Four Years Later (One Week Girlfriend #4)(48)
Author: Monica Murphy

Not necessarily a moment I can talk about in public, but it’s mine. All mine. And I don’t ever want to forget it.

“Owen.” She breathes my name across my lips, the sound of her voice sending a spiral of heat throughout my blood, and I lick her lips, thrust my tongue in her mouth, silencing her.

I push my index finger inside her, her tight, velvety hot flesh clamping all around me. God, she would feel so amazing around my cock. Too damn amazing. I’d probably come in an instant.

I could almost come just thinking about it.

She moves against my hand, thrusting her hips, arching her back, trying to send me deeper. I add another finger, my thumb brushing her clit back and forth, over and over, and she lifts her hips higher, her feet planted on the mattress, her legs spread.

I’m watching her, fascinated by how she reacts to my touch. She’s chanting my name, saying shit I can’t even understand, and I hook my finger deep inside her, press my thumb hard against her clit. She stills, her lips parted, her eyes squeezed shut.

And then she’s coming, her entire body shaking. I can feel her orgasm to her very depths, can feel the trembling and rhythmic pulsating deep within her body, all around my fingers.

It’s like a f**king miracle. Her body responds naturally, beautifully. She sinks to the mattress, limp and sated, still trembling, her legs spread wide and all that pink, slick goodness still on display.

Hell. If I could sink deep inside her right now and lose myself, I so would.

But I won’t. For once in my life, I’m not going to be selfish. I’ll be the giver but not the taker. No matter how difficult it is.

Slowly I withdraw my fingers from her body, leaning in and giving her a kiss before I bring my fingers to my lips and smell her lingering scent. Taste her.

Next time I make her come, I think I should do it with my mouth.

“Oh my God, did you just lick your fingers?” She releases a shuddery sigh and I touch her lips with my hand, trace them with my index finger. The very one that had just been buried deep inside her.

“I promise, next time I’m going down on you. Taste yourself,” I say, feeling like a dirty bastard but I don’t care. Heat flares in my gut as she tentatively darts her tongue out and licks, her expression full of curiosity.

“Salty,” she whispers.

I stretch out beside her, brush my lips against her forehead. “Delicious.”

She loops her arm around me and nestles close, her face against my chest. The room is quiet, I can still hear her accelerated breaths, and I run my fingers over her tangled hair, again and again, hoping to soothe.

“That was …” Her voice drifts off.

“Good? Okay? So-so?”

Chelsea giggles and presses a kiss to my chest. “It was wonderful and you know it.”

“Glad to hear it.” My c**k is throbbing, reminding me it has needs too, but I tell the greedy bastard to back off.

“But what about you? Don’t you want to …”

“Come? Not tonight, Chels. Tonight is all about you.” I kiss her forehead again, needing her to know how much she matters to me though I’m not sure how I can put it into words.

So I remain quiet, just holding her, trying to calm my racing heart, enjoying the blankness that still lingers in my brain. I could go to sleep like this.

If a certain naked Chelsea would stop wiggling against me.

“But aren’t you …”

I love how she can’t come right out and say it. It’s kind of cute. “Hard? Hell yeah. You want to feel it?”

“No!” She pauses, and I muffle a laugh. “Yes,” she says shyly. “I do. Really.”

“Then go for it.” I pull away from her slightly so I’m lying on my back, practically daring her to make a grab. I remove my arm from beneath her and fold both arms behind my head, going for casual, easygoing nothingness.

Inside, though, my nerves are rioting. My body’s screaming for her to touch me. I doubt she’ll work up the nerve.

Chelsea

There’s no way after what he gave me that I’m not going to give him something in return.

My body is still a shuddery, limp mess. I’ve never been very comfortable touching my body. I’ve read books that have given me pleasurable tingles between my legs and I’d try a few times to touch myself there, but I never was really comfortable with it.

I’ve lived such a sheltered life. Parents who never talked about sex but a father who was out screwing every woman he could find. The contradiction there is a psychiatrist’s dream, I’m sure.

I’ve read enough and watched enough TV and movies to know that sex can be amazing. Can feel so good. Usually it just scared me. Not with Owen, though. And the way he just touched me … God.

That had been amazing.

He thinks I’m not going to touch him in return, though. I can tell by the teasing tone of his voice, the smug look as he flops flat on his back, his arms behind his head, a little smirk on his face.

I prop myself up on my elbow and study him. Starting with his strong, muscular neck, his firm collarbone, his beautiful chest. His ni**les are flat, brown, and small and his tanned skin is stretched taut over solid, beautifully shaped muscle. His stomach is ridged and flat, that dark brown trail of hair leading from his navel toward his erection fascinating. Without thought I reach out, drag my finger through the downy soft hair. Following down, down, until I brush against his erection.

It twitches and moves beneath the fabric of his boxer briefs, and I draw my hand back as if it just tried to bite me.

Owen laughs, and I turn a murderous glare on him. “Don’t make fun,” I say, my voice prim.

“Ah, Chels. Never. You’re just too cute.” He cups my cheek, his thumb gliding over my skin. “You’ve never touched a guy like this before, have you?”

“No.” I feel silly, being so inexperienced, and I shouldn’t beat myself up over it. When would I ever get a chance to do something like this? I’ve been alone and socially awkward most of my teenage years. Boys never paid attention to me.

Now I have the most beautiful boy I’ve ever met lying in a bed with me, telling me I’m beautiful, kissing me, bringing me to orgasm with his fingers.

It’s a pretty heady feeling.

“Let’s free the beast.” He starts to tug down his underwear and I laugh at him calling it a beast, then help him, my hands brushing against his firm thighs, his knees, his hairy calves. Until his underwear is around his ankles and he’s kicking them off onto the floor. Naked and bare before me, he resumes his casual position, and all I can do is stare.