost gravelly, and it strummed every tightly wound nerve in my body. “There is nothing hotter than watching you touch yourself while I’m fucking you, and I know you’re so fucking close and you’re just waiting until I let you come.”

“Why do I love it when you talk to me like that?”

He rocked against me, his forehead pressed to my shoulder and his rough groans against my skin, and I focused on nothing more than the warmth and wetness where we were joined.

“The same reason I love your filthy mind, so just tell me what you need.”

I didn’t have to think about it. The words were right there, rising to the top like perverted little bubbles in my champagne, just waiting for him to ask for them, and here’s the thing: I wanted everything I asked for. I didn’t want him calling me his dirty slut while we ate paella, of course, but I wanted it when the lights and clothes were off. Sex with Matthew was a special type of truth serum for me, and it was the one place I could completely shake off the world and rely only on instinct.

My hips swayed, and through the smooth, round motion I locked our fingers around his base, squeezing while I met his thrusts. And then I turned my head, my lips brushing over Matthew’s, and in the most demure voice possible I said, “I want to be your fuck toy. All for you. Only for you. Only ever for you.”

A strangled grunt rumbled from Matthew’s chest, his arms tightening as he surged into my body. He bit my shoulder hard—harder than ever before, harder than necessary—and I came apart with a shriek, my body liquefying in his arms. The electricity crackling between us went from bright white to starlit darkness, and I felt everything inside me unraveling. Every stitch and seam was sliding loose, and I was undone by him, this, us.

“You’re incredible. So fucking incredible,” he panted. His muscles sagged with a sigh, and his forehead fell to my back.

Matthew kissed my shoulders, holding me close. I studied him over my shoulder for a heavy moment, my gaze dropping to the purple indentations in my skin before breaking our connection to fall into the pillows. He flopped on his stomach beside me and brought his hand to my ass.

“This is crazy,” I whispered.

“I’m starting to think you’re right about that.” Matthew pressed a kiss to the slope of my breast and stared at it, hopefully reminding himself to take it easy with the biting. “But I like this kind of crazy.”

*

I was sore.
Really
sore.

The idea of sitting on an airplane for six hours sent me searching the terminal shops for ibuprofen because there was no room for the constant, throbbing memory of Matthew and last night’s nonstop sex festival on this flight. And it wasn’t like we could only blame last night. It had been four straight days of this.

Suggestive taglines on the covers of
Cosmopolitan
,
Allure
, and
Glamour
caught my attention, all professing the secrets to making my man happy in bed, and I scowled back at them. Those stories required a warning label: ‘You and your man will be happy in bed, but you won’t be able to sit down for three days. And P.S.: he might bite the shit out of your shoulder.’

I knocked back three tablets, pulled on my darkest sunglasses, and wandered the terminal. Once my flight was called, I discovered sitting was exactly as uncomfortable as I expected. Wiggling into a tolerable position, I prayed for smooth skies. I skimmed my emails while passengers boarded, busy clearing issues from my inbox and crossing tiny items from my action plan, and didn’t notice the unopened text message icon in the corner of my screen until the flight attendants started their safety procedures.

07:08 Matthew:
have a good flight sweetness. call me whenever.

I stared at those words, those simple, innocuous words, and heard them as if he was whispering into my ear.

“Miss, you need to turn that off.” The flight attendant nodded toward my phone with a steely glare. “Now.”

I spared the text one last glance before deleting it.

MATTHEW

From: Matthew Walsh

To: Erin Walsh

Date: September 28 at 11:32 EDT

Subject: On the topic of citrus fruit

…Clementines.

Birthday: August 16.

And I need you home at Thanksgiving or Christmas. Get your ass back to Boston. I need you to meet her.

From: Erin Walsh

To: Matthew Walsh

Date: September 29 at 04:30 CEST

Subject: RE: On the topic of citrus fruit

M –

I was going to congratulate you on gathering basic information about your new friend, then I realized how absurd that would be. So. As you were.

And by the way, if architecture doesn’t work out for RISD, tell him there’s work for him calling the plays at high school football games. I can’t tell you how wonderful it was to hear him recap your little in-office molestation, even if his texts are slamming my data plan.

But here’s the real question, kid: did you read her in?

– e

From: Matthew Walsh

To: Erin Walsh

Date: October 4 at 22:56 EDT

Subject: History

E –

You know I’d rather talk this out than go back and forth over email, but you can’t find five minutes to call me or get on Skype. One of these days, you need to explain to me what it is you do with those volcanoes.

She doesn’t know anything about Mom or Angus, and she doesn’t know anything about you and Shannon, but hear me out before you tear into me.

She was raised right, with parents and structures and rules, and happiness and Christmas cards, and you know, decent human beings. You should see her mother’s travel blog, E. It’s like rainbows and puppy dogs and lollipops. That’s what Lauren came from. She’s not like us. She’s good. She might also be a trained assassin, but she’s good.

It was bad enough bringing her to the office for one afternoon. She doesn’t need the highlights of the past twenty years. Trust me on this.

M

From: Erin Walsh

To: Matthew Walsh

Date: October 5 at 05:09 CEST

Subject: RE: History

M –

Volcanologists study the remains of dead or dormant volcanoes, and analyze copious amounts of data in the monitoring of those volcanoes that are active, and those the data suggest will soon become active. At its heart, volcanology is concerned with tracing the mechanisms and causes of volcanic eruptions, pinpointing data trends in advance of eruptions, and drawing correlation and causality between eruptions, Earth’s geological history, and humans and their environments. My work is largely geodesic (studying the correlation between shifts in the planet’s geometry and ground deformations following volcanic incidents) and geochemical (studying the chemical structures of the planet and its volcanic products, specifically, emitted gases).

And you’re wrong. You’re 100% wrong. Are you just hoping she won’t stay around long enough to find out, or that you’ll be able to bleach that particular asshole?

If she’s the fairy princess you’d like to believe she is, she can handle it and you should let her.

– e

From: Matthew Walsh

To: Erin Walsh

Date: October 7 at 03:39 EDT

Subject: RE: History

Hey Little Mermaid –

It appears I’ve had a few adult beverages tonight. You can I call now?

That’s a stupid question. You’re probably scuba diving volcano or doing shots of ouzo. don’t combine the 2.

I know it’s selfish but I you should come home. You’ve been away for sooooo long. First U-Hawaii, and now Portugal/Spain/Italy/wherever the fuck you are. It’s been like 19 years ok not really more like 6 and I know you’re pissed at Shannon, and sometimes I’m pissed at her for you, but when are you coming home?

Sometimes I wish I could leave like you did. You’re probably petting turtles in the Galapagos and that’s really cool. Like really fucking cool. Turtles are awesome.

Wait. The Galapagos aren’t near Spain. Why the fuck are you in South America now?

Anyway. My life is pretty much a giant bag of dicks. It’s 3 in the morning and I’m cleaning up another one of Sam’s designs that will probably win 9 different awards for and he wont mention that anyone made sure the goddamn structure stayed up. It’s taking a really long time to fix his shit, but that might be alcohol’s fault. Don’t tell him. Ill make sure its all ok. lol. But probably shouldn’t do structural analysis and get blasted on whiskey.

Patrick has me babysitting Riley and I swear to god, E, he doesn’t know how to zip his motherfucking pants. I see his dick more than I see my own and that’s problematic for many reasons. I started calculating the probability of seeing his junk on a given day then decided to gag myself instead.

Did we leave him with a pack of wolves or a bucket of lead paint for a couple of years or something? He is a fratty brochild and I don’t have enough shit together to be a father right now. side note: did you know he’s crashing at sam’s place? I don’t think ive ever BEEN to sam’s place. I sure as shit haven’t been invited to stay over.

like I said: big bag o’dicks.

Oh, and guess what? Your favorite person won’t return my texts. By favorite person I mean Lauren, the very nice and pretty girl who lives clementines and has a dirty mouth for daysssss and it doesn’t make sense that you don’t like her. that’s why I need you home for Christmas but I think shes over me anyway.

It’s probably my fault cuz I told her I wanted drinks but she’s always disappearing. But I always find her and that sounds sooo creepy. #muststopcreeping

I like her. A lot. Like a crazy a lot and it sucks that she disappears.

But I still have her pussy necklace so that’s got to count for something, yeah?

What country are you in now? Just pick up the phone. It isn’t that hard to talk. Tell me how to sort this out.

Ok well bye, erin ailise. Don’t swim in volcanoes.

M

From: Erin Walsh

To: Matthew Walsh

Date: October 13 at 10:03 CEST

Subject: Step back from the ledge…

Holy drunk rambles, kid.

If you need to call me, call me. It’s morning here. You don’t need permission. I have bad reception most of the time but don’t get drunk and hate the world alone. And I’m still in Europe. No plans to visit the Galapagos or turtles anytime soon.

And I never said I didn’t like Lauren. It just seemed like you did everything backward with her, and that can be awesome or disastrous, but I don’t want you getting hurt.