43. Fallon

Watching Corey move is art in motion. Every part of him is sculpted and so perfect it defies reason and reality, like he was crafted by artists rather than nature.

He plucks a box of condoms from his bag, and his gaze slides to mine, filled with reverence, and for the first time since meeting him, I realize he might see me in the same damn light that I’ve been admiring him in. He wants me on a level deeper than physical attraction and desire, which only fuels how badly I want him.

As Corey loses the last of his clothes, my gaze drops, and my stomach clenches at the sight of his cock. I’d convinced myself I’d imagined how long and thick he was. Instead, I grossly underestimated how big he was.

Corey grips my thigh and maneuvers me so my hips are lateral while my shoulders remain flat on the bed. Anticipation spikes through me as he stretches his body over me. The fine, dark hairs on his torso are deliciously ticklish against my skin. I want to feel him everywhere, across every part of me. Even my toes want to feel the weight of his body, absorb his heat, the salt from the beach, the cedar from his cologne, and that delicious scent that is solely Corey.

I lean up and catch his lips, tasting me on his tongue, and I’m suddenly dizzy with lust. His tongue is silk against mine as I feel the blunt tip of his cock press against my entrance. That ache low in my belly intensifies, and my lungs empty, wrung out with eagerness. He sinks deep inside of me with one hard thrust that has me moaning.

Perfect.

It feels so damn perfect to be filled to the hilt by him that I can’t even bother to feel embarrassed as another soft moan passes my lips.

And then he’s moving, eclipsing what I thought was bliss. His hips dictate a delicious and smooth rhythm my body knows with as much clarity as it craves it. I roll my hips in time with his, never wanting him to stop.

He growls out a curse, and then he’s kissing me just as thoroughly as he’s fucking me, and it’s even better than the memory of our first time, the one that lives on a pedestal in my thoughts. I would have sworn it was a memory nothing could contend with.

I was wrong.

He rains kisses down my jaw to my ear as he pulls out to the tip of his thick cock, and then thrusts back inside of me.

I groan. It feels so good.

Too good.

He continues, setting a relentless pace as he savagely takes every ounce of my energy, and just when I start to feel like a puddle, he slips his hands between my thighs and runs his fingers over my clit, making my body crave another orgasm more than my next breath.

“There you go,” he says. “That’s my girl.” He nips my shoulder with his teeth. “Come for me, Fallon.”

His fingers move expertly over me as though he’s memorized my body like a playbook, understanding every move to heighten my pleasure.

Heat rushes up my spine, and I bite down on my bottom lip as I feel my orgasm build from the tips of my toes and fingers, amplifying feelings to every nerve and muscle before I lose my vision. Pleasure plows through me, unrelenting and so powerful that every part of me stops except for my heart. Corey’s movements grow faster, less measured, and then he groans as his body flexes and stills before falling on top of me, his face pressed against my neck.

After our last time—our first time—I’d been antsy to get up and dart out of the room, certain that as the high from our orgasms waned, we’d both be filled with regret, but tonight, I wrap my arms around his heavy shoulders, prepared to hold on all night.

Corey kisses me as I run my fingers over the expanse of his back, feeling a sense of contentment that seems too big, too significant, and too real all at the same time.

Neither of us moves or speaks for several minutes, and then he shifts and slips out of me. My entire body protests the loss of him.

His gaze roves over my face, disheveled hair, naked form, and then finally meets my stare. “You are so fucking beautiful it hurts.” He shakes his head and then lowers himself, resting his weight on his hands that bracket my waist. He trails kisses down my stomach, the shadow of his beard scratching my sensitive flesh and making me giggle and squirm. My reaction makes him do it again, and then he leans up and licks my nipple. It isn’t teasing. I’m not even sure it’s sexual, just a need like he has to taste me and broach this boundary that we’ve struggled to insist on and maintain.

“I don’t want this to be like last time,” he says. “I want you, Fallon. I want to be with you, and I don’t care who knows or doesn’t know. We can keep things between us. We don’t have to tell anyone until you’re ready.”

I swallow my admission that he’s never been just a friend. “I want you, too,” I admit. “I need to talk to Kelly.”

He kisses my shoulder. “I’ll do it with you.”

I know next to no one at Camden and have never been the type to post my relationship status on social media, but the idea of trying to hide my feelings for Corey—to continue hiding my feelings for him—leaves a bitter taste in my mouth and I tell him as much.

Corey kisses me again. “It’s no one’s business but ours.”

“What are the odds you have a spare toothbrush?” I ask, unable to explain how I can’t manage another secret.

He grins. “There’s a stash in the second drawer on the left of the first sink.”

I press a kiss to his cheek and slide out of bed. The bathroom is practically obscene. An entire wall of windows encases the walk-in shower that could likely fit at least five people, and the tub looks like a dream. I approach the stone sinks and face the mirror. My hair’s tangled, and my cheeks are flushed, but the swell of my lips and the darkness of my eyes make me look like a different person.

Corey’s words replay in my head.

He wants me.

I wait for guilt and shame to fracture my happiness as I brush my teeth, but neither finds me. Instead, rightness wraps me in its warm embrace.

Once cleaned up, I steal one of his tees from his suitcase while he gets ready for bed. When we slip under the covers, hesitation and reluctance are forgotten as we twine our bodies. I’m lost in his warmth as his heart beats a lullaby in my ear.

I awaken with the same consuming ache I’ve had for weeks. It’s a pyre built of need and desire that I’ve been bound to for the past two months—since that first night when I realized what sex could be. What sex should be.

I’ve craved his touch for so long that the ache feels insatiable.

My breasts are heavy, nipples pebbled with want. Corey skims his hand over the length of my bare thigh, and the rough calluses of his fingers barely graze over my backside.

My breath catches.

He runs his nose along the back of my neck at the same slow pace that his fingers dance over my ribs like piano keys. When his fingers brush against my nipple, my back arches, wanting to feel more of him—all of him.

He flattens his palm against my breast as I ease back into him, feeling the length of him veiled in his boxer briefs that I want to shred into ribbons with my teeth.

A couple of weeks ago, I told Corey all the messy details that led to my breakup with Tobias, including how he’d cheated and how I’d had to get tested because I was terrified that I might have left the relationship with more than a heartache. Thankfully, I didn’t, but telling Corey had been therapeutic, allowing us both to understand some of the trepidation left in my thoughts and ego, maybe even in my heart. A week ago, Corey sent me a text—which I still feel giddy about receiving—saying that when we were ready to cross the bridge, he wanted me to go in with both eyes wide open. Attached was a blood test dated two days prior showing he was clean.

Neither of us has mentioned the message. I don’t think either of us could’ve without wanting to cross the bridge in question.

Now, that knowledge, his utter transparency, and constant honesty fill me with confidence. I rub against him, unabashed, and he thrusts against me. The delicious friction of his erection has desire coiling up my spine.

He rolls my nipple, and every thought falls away, replaced with all the ways I want him to fill, taste, and possess me. The memory of his tongue on my core has me wanting to return the favor. I’m about to roll so I can face him when he cups my sex, applying just enough pressure with his callused fingers to put me on the cusp of torture and pleasure.

“Corey,” his name is a plea, followed by a whimper, and I’m so turned on that I can’t find the sense to remind myself to try and be quiet and that his closest friends are next door.

He releases a low and impatient groan as he spreads me and runs his fingers over my clit in a pattern that has me forgetting about the beach and anyone who might be able to hear us. He slides his fingers lower, circling my entrance before running back over my clit, which pulses with every weighted heartbeat. He does it again and again, the pressure increasing, making me dizzy. Then he lessens the pressure, his fingers a whisper against my skin, teasing me as I debate which sensation was better.

Agony and relief are in a race as my thighs begin to tremble and my breaths become moans, and then he slides a finger inside of me, and the ache for him eases and strengthens simultaneously. I grip his forearm as I raise my hips, needing to feel him deeper.

Corey hums an appreciative sound that makes my blood run hotter, and then he adds a second finger, knowing exactly what my body craves—needs. While thrusting his fingers inside of me, he brings his other hand to my clit, and the world tips and darkens. Pleasure has me spiraling and puppeteers my body. My thighs spread wider, and my entire body trembles as my orgasm builds. I’m torn between wishing for my release and wanting to prolong it, but Corey’s fingers glide against a spot that sets my orgasm tearing through me, coaxing out every last breath of pleasure.

He continues touching me with gentle strokes, running my wetness over me, teasing my swollen clit, and making me ravenous despite my mind-bending orgasm.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, kissing along my shoulder blade and neck before his teeth graze my ear.

I shiver. “I want you.”

He makes a soft growl, and then his hands slowly fall away, and he turns long enough to pluck a condom from the box on his nightstand.

My body is buzzing with desire as I watch him roll the condom over his hardened length and then fist himself. He moves between my thighs and slides one hand under me, his palm holding one globe of my ass, and he uses his other hand to direct himself to my entrance. He doesn’t go fast like last night. Instead, he fills me so deliciously, wonderfully slow, letting me feel every thick inch of him.

His gaze buffers between my face and watching where he’s penetrating me, so deep and full that my ache finally quiets.

“God, Fallon,” he leans down, kissing my shoulder, my throat, my face. He’s everywhere, and still, I can’t get enough of him. “You’re so beautiful, and you feel so fucking good.” He moans, and I wrap my hands around his muscled shoulders, wanting to pull him closer to me and hit pause so we can remain suspended in this perfect moment for the whole day, the whole year—longer.

Corey brushes his lips against mine with a sweeping, open-mouthed kiss teeming with desire. He kisses me like he’s writing on my soul, claiming me as his, and I work to leave my mark on him, hoping it transfers just as profoundly.

He moves then, his hips shifting just enough to tear my focus in two. I moan, and his other hand slides under me, gripping my ass in each palm. I’m completely at his mercy, and I absolutely love it.

Corey moves, thrusting inside of me, hard and fast and perfect, making our skin slap and my breaths stutter. My skin is sticky with sweat as that familiar tingle of my orgasm building consumes me.

He seems to recognize the signs because he maintains his pace until I’m boneless and crying out his name, and only then does he change speed, thrusting deeper and faster until he goes rigid and calls out my name.

It feels like he’s sealed my fate, and as I lean up to kiss him, I lick the envelope and press on the stamp.