Delay of Game, Chapter Three

1Chapter Three

“We’re friends.” I search his familiar gaze, one that I conjure up before I close my eyes at night and the one I seek out in my dreams, and for the first time I see something more than friendliness there.

“And that’s all, right?” He takes a deep breath and then takes a step back. My eyes involuntarily drop to the vicinity of his zipper. The sight of his shaft pushing against the denim rouses a corresponding ache between my own legs.

“I didn’t realize there could be more for us.” The words are barely a whisper. I raise my agonized eyes to his face. His jaw is set but there’s no less lust in his expression. “You…you’re always dating someone.”

Wyatt always has women buzzing around him. At Mulligan’s. When we go out to lunch. They even show up at the job sites.

“I’m not dating anyone. I haven’t been with anyone since college,” he says between clenched teeth.

“Not since Heidi?” I ask in utter shock. Heidi was his college girlfriend. He dated her for two years. She hated me. Hated my friendship with Wyatt. I don’t know what happened to end their relationship but one day he showed up and said they were over. And he never had another girlfriend, but I thought for sure he’d been hooking up. There’d been so many offers. Numbers slipped into his pockets. Napkins left by waitresses. Cards dropped onto tables by women who apparently took one look at how he ate his roast beef sandwich and thought to themselves, I want a piece of that.

“Yeah. She was an utter shit-head to you, and I feel guilty I didn’t notice it sooner. She wanted me to stop being friends with you, and I told her to go to hell.” Wyatt runs an unsteady hand through his tousled hair. “I don’t want to talk about Heidi. I want to talk about you. Your makeover. Your desire to move. What’s this all about?”

“It’s about wanting more.” I search for the right words. “I want a family, a big house filled with people. I want love…and marriage.”

His eyes flash with something I think is joy.

“Then you’ll damn well have more with me.” He jerks me back against his body and fixes his mouth against mine. Wyatt isn’t my first kiss but he kisses me differently than I’ve ever been kissed before. It’s not just his lips against mine. It’s the nonverbal torrent of emotion conveyed through the press of our bodies. It’s lust, longing, want, desire, need, all tumbled into a ball passed between us. Time passes. The moon shifts, the tides come in, the earth rolls on its axis, but we remain clenched together.

One hand glides down to cup my rear, pulling me even closer against him. The other tangles in my hair to hold my head at precisely the right angle for the onslaught of his passionate kiss.

I cling to him as a tornado of feeling swirls around my small apartment. He lifts me, mid-kiss, and carries me to the sofa. Somehow he manages to get us prone without breaking contact.

He’s a magician.

The mere touch of his mouth, the sweep of his tongue, his hands over my clothes are arousing me into a fitful state, the kind I’ve never experienced before.

“Wyatt. Wyatt,” I murmur against his mouth. I tug at his t-shirt, trying to pull it up over his head, or at least bare some of that tawny skin.

He leans back slightly and rips the t-shirt off. I take a moment to appreciate the view, the golden hair dusting his pectorals and a slightly darker line leading into his jeans.

“Touch me, Lisle,” he says. He pulls my hand up and places the shaking appendage on his ridged abdomen. I run the tips of my fingers over the rectangular muscles, up to his hard pectorals. “You’re going the wrong way,” he teases, and bends down to place his mouth against the slope of my neck.

I whimper at the exquisite pleasure of it. “What’s happening to us?” I ask.

Wyatt gives me a gentle smile and runs a finger across my forehead, tickling the fringe of my bangs. “Why don’t you tell me? I’ve asked you before. Why are you making all these changes?”

I’ve been telling myself, my friends, my family, a sack of lies for years. It’s time to come clean. “For you.”

He strokes a work-roughened hand down my face. “Was that so hard?”

“Yes.” I nod miserably. “Very hard. My heart is beating so fast, I think you might need to call emergency services.”

“Let me feel.” He reaches up to cup my left breast, and that simple touch is nearly enough to send me into a tailspin. “I can’t tell,” he whispers against my cheek. “There’s too much fabric for me.”

His hand glides under my shirt. My bra is unclasped in an instant. His fingers sweep across the tips of my nipples, and it’s a good thing I’m lying down because my knees feel like jelly. The deep V-neck of my top is swept aside, and his mouth latches on to the erect tip of my nipple. He sucks in hard, the sides of his cheeks hollowing out, and I feel every pull as if there’s a direct line from my breast to my core.

I spread my legs, wanting to feel that hard erection against me, but my damn skirt is too tight. He releases a chuckle against my breast and tugs me upright. With little fanfare, he disposes of my shirt, my bra, and my skirt until all I’m left with is a naughty black lace thong.

The cool air makes me feel self-conscious. I don’t have a hard body. I’m shaped by too many caramel lattes and ice-cream desserts. I plaster my hands over my boobs and crotch but Wyatt tsks his tongue against the roof of his mouth and peels my hands away. “You’re so damn beautiful, Lisle. I liked having you to myself. Now everyone is going to see how hot you are. I’m going to have to carry around a bat to beat them off.”

Mischievously, my hand reaches between his legs. “I don’t think you need anything bigger than what you have.”

He groans. “Shit like that will result in you getting fucked too hard.”

I nearly faint at his threat. “Is there such a thing?”

“We’re going to find out if you don’t move your hand,” he replies grimly. He plucks my reluctant fingers from his zipper and simultaneously moves down the sofa while pushing me upright until I’m lounging against the arm with my knees splayed open.

He traces the edges of the black lace at the juncture of my legs. With each sweep of his finger over the cloth, I grow wetter and wetter. He stares at me like I’m a banquet filled with all his favorite foods.

He reaches behind him and grabs one of the throw pillows and plumps it underneath my ass. “These have to go,” he orders, his voice guttural. He draws my panties down my legs and then pushes my thighs open. This time I don’t feel self-conscious. The naked want in his face reassures me that this is the most glorious vision he’s ever been privileged enough to lay eyes on.

Then he leans down and licks me and licks me and licks me. I shudder underneath him. This is going to be over fast, I think.

“No,” he answers; I must have spoken out loud. “This is just the beginning.”

Wyatt’s not tender. He doesn’t treat me like a fragile flower. He attacks me. He pushes my thighs up and apart, opening me until there’s nowhere for me to hide. He buries his face between my legs, and I swear there is no part he doesn’t lick or suck or nip. As he devours me, he makes these sounds as if I’m so delicious he can’t keep quiet.

I dig my nails into the cushions as my whole body tautens under his onslaught. The orgasm takes me by surprise, exploding from my center, lifting my body off the cushions, and ripping a cry of ecstasy from my throat.

Limp and weak, I can only watch as he tears off his clothes until he is as bare as I am. He takes his huge shaft in his hands and jerks it roughly. Pearl white fluid appears on the tip and he uses it as lubrication. I raise my hand tentatively, wondering if I can touch him and feel his velvety skin against my palm.

He licks his lips and halts. When he releases his cock, it bounces, lightly striking my clit, and I cry with delight at the sensation. He closes my fingers around the shaft and then wraps his hand around mine. Together we work him. He shows me how hard to grip him (hard!) and where to twist (at the top!) and how to cup his balls (carefully!).

His eyes narrow to tiny slits, flitting from my face to his cock and back again. The heat of his skin scorches my palm, as if his blood is boiling underneath the surface. Our palms are slick with his arousal, with the sweat of our exertion, and it’s just enough friction, slick heat, and pressure to make him bow his back and come.

The milky white seed spurts onto my pubis and onto my stomach and even around the upper curve of my breast. He swallows hard, and his eyes glitter with wanton possession.

He lets go of my hand and spreads his large palm on my tummy. “You’re mine now,” he growls, and I shiver at the possessiveness of his words.

In this context, in this moment, they are sweeter than any compliment. I move to tug him down, to feel the full weight of his body pressing mine into the cushions, but he resists.

“We’re moving on to phase two,” he says, and gets to his feet. I struggle to push up to my elbows.

“Phase two?” The orgasm has fried my brain.

“Phase two is me fucking you until you don’t remember anything but my name.” He leans down and picks me up in his arms. Again, I’m struck by how strong Wyatt is. He doesn’t huff and puff as he carries me down the hall. He doesn’t shift my weight from arm to arm. It’s as if carrying me is as easy as lifting a five-pound bucket of nails.

When we reach the bedroom, he throws me onto the bed and then looks around. His penis bobs between us as if he hadn’t just come. I stare at it in amazement.

“How can you still be erect?” I ask, propping myself up on an elbow. “Is that scientifically possible?”

“Around you? Apparently so.” He absently rubs himself. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?” I don’t want him to go. I’m hot and achy and the release he gave me feels like it was ten centuries ago. I haven’t had him inside me yet and I need him there. “I don’t want you to leave.”

“I need a condom, sweetheart.” He leans down and kisses me. Momentarily, I forget everything including my name until he lets me up for air.

“Have you really not had sex for five years?” I place a hand on his arm to prevent him from going.

“Really.” He nods abruptly, as if his long period of abstinence is a painful memory.

“I’m on the pill. For medical reasons,” I hurriedly explain at his frown.

His arm trembles beneath my hand. “You sure?”

“Absolutely. 100%.” I raise my two thumbs.

He grins ruefully. “It won’t be two thumbs up because I’m going to come in about five seconds. This is a fantasy I’ve been jerking off to for about five years now, but I’ll make it up to you.” He positions himself between my legs and then positions the tip right at my swollen, sensitive entrance. “I’ve thought about this a million times but it hasn’t prepared me for how good it feels just to kneel between your legs.”

I look at him through my lashes. “I’ve dreamt about this a million times but nothing is like the real thing. You here, touching me with so much love and tenderness, makes me wonder if I’m still dreaming.”

His hard face softens, and his hand comes up to cup my face. “It’s no dream, sweetheart. And I do love you. I always have. Always will.”

Tears come to my eyes as he slides inside me. “I love you, Wyatt. I was born loving you. I’ll die loving you.”

He presses his hips forward, pinning me with his body and with his gaze. I widen my legs, opening for him, and he glides deeper, so deep that he’s touching my heart. Never once does he take his eyes from mine. I roll my hips to meet his thrusts, and he withdraws slowly so I can feel his thick, ridged head cock every nerve ending in my pussy.

His arms shake by my head with his effort to stay in control, to make it perfect for me. But I don’t need that. I want his wildness, his roughness, his unquenched desire. I scrape my fingers down his back until they stop at his ass. And then, based on something I read, I slide just the tip of my index finger into that private place of his.

His eyes widen and his nostrils flare and his hips jack into mine with a force that surprises us both. He growls—deep, needy, and low. There’s no escaping him. He powers into me, swiveling his hips, driving against my pubic bone, rubbing against my clit, stroking me with power and passion until I can do nothing but cling to him as the tidal wave of sensation crashes over my head and takes me under.

He reads my body, or my face, and lets loose his own fragile control. He thrusts into me with mindless pleasure and those thrusts, and his abandon, sweep me over the edge once again.

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