I’m wet with arousal, and my nipples are so hard they ache. I can feel my cheeks heat as a breathy moan escapes my mouth. He hasn’t even touched me yet and I’m already closer to orgasm than anyone should be. The effect this man has on me is unreal. “This is just a study,” I say. “It’s purely statistical analysis. For math.”
“Yeah, uh-huh,” he agrees, reaching for me and tracing my face with his finger. “Math…okay.”
“I’m serious,” I protest, the words sounding ridiculous, but necessary, to my own ears.
“So am I,” JT replies, his fingers following the line of my collarbone down to the valley between my breasts. “I’ll prove it, too. You always wear shirts like this—the ones that fall off your left shoulder. There’s gotta be some formula about how the square root of the slope of your neck multiplied by the curve of your shoulder makes me hard as fucking steel.”
“I can promise you there isn’t. That’s not a thing,” I say, loving the banter between us.
“The hell it isn’t,” he counters, taking this moment to pull me close and rock his hips up into mine.
Holy freaking crap.
He’s not lying.
He’s not even exaggerating.
He’s as hard and thick as I remember and my body quivers in anticipation. “So, for the sake of m-math, I’m thinking we should…oh, god…” My words trail off because he’s still pumping into me, despite the layers of clothing between us. He’s leaning back on Viv’s couch and I’m straddling him like I’m some sort of cowgirl. My right knee is wedged between a gap in the cushions and my left foot keeps bumping against the corner of the coffee table, but that’s all just background noise.
“We should take your shirt off,” he says, finishing my sentence for me. “You know, to do that equation.”
It takes me two seconds to pull my shirt off and toss it to the ground.
JT’s eyes shutter closed and his tongue darts between his parted lips. “I need to taste you, Maggie,” he tells me, cupping my lace-covered breasts in his palms.
Wordlessly, I arch into his touch as his mouth closes over the nipple of my right breast. His wet, hungry kiss sends a jolt of electricity through me. I inhale sharply because god, it almost hurts, but the more he sucks and the more his fingers move over my flesh in a gentle kneading motion, the more I crave. Now I’m the one rocking into him, driving our bodies together, practically shoving my chest in his face. But JT hardly seems to mind as he tugs at the straps and pulls my bra down so it encircles my waist like a lacy, useless belt. His mouth is all over me, licking and kissing. He’s got one hand pressed at the small of my back while the other is working its way into the waistband of my sweats. His deft fingers slip under the barrier of my lacy thong and cup my pussy.
Oh. My. God.
His fingers glide through my folds as I ride his hand.
I should probably be paying attention to his cock or kissing his neck or anything other than grinding on his fingers like my next breath depends on the orgasm I’m chasing. I don’t know if it’s JT or just the freedom of our situation—the fact that we’re unattached to each other— but everything seems heightened tonight. My pleasure is more pronounced, my body more aware of his.
His thumb flicks my sensitive clit while his fingers drive inside me. Those sensations alone would be enough to push me to the edge, but he’s even more obsessed with my breasts than he was the last time we were together. It’s all too much in the very best way and I cry out as my orgasm crashes over me.
“Fuck, yes, Maggie,” he mutters, his lips vibrating against the sensitive flesh of my nipple.
And those must be magic words or maybe JT just has a magic mouth because before I can fully recover from the pleasure that’s radiating through me, my body detonates a second time. My inner walls contract, squeezing his fingers as I shudder with each wave of release.
I look down at his handsome face to see his brow dotted with sweat. I’m sure mine is the same way, and my hair must be a tangled mess. But none of that matters. The only thing on my mind is getting naked. And getting JT naked, too. Theoretically, we’re both scratching an itch, giving into something that’s been driving both of us crazy for weeks. There’s nothing long-term or serious about this, and yet I can’t help but feel the intimacy between us as he pulls my joggers down and cradles my body to his. My thong goes next, and his jeans and boxers follow. We barely fit together on this couch, but the crazy thing is, we fit together. The hard planes of his body press into the softer curves of mine. The fact that we’re on borrowed time doesn’t stop me from wanting more, from momentarily wishing that this was realand that men—even the handsome, irresistible ones—can be trusted.
But now is not the time for logic or good sense. Now isn’t even the time for wondering if we could make this work. Not as a relationship, of course, but more of a …situationship. It works for Viv, I’m pretty sure.
“Wrap your legs around me,” JT says, and it takes me a minute to catch up. I follow his directive and then loop my arms around his neck as he stands up. If I weren’t wondering what the hell he’s up to, I’d be impressed by his strength alone.
And I am impressed. But I’m also a little scared he’s going to drop me. As if he can hear the thoughts in my head, his grip tightens around my backside.
“I’ve got you, Maggie. Always.”
I will not read too much into those words, I vow.
“Hold tight,” he says, bending at the knees and reaching under the couch to press the lever that always takes me at least seven tries to conquer.
Damn this man. With a flick of his wrist, he’s popped out the hide-a-bed where I crash once or twice a week. Letting out a whistle, I tease him. “Have a lot of experience with fold out couches?”
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I wish I could eat them back up. Am I trying to make this awkward? And his prowess with pop-up beds is none of my business. Afterall, this is just a study. An experiment. A night of sex with a not-so-stranger.
Rather than dropping me on my ass for my rudeness or giving me a pitying glance and a lecture about how we’re just casual, all of which I’d deserve, he nods. “Slept on this same model my senior year of high school. But it was at least ten years older, had a few questionable stains, and a wonky spring that followed me when I slept. I swear, no matter which way I’d turn, that damn wire poked at me. But I’m notworried about that now, because I don’t plan on sleeping. You’re not tired yet, are you, Maggie?”
