Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Avery
I HOPE HE shows. I really hope he shows.
I tried to act cool back at the library, but my heart was pounding like a hammer smashing through my chest. Diego froze the moment I invited him over. I could almost hear the gears grinding in his head, churning through all the reasons not to, even while his body offered him a strong counter-offer.
God, he's frustrating.
I know he wants me. He knows he wants me. He said it last time he was here. Yet he insists on fighting this, on running scared no matter how many times we don't get caught. He doesn't seem to realize that everyone around him has their own shit to worry about. They really don't care what we're doing as long as it doesn't affect them .
I pace the house, more anxious with each passing hour. I wash the dishes, clean up my room, vacuum. The chores keep me busy, but I catch myself peeking out of the windows trying to spot his car along the block. Wait. Would he drive? Would he think that's too conspicuous and walk the mile instead? I don't actually know.
Finally, I do what I claimed I would and flop on the couch to watch a movie. I can't manage to pay attention to the bland action sequences, though. I'm too busy worrying about whether a comfortable maxi dress under a cozy, baggy sweater is too dressed up or too dressed down. I can't make it look like a date or like I was sitting around waiting for him all evening (even though I was). That would make Diego think I'm treating this like a relationship, a thing it definitely can't be, at least not right now. But I have to let myself put some effort into impressing the man. I want him to look at me the way he did in that club, like I'm the most gorgeous person in the room, the only person in the room, someone he can't keep his hands off of.
I turn off the dumb movie and start heading upstairs to second-guess my wardrobe choices when someone knocks on the door. My heart nearly slams itself out of my body, but I don't have time to calm down. If it's Diego, he won't want to stand out there exposed for long.
I throw the door open, and sure enough, it's Diego who hurries inside like someone might be chasing him. Fine by me. At least it got him in here with me instead of standing outside questioning whether he should go home instead.
He eyes me up and down, and a nervous trill flutters through my chest. He wears exactly what he had on this afternoon, but his hair looks freshly washed, his stumble recently shaved down to a dark shadow against his cheeks. The spice of his aftershave warms my whole body like the steam wafting off of perfectly brewed tea.
"You look nice," he says.
"It's comfortable," I say. It's a bad instinct. I've always had to explain away my unconventional fashion choices and long hair, as though I can't simply have those things because I want them. Diego certainly doesn't care about what I'm supposed to dress like, how long my hair is supposed to be, whether I'm supposed to wear eyeliner and lip gloss. He doesn't need an excuse.
"It looks comfortable," Diego says.
He shifts from foot to foot. He has nothing with him but his jacket, and he stuffs his hands into the pockets.
I can't stand the awkwardness for another second. We both know what we're here for, and I, for one, have waited damn long enough.
I grab his wrist, pulling his hand free of his pocket as I drag him toward the stairs.
"I still have shoes on," he says.
"Don't care. "
I am on a mission, and God damn shoes are not going to get in my way.
At first, I feel like I'm dragging him with me toward the bedroom, but we aren't halfway up the stairs before Diego starts contributing as much to our propulsion as I am. The second we're in my bedroom, I spin him around and do the thing I've wanted to do since I saw him in the library on Tuesday — kiss him as hard as I can.
His aftershave is even more potent from this distance, and it leaves my head light as I drink in his lips. I throw my arms around his neck, and he grabs me by the waist to pull me against him. The moment our bodies are flush, the kiss deepens, both of us tilting our heads and employing our tongues to explore each other's mouths.
I've been a wreck while waiting all week for this. My body screams with relief the moment I have him, the moment his warm mouth is against mine. His fingers tighten, tugging at me like I can't possibly get close enough. I groan into his mouth, hoping it conveys a fragment of the pent-up longing I've bottled all week long.
Apparently, it does. I can feel him stirring against me. My maxi dress is thin, even if his jeans aren't. When we break for breath, he's panting every bit as hard as I am, and the beautiful brown of his skin is a shade darker around the cheeks.
"I've wanted to do that all week," I say.
"Me too. "
The admission is quiet but heated, something torn from deep within him, something he's probably not even dared to think. It's only here that he lets himself go and shows me how he really feels, and while that's frustrating as hell, it also makes these kinds of moments all the more precious. I get a glimpse of a Diego no one else sees, a Diego that's just for me.
That doesn't mean I forgive him for running away from me at every opportunity. In fact, I've been imagining ways to get my revenge all evening long. Fun ways. Ways I want to do to him right now.
I don't notice us drifting deeper into the room until Diego suddenly falls, pulling me down with him out of reflex. We tumble jarringly to the bed, jolted apart, but it isn't enough to stop either of us. I simply shove him farther back and crawl onto the bed after him, chasing him across the mattress until we've both shimmied onto it.
Perched between his knees, I sit back and peel off my sweatshirt. My dress is sleeveless beneath it, just a simple black jersey dress I wear for pure comfort, but Diego watches me like I've stripped down to nothing. His eyes dart up and down, unsure where to settle, and I milk the moment for all it's worth, hiking my dress up to my knees but no higher. Not yet.
In his excitement, Diego sat up a little as I pulled off my sweater. I set a hand on his chest and shove him back down so he's flat on his back. Then I sit on my heels, not touching him, not taking off the dress, leaving us both squirming for several long moments. It's torture, even for me, but leaving him waiting, making him chase me for once, is so sweet I can bear it.
Diego breaks, tries reaching for me. I bat his hand aside.
"No touching," I say. "Lie there and be good while I take care of you."
"Avery," Diego gasps, and I wonder how many ways he can say my name. He pronounces it like a warning, like a question, like a hope. I never get sick of it, no matter how many shapes he makes of me.
I shimmy my dress up higher, exposing my knees, my thighs. Diego watches every new inch of skin. Then there's nowhere left to hide; I have to pull the dress up and tug it off. As the fabric covers my head, I know he can see even more of me, chest and waist and hips and the lace-edged panties I decided to wear for this. Are they what he expected? Have any of the men he hooked up with back home ever worn something like this? I'm guessing no, and his sharp inhale strengthens my suspicions.
By the time I discard the dress, he's propping himself up on his elbows again, avid eyes drinking me in. I shove him down, but this time I keep touching him, letting my hands wander to his waist to undo his jeans and pull them down. I have to wrestle his shoes off to peel his pants off. Normal boxers beneath, not that I expected anything different, but they're special because they're his , and I'm the one who gets to the see them and touch them.
There's certainly something worth touching inside them.
With his jeans gone, Diego's excitement is blunt and obvious. That tent in his boxers calls out for my attention, but I hold myself back. I'm not giving him what he wants so easily. It's my turn to be in control of the pace of this, and I'm going to savor every damn second.
I bend down to kiss along the insides of his thighs, the dark hairs on his legs tickling my face. He squirms, and I loop an arm under his leg to keep him from slipping away. I work my way higher, deliberately planting false hopes in every kiss as I near the bottom edge of his boxers. But when I reach his groin, I pull my mouth away. Instead of giving him what he wants, I nose along him through the fabric.
Diego tilts his head back and groans.
"Avery."
This time it's a plea, strained and stretched. Diego all but writhes under me, but I'm not giving in that easily, not after he put me through all this. I'm going to have this man exactly the way I want him tonight.
I lick over his boxers, still not moving the fabric out of my way, and Diego groans. I can all but hear him grinding his teeth. He yelps when I proceed to blow across the fabric. His cock twitches in his boxers, and the sheets rustle as Diego squirms his legs.
I push myself up and am rewarded by the absolutely devastated look on Diego's face. His mouth hangs open as he pants. His eyes are bright with need behind his glasses. His cheeks have flushed; his chest heaves with every labored breath. And I haven't even gotten him naked.
I crawl up to him and pluck off his glasses, taking my time setting them aside so I can tease him with the nearness of my nearly nude body. Diego reaches for me before I can retreat, petting a sweaty hand down my chest.
"God, Avery," he pants, "I can't take much more of this."
I let my hips lower, let my thin, straining panties meet his tented boxers. He groans pitifully from the contact. I roll my body forward as I kiss him, tasting his desperation in his sloppy response. His fingers dig into my skin. His hips jerk toward me. He's breaking from my every touch, and it's so sweet I almost don't want it to end.
But since I do actually like this guy — maybe too much — I relent after only another moment or two and start moving down his body. He scrambles to take his shirt off when I push it up, but he's a mess. He got absolutely nothing off on his own, so he has to shift and squirm out of his coat before he can fuss with the shirt.
I leave him to it and work my way lower. When I palm over his boxers, he lets out a cut off cry, like he wasn't expecting me to finally touch him. Oh, this is going to be so good.
I yank off his boxers before he gets a chance to recover and dive right for his cock. I don't know what kind of progress he made with his shirt; maybe it's still tangled up around him. Diego doesn't seem to care. As I plunge down his cock, he reaches for my hair. I put it in my usual ponytail, but that goes to hell the moment he starts grabbing for it to brace himself. His hand lingers there, riding the motion of my head as I work up and down him. I tighten my lips, hollow my cheeks, employ all the tricks I know.
Not that they matter.
The way I worked him up left him trembling like a dew drop on the point of a leaf. I taste salty pre-cum as soon as I lower down him. It only takes a few more plunges before he's groaning around my name, and this time there's no mystery — it's definitely a warning. A warning I will not be heeding, but a warning all the same.
I take him deep, savor his strangled cry, then brace as his hot cum hits the back of my throat in a burst. Diego tugs at my hair in a spasm of ecstasy as his relief pours down my throat. I swallow him, take every last drop, holding him in my mouth until he collapses on the mattress.
I pull myself off him slowly, enjoying the feel of his cock in my mouth until the very last moment. When I sit up between his knees, Diego is even more wrecked than before. He did manage to get his shirt off, but it's still hanging on one arm, like he couldn't free himself from it entirely before he was too overcome to care. He hasn't managed to steady his breathing, and the way he looks up at me — I don't know how to describe it except as awe . Like he's looking at a painting he never expected to see in person, a natural wonder he only half-believed was real.
It's doing awful things for my ego.
"I'm going to be insufferable if you keep looking at me like that," I say.
Diego pushes himself up, propping himself up with one hand while cupping my face with the other. His thumb strokes along my cheek.
"It's exactly the way you should be looked at," he says. "It's the way everyone should look at you all the time."
Then he draws me into a soft, warm, exhausted kiss.