19. Nineteen

Nineteen

Whit was breathing hard by the time he made it back to the hayloft. He'd been breathing hard before he left the hayloft, but after sprinting into the farmhouse, rummaging hastily through his suitcase for the box of condoms he'd bought a few days ago, just in case—because even if he didn't carry them around in his wallet like some people seemed to think he should, he did like to be prepared—and then dashing all the way back to the barn, he was huffing along like an out of shape DH trying for an inside the park home run.

And with the exact same objective, come to think of it. Metaphorically, anyway.

Nell stood peeping down at him from the loft when he shifted the ladder back into position. She'd pulled her hair free from its ponytail, letting the long, loose mass of waves tumble to her shoulders so that it framed her face in shades of chestnut and bronze. With the mischief in her eyes and that cloud of hair catching the light, she looked like a naughty angel ready to tempt some poor mortal into sin. Namely him.

He couldn't wait.

A naughty, impatient angel, from the way she was tapping her fingers along her arms. "What if you'd fallen and hit your head and never come back? I could've died up here."

"It's like a nine foot drop." He gave the ladder a quick test to make sure it was sturdy, then climbed upward into the loft. "You could just toss down a couple of hay bales. Anyway, I come bearing gifts. Sorry they don't come in a bouquet."

Her lips curved. "That was at least three minutes. Did you sneak in or just murder your grandfather?"

"He's asleep in his recliner. And I wasn't going to murder him. Just find a piece of plywood and knock him out."

"You're all heart." She eyed the box he was carrying and gave him a saucy look. "Someone's feeling optimistic."

Someone was feeling horny as hell, a circumstance he was going to have to set aside until they talked a few things out. As desperately as he wanted to spend the next several hours making love with her until they collapsed from exhaustion and their bodies were fused together with sweat, he wouldn't—he couldn't— so much as touch her unless he knew it was what she really wanted. He set the box aside and dragged in a breath. "Before this goes any further—"

"Save the speech, Whitney."

"—what happened to hands off?"

"I changed my mind. We're going to be hands on. Very hands on. Starting now." To prove her point, she placed her hand against the front of his shirt and began to trace a slow path downward.

He caught her wrist. "What about that whole ‘ I can't do casual' thing?"

"I'm making an exception."

"And you decided this when?"

"Not nearly as soon as I should have. The way I figure it, I've only got about three and a half days left to do what I want with you. So if you plan to keep talking, you should start losing clothes."

It took every ounce of willpower he possessed not to yank her off her feet and toss her onto a hay bale so he could have his wicked way with her, but somehow he managed it. "I don't want to take advantage of you, Nell."

"Good thing I'm the one taking advantage of you." She gave him a silky smile and raked her gaze down him like the sexy seductress he knew she wasn't—well, seductress anyway; take off a layer or two of clothing, and she'd have sexy down to a science—but then the smoke in her eyes turned abruptly to panic. "Oh, god. That's what I'm doing, isn't it? Throwing myself at you like every other woman on the planet."

"No! Christ. Do you have any idea how crazy I've been going the past few days trying not to touch you? I just don't want you to do anything you'll regret."

"The only thing I'd regret is not doing this." Her words were quiet, but the look she gave him was fierce and determined and so full of heat he wanted to drop to his knees and beg her to have him.

His throat went dry. "Nell…"

"In a few days, I'm getting on a plane back to Chicago and never seeing you again. I'm not expecting anything from you, Whit. I'm not asking for some lifelong commitment. All I'm asking for is here and now." She closed the distance between them, lifting herself onto her toes to loop an arm around his neck, and tugged him downward to brush a soft kiss over his lips. Just the barest hint of contact, but he felt his already rapid pulse skyrocket. He wanted more and angled himself toward her, but she drew back. A frown flitted across her brow. "Unless your jaw hurts too much. I didn't think of that."

"To hell with that," said Whit. He'd put up with a little pain. He dragged her back to him, and there was nothing soft about his kiss. It was hot and hungry, and by the time he let her go again, they were both gasping. He leaned his forehead against hers. "Damn, you're good at that."

"Really?"

The delight in her voice made him chuckle, and he caught her hips to lift her, pressing her firmly against his erection. "Any questions?"

Her breath hitched out of her. She shook her head. Then her knees slid apart and she raised herself upward, wrapping one long, slender leg around his waist.

He backed her against the wall to keep them both upright, one hand hooked behind her knee, his hips rocking against her of their own accord as his mouth found hers again. Her hands clutched at his jeans, trying frantically to tug him even closer. "We're wearing too much clothing," she panted when they came up for air .

She was filling his senses, the taste of her mouth, the scent of her skin, the heat of her body through the layers of fabric that separated them. He wanted her, as simple as that. Wanted her so badly he could scarcely breathe, much less think. Every inch of him was burning, every molecule screaming to take what she was offering, to surrender whatever was left of his self control and lose himself in that sweet warmth, but when he felt her fingers move between them and fumble at his jeans, he caught her wrists.

"Not yet." Reluctantly, he eased away from her, settling her back on her feet, pressing her hands to her sides before releasing his grip. He reached to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear, tracing his thumb down her jawline. "I need to know this is really what you want."

Because at that precise moment, he couldn't think of a single thing he'd ever wanted more—which proved just how insane this was. Because it didn't feel casual, no matter what she said. It felt complicated as hell. And, god help him, he wanted it anyway.

If she told him no—if she changed her mind, or hesitated—somehow he would find the strength to walk away. It might actually kill him, but he'd do it.

She didn't.

"This is really what I want," she told him. " You are what I want. So would you please stop talking and start stripping?" She moved away from the wall to kick off her shoes, then stuck her hands on her hips and waited.

He took it back, he decided. She could make any number of layers look sexy. She could probably turn a paper bag into the peak of eroticism. But she was right, she was wearing way too much clothing.

Something he was about to change.

Now that her choice was made, he had no intention of letting her be the one in charge, so he removed his boots and socks, but left the rest of his clothing exactly where it was. "You sure are bossy, Miss McLean. Are you gonna give me detention if I misbehave?"

She aimed another of her seductress gazes his way. This time she licked her lips. "Definitely. "

"Good." He had every intention of misbehaving. He stalked toward her, lowering his head for a kiss, and when he saw her eyes close, he let his fingers drop to the hem of her sweatshirt, tugging it upward.

She tugged it back down again. "What are you doing?"

He grinned. "You said to start stripping."

"I meant you. "

"Didn't we already talk about the importance of specifics?" This time he kissed her before he started tugging at her shirt again. He teased her mouth a little, tasting her leisurely, then drew her lower lip between his teeth and gave it a playful nip. She made a soft noise low in her throat, but when he started to inch the sweatshirt toward her ribs, she shoved his hands away.

"Wait," she said breathlessly. "Sweatshirt stays on."

"What? Why?"

"Because I'm not going to be naked in a hayloft in the middle of November."

Quickly, he ran through his options. He couldn't take her anywhere else, unless he wanted to end up in the backseat of his dad's car or the great outdoors—neither of which was an improvement—and even if he'd been willing to drag her off to some cheap roadside motel, he didn't think he could wait that long. He could barely stand upright as it was. "It's the beginning of November. And it's my sweatshirt."

"I'm wearing it, so right now that makes it mine."

"You have a T-shirt on under it."

"I'll get cold."

"That's what you think," he smirked. But who was he to argue with neurosis? "How about this: sweatshirt comes off, T-shirt stays on. And I want your bra. Deal?"

"We're negotiating now?"

"Damn right."

A calculating look came into her eyes. "What'll you give me?"

"For your bra?"

"I'm assuming you don't have a problem with being naked in a hayloft." She smirked right back at him .

He knew a lot more about negotiating than she did, and he had a pretty good idea just who would be winning this round. But give a little to get a little, so he pulled his shirt over his head and cast it aside.

The hungry look she fastened on him was gratifying, but she'd apparently decided to play tough. After she'd removed the sweatshirt and dropped it to the ground, she crossed her arms. "If I'm giving you my bra, I want your baseball."

He unhooked the chain and handed it to her. "Fair warning. If you lose that, I'll have to punish you."

"Punish me how?" She slipped the chain around her own neck and fumbled a moment with the clasp. He had a sudden vision of her wearing nothing but his good luck charm and decided that first thing tomorrow, he was finding a hotel room somewhere .

"I'm sure I'll think of something." He held out his hand. "Pay up. You got your trophy. I want mine."

A fresh blush scorched up her cheeks and she suddenly couldn't meet his eyes, but she obeyed him. After a bit of wriggling, she tugged her pale floral bra out through her sleeve and placed it in his open palm. He rubbed the warm, silky fabric between his fingers a moment, then tucked it neatly into his back pocket and turned his attention to the woman who was driving him crazy.

She stood barefoot in the hay, shoulders straight, the look in her eyes an irresistible blend of shy uncertainty and bold challenge. Her faded maroon University of Chicago T-shirt was the same one she'd been wearing last Thursday, the thin cloth stretching across her breasts and doing nothing to disguise the hard points of her nipples. Her lips were parted, her hair mussed. She didn't look anything like an angel now, naughty or otherwise. She seemed earthier somehow, that softly swollen mouth of hers meant for dirty words and steamy kisses. She made him think of sex and sweat, and the glint of that silver chain along her neck marked her as his, whether she knew it or not.

He had to touch her.

"Hands on, right?" he murmured huskily as he gripped her by the shoulders and drew her toward him. He slid his fingers down her bare arms and then up under her shirt, exploring, caressing, flirting along her stomach and rib cage until he found what he was seeking. He cupped her breasts, testing the weight of them, learning her body by feel. He wanted her in his mouth, but since they were playing by her rules—for now—he teased her slowly, circling her nipples with his thumbs until her eyes grew smoky again.

Screw it, he thought. "Up isn't off," he grunted. Then he yanked her T-shirt up over her breasts and bent downward, dipping his head and silencing her protests by taking first one rosy crest into his mouth and then the other. She leaned into him as he tasted her, his mouth hot on her salty-sweet skin, her breath coming fast, her fingers tangled in his hair.

"Wait… wait," she panted. "Jeans next." She moved his head away, then skimmed her hands down his spine to grip his belt loops. " Your jeans next. Specifically."

When her fingers trailed to the front of his jeans and unbuckled his belt, he pulled away and shackled her wrists. Holding her arms over her head, he backed her against a hay bale. "We're making a trade." He kept her pinned with one hand while he let the other drift, drawing his fingertips lightly across the tiny scar on her upper lip. "I want this. This is mine."

Her breath tickled against his hand. "My mouth?"

"That, too. But this scar right here." He ran his thumb along it, then leaned down and traced the path with his tongue. Time to get serious , he thought, releasing her wrists. When she tipped her faced toward him, he took her mouth, all of it, doing his damnedest to kiss her senseless while his hands found their way to her waist, undid her jeans, and slid the snug denim down off her hips, down her thighs, her knees, until her jeans were all the way at her ankles and she pulled back to stare at him.

"Hey, that's—"

Whit raised an eyebrow. "Cheating?" he asked, shrugging. He was going to have to get over that word eventually; it might as well be now. He gave her his wickedest grin. "Absolutely. And don't think I won't do it again. "

He let his gaze wander up and down her legs, taking in those smooth, firm thighs, the soft curves of her calves, the bend of her knees, and…

There they were. Red panties.

God he loved being right.

They even had lace. He sighed happily.

"What?"

"You're perfect," he said. And she was, even with her shirt bunched over her breasts and her jeans around her ankles, her face flushed, her lips parted and deliciously moist, her tangled hair clinging to her face. She looked bewildered and aroused and rumpled. But not nearly rumpled enough.

He hauled her against him again, lifting her off her feet and kicking her jeans away, but she wasn't done ordering him around just yet. "Grab one of those blankets," she commanded. She squirmed out of his arms, but the breathy quality to her voice revealed she wasn't quite as in control as she wanted to pretend. "I'm not having sex on a dirty floor, and I don't want hay ending up in weird places."

"Maybe you should describe those places." He slid his fingers under the band of her panties and parted the soft curls beneath. "Is this one?"

"Um…"

Her breathing turned ragged as he began to massage gently. "Here?"

"That's… that's one," she rasped. "Maybe you should get that blanket."

"In a minute." He wasn't going anywhere without teaching her a little thing about submission first. He wanted her limp and moaning his name—or at least moaning—and he intended to torture her until she was. His free hand curved into the small of her back, keeping her in place while he carried out his assault. "I need to make sure you're ready," he told her. He moved gradually at first, easing her into it, drawing hot, languid circles against her flesh. When he slipped his forefinger inside her and began a slow, stroking rhythm, her eyes glazed over and her head tilted back. She arched toward him, her hands clutching his shoulders. Oh, yeah, she was going to moan, all right. Maybe even beg. He increased his rhythm, bringing her closer, closer—and then stopped abruptly.

Nell whimpered.

"You want to know what you've been doing to me?" he murmured in her ear as she mewled and pushed herself against him. He felt her shiver, her pulse throbbing under his hand, but he wouldn't give her what her body so desperately craved—not yet. "You want to know what I did the night after we kissed? I stood naked in the shower and thought about you. About touching you. Throwing you down and coming inside you. I used my hand and thought about all the things I wanted to do to you. All the ways I wanted to have you. Did you think about me?"

She gasped a yes.

He began to stroke again. "Did you use your hand? Like this?"

"Oh my god."

"That's not an answer, Nell."

She leaned her head forward, burying her face in his chest. "I am so"—another gasp—"not answering that."

"I think you just did."

Her grip on him tightened. "I… I think maybe we should slow down."

No chance in hell. He had her exactly where he wanted her, and he wasn't going to be satisfied with anything short of utter capitulation. "Look at me. I want to see your face when you come."

He thought maybe he'd pushed her a little too far, but she drew her head back and locked her gaze with his.

He nearly lost it right then.

"Say my name," he whispered. "I want to hear you say it."

"Please."

"That's not what I asked."

"Please, Whit."

There we go . Fuck, she felt good. She really was perfect—so warm and wet and responsive, so starkly beautiful in her arousal. He reveled in the feel of her, watching her face, gasping right along with her. When those soft gasps started to quicken, he slipped another finger inside, teasing and tormenting until she writhed and bucked against his hand. The sounds she made when she came were almost too much for him, and he had to peel himself away from her to keep from following her over the edge.

Christ. If he wanted to last long enough to make it inside her, he really was going to have to slow things down. So much for teaching her a lesson. Breath heaving, body trembling, he snatched one of the flannel blankets from the pile near the far end of the loft and tossed it over a hay bale.

Nell was standing where he'd left her, looking at him in a daze. "Why are your pants still on?"

He had no idea.

As he jerked his belt free and flung it to the ground, he jabbed a finger toward the hay bale. "There's the blanket. Get on it."

She must have realized he meant business, because instead of making any demands, she scrambled to obey.

Finally.

Since he had Nell properly compliant—and he needed to cool off a bit—he took his time removing his jeans, folding them carefully and setting them next to hers. He was slick with sweat, so hard it was almost painful, his hands shaking as he hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his boxers and eased the garment down over his hips.

The holy shit Nell uttered might have boosted his ego if she hadn't immediately followed it up with, "Wow. You really are bare ass naked in a hayloft."

Well, properly compliant had lasted all of a minute.

He grabbed the box of condoms and tossed it onto the bale, then stood peering down at her—absolutely, one hundred percent naked, cock at full-mast—and gave her his best bad-boy jock sneer. "That sounds like a challenge, sweetheart."

She scooted backward, tugging her T-shirt back into place and folding her arms across her chest. "I told you the shirt stays on."

"I'm more interested in the bare ass part right now." He caught her by the shoulders and pushed her onto the blanket, lowering himself over her. "In case you were wondering…" he said, reaching down and giving the front of her panties a little pat. "These are now your lucky underwear." He pulled them off. Then, to prove his point, he flipped onto his back, taking her with him, and cupped her ass.

She opened her legs to straddle him, his erection straining against her upper thighs, then she bent and captured his mouth in a swift, demanding kiss. His hands moved again, trailing along her curves, over her breasts, but hands were no longer enough. He wanted to see all of her, touch all of her, taste all of her. "You're killing me with this shirt," he murmured against her lips.

She drew herself upward, pressing the heel of her hand into his chest to keep him down. "You already broke the rules once. It's my turn. I want to touch you," she told him.

Then she did.

When her hand closed around his cock and began a smooth, steady stroke he groaned her name.

"Payback's a bitch, isn't it?" The satisfaction in her voice should've made his competitive instincts kick in, but he couldn't seem to move.

"Isn't that word on your naughty list?" he panted instead. For a moment he just lay there and gave in to sensation, but it was too much, too soon, and he couldn't stand it. "You'd better stop that unless you want this to be over a lot faster than planned."

"Really? In that case, I probably shouldn't do this." Her lips were on him again, only this time she started on his chest and moved lower, down, down, along his ribs, his stomach, his navel, and—

"Fuck," he rasped.

A low, guttural noise tore out of his throat as her tongue circled the head of his cock and she took him into her mouth.

It was bliss. It was agony. That warm, silky mouth sliding over him. Her hand wrapping around him as she took him deeper. His fingers curled in her hair, clenched.

"No," he managed, gritting his teeth. "I want… I want to be inside you when I come." He was on fire, pulsing with need, his self-control hanging by a thread, but somewhere he found the strength to lift her away. Trembling, he fumbled in the box of condoms, tore open a wrapper and sheathed himself, then rolled her onto her back, spread her thighs wide, and sank into her in one long, slow thrust.

"Don't move yet," he whispered hoarsely.

So of course she moved.

Her hips tilted upward, drawing him further in, the look in her eyes hot and wicked as she locked her legs around him and began to rock gently.

"Jesus, Nell."

"I thought you pro athletes had endurance."

Oh god. Now he had no choice.

He was on the edge, so close he thought he might explode any second, but he wasn't going anywhere without taking her with him. Pressing her down into the blanket, he began to move in a careful, gradual rhythm, straining for control with each steady thrust. His hand moved between them, finding the space where their bodies met, caressing even as he quickened their movements. He teased and tantalized until she started writhing once more, driving them both closer and closer to the brink with each thrust, and then—only then, when her head fell back and he felt her body tightening, shuddering around him and she called out his name again— then he let himself go, his climax so intense he nearly rolled them both to the ground with the force of it.

As soon as the aftershocks subsided, he heaved himself away to avoid crushing her, then let himself collapse. He lay beside her, both of them spent and panting, their thighs brushing as he idly twined his fingers in hers.

A second or two of silence ticked past. Then—

"It's a good thing you brought the whole box."

At least he still had the energy to laugh.