7. Fallon

With one hand still pressed against my lower back, the dark-haired stranger moves his other hand to graze lightly along the side of my breast. His touch is barely a whisper, yet I feel it through every nerve ending.

My breath catches with anticipation, and his eyes flash to mine, holding my stare as he brushes his blunt fingertips over my nipple. I suck in a breath, too distracted to kiss him and too turned on to filter my reaction. I want this man like I’ve never wanted anyone else. The air of anonymity and the fact that he’ll never see me again allows me to convey that as I slip my hands under his shirt and shove the fabric up to his armpits, impatient to discover more of him—all of him.

Instead of helping me, he gently pinches my nipple while staring at me. The intensity of his gaze is hypnotic, filled with reverence and lust that amplifies my own. I don’t look away, entranced by this moment and this stranger who makes me want things I’ve never considered before.

“Off,” I grumble.

He makes a gruff sound. A single note that I think might be a laugh under different circumstances.

He slips his shirt off, and I don’t see where it falls. I’m too distracted by the expanse of ink, primarily black, that marks his skin in intricate patterns with hints of color that keep my gaze shifting. I try to soak in every inch and detail, along with every contoured plane of his abs that make him appear like he’s been carved from stone. Five jagged lines that resemble claw marks along his side and torso catch my attention.

“What do they mean?” I ask, tracing one of the marks with my finger.

“I thought we weren’t sharing details?” His velvet voice is a taunt.

I don’t know why the reminder irritates me at such a base level. I want to hear the story behind every single tattoo and know if more exist. But I nod. He’s right.

I gather the hem of my dress and slip the slinky fabric over my head.

“Damn.” He rocks back on his heels, feasting over my exposed flesh like he’s as ravenous for me as I am for him.

I’ve always been self-conscious of my body, a result of boys ignoring and overlooking me for so many years, I’m sure. But under his watchful gaze, I feel sexy, and like everything else about him, it’s undeniably addictive.

His eyes catch on my insulin pump tucked between my breasts. He follows the thin tubing that wraps around my side and the medical tape where my continuous glucose monitor is parallel to my belly button. He lifts his gaze to mine. “Are you an athlete?”

I stare at him for a heartbeat before glancing at the hard piece of plastic that consistently monitors my blood sugar. I nod. It’s not a lie, but it’s also not why I wear it.

He nods. “My trainer?—”

I place a hand on his lips. I assumed he was an athlete. His body looks like working out is his job, but I’ve chosen to ignore those details in place of my sanity.

“Right.” He swallows, and the thick column of his throat bobs. “Will it hurt if I touch them?” he asks.

I shake my head, not wanting to explain it might sting like hell if he catches it wrong. Most times, I forget about my medical devices. They’re just a part of me, like a freckle or a scar.

He swallows, questions visible in his dark gaze. Questions I don’t want to address. I want him to ravage me and race me to pleasure. I want to drown in ecstasy.

“So I probably shouldn’t ask what that is?” he asks as I unhook my insulin pump and set it on the dresser behind me.

“Not if you want to see what’s under this black lace.” I don’t know what surprises me more, my husky voice or my forward words.

His gaze is expressive, humor paired with an objection that a part of me is so damn intrigued to hear. I want to know what’s behind those chestnut-colored eyes that make me think of crisp autumn leaves and the dry heat that settles in Oleander Springs when they’re ready to fall.

He closes the space between us with a single step and hooks a hand around my hip, his skin so hot it burns me. I’m inclined to look down and see if his handprint remains as his fingers skate higher, hitting the bottom of my ribs, but his eyes are locked on mine, saying a dozen things that I silence as I lean forward and kiss him.

Though I initiate the kiss, he makes no bones about who is in control as we lose and redefine our rhythm a dozen times while exploring each other with greedy hands, hot tongues, and gentle nips.

My breath hitches as he slips his fingers into my bra cup, drawing the black lace down exposing my nipple.

Need becomes my solitary focus, and I have to clench my teeth to keep from begging him to hurry. To move. To touch me. To taste me.

He watches me as closely as I had watched him at the bar, his fingers somehow gentle and rough at the same time. The sensation is so consuming, so intense I think I could experience this for the next hour and leave happy.

“Any other rules?” he asks.

Rules?

What in the hell are rules?I’m about to ask, then recall my exchange with Lexie. “Condom,” I say, swallowing. “We have to use a condom and no oral.” It almost pains me to tack that amendment on, but safety is key.

He strokes my nipple again, and I close my eyes, trying to absorb the feeling. “What else?”

I can’t think when he’s touching me.

I lick my lips, lost in euphoria, while a voice in the back of my mind encourages me to reply, but then his tongue drags across my hardened nipple, and I practically whimper.

He’s so good at this.

Too goodat this.

Practical Fallon insists this is a red flag, that he might do this every single night with a different woman.

I bury that thought, then burn it in a fire of pleasure as his teeth graze my breast while freeing my other nipple. He teases me. Tortures me.

If he asked for my name now, I don’t think I could answer him even if we weren’t playing by these anonymity rules.

The ache in my core is nearly painful. I feel so empty, so desperate for him to touch me there.

And then he does, pressing firmly on my swollen clit.

My jaw drops, and my breath is a ragged sound as my heart triples in speed.

“Fucking hell.” His voice is so deep and smooth that it’s a caress on all the parts of me he’s not currently touching. “You’re so goddamn wet.”

I smirk. “That’s not really a compliment,” I tell him, unable to keep my snark back.

His lips hook with an amused grin as he hums. “My ego disagrees since I’m who made you this wet.” He runs his fingers over my slit through the thin layer of my underwear.

I gently moan, unable to help myself. The pressure is absolute perfection and pure torture at the same time. “As long as you know the difference between correlation and causation.”

He kisses me. “I’m fucking praying it’s causation, like this is…” He takes my hand in his and places it against the hard length of his cock, straining against his jeans while keeping his other hand pressed to my clit.

Lust is a firestorm, igniting my blood as I cup him.

His breath is a choked sound, his eyes falling shut. I can’t recall the last time I felt this emboldened. Hell, I can’t recall any time I’ve felt this emboldened. I stroke him, and his jaw grows lax, and his fingers apply more pressure against my clit, causing it to pulse. With my next stroke, he shifts, his chest so close to mine I feel it rise with his next breath, and then he slides my panties to the side and rubs over my wetness.

The sound of my arousal should embarrass me—would embarrass practical, people-pleasing Fallon, who cares about everyone else’s needs more than her own. Perfect Fallon, who doesn’t hook up with a hot guy from a bar at a strange, seedy hotel. But this version of myself reaches for the button on his pants and lowers the zipper. And with more confidence than I walked in the room with, I slip my hand into his boxer briefs. The moment my fingers wrap around his shaft, he thrusts a blunt finger inside me. I release a long moan.

Finally.

Finally.

Finally.

My body chants as he moves inside of me, stroking my inner walls, sending pleasure through me.

He’s perfect.

His mouth falls to my neck as I rock against his hand, encouraging him to thrust harder. Faster.

His cock is thick and hard in my hand, and suddenly his fingers don’t feel like enough. I want to feel him buried to the hilt. Watch the muscles of his stomach contract with every hard thrust.

“I want these off,” I say, my voice gravel as I tug at his jeans.

“Not yet,” is all he says before resuming a scorching path along my neck. Then he drags his fingers over my soaked clit again, finding that spot that makes my vision turn white and my knees fold. My breaths are falling out of me so fast I’m nearly lightheaded. He bands one of his arms around my middle, holding me against him as his other works me undone, finding that spot.

My orgasm tears through me, and I release a garbled cry as he covers my mouth with a kiss as demanding and insistent as his fingers that work me through every last tremor.

“God, tell me your name,” he says, running his fingers languidly over my slit.

Still trying to catch my breath, I shake my head, though a smile paints my lips. I’ve never felt this good before in my life. I feel like napping and giggling as euphoria sprints through my body, erasing every whisper of nerves. I slowly pull away, prepared to remind him this is just one night.

My mouth goes dry at the intensity in his eyes, and my stomach clenches, questioning if this night might get better.

I take two steps back and withdraw the condom Lexie received on our hunt from my purse.

As the dark-haired stranger takes it from me, I marvel at his hands again. Big, masculine, perfect hands that I want to fuse to my body.

He removes his jeans and underwear, unabashed, revealing his long, hard cock.

Nerves skitter down my spine and nest in my belly.

I’m about to have sex with a complete stranger.

“Where are you from?” he asks.

I smile softly, wishing he’d stop asking questions because I want to answer them. I want to tell him I love tomato sandwiches and prefer sunrises to sunsets. I want to tell him how nervous I am, and not just because he’s a stranger but because of how right this feels—how right he feels. It’s a foreign sensation, something I’m sure lust is fabricating.

With shaking hands, I unhook my bra as a consolation prize for not answering.

“Holy fuck,” he groans, staring at my breasts like a fancy dessert bar, trying to decide where to start. He blows out a breath through pursed lips, then tears open the condom and rolls it over his length.

Seeing his hand next to his cock adds perspective to just how well-endowed he is as he runs both fists over his length and still has the tip exposed.

I’m aching. So damn desperate for him, it’s impacting every part of me, from my breaths to my heartbeats to the temperature of my skin.

Sheathed, he takes a step toward me and slips his fingers into the straps of my underwear. He slides them down my legs with a hurried grace that is surprisingly gentle. My underwear pools at my ankles before he lowers his gaze from mine, and he sinks down to his knees so he’s at eye-level with my sex. He leans closer and takes a deep breath through his nose, smelling my arousal.

My core clenches, and the ache becomes nearly insufferable.

Dear god, it shouldn’t make me want him more. It shouldn’t have me hating the restriction I made regarding oral sex, but dammit if it doesn’t. I want to weave my fingers in his hair and draw him closer.

He emits a low groan, a sound that is too similar to disappointment, like he wants to pleasure me nearly as badly as I want him to.

He stands, the fine hairs on his chest tickling my breasts, and then he’s kissing me—freaking consuming me.

A throw pillow flies overhead, and I realize I’m no longer vertical. My back is plastered against the floral comforter, my nipples peaked as the cool air of the room greets them, and the dark-haired stranger is above me, clearing the rest of the pillows off the bed with two swipes.

His blunt cock nudges at my entrance, and with his eyes still on mine, he presses inside of me. Both of us release a long moan. The girth of his cock hints at being uncomfortable, and he recognizes that just as he has every other fleeting thought I’ve had. He pauses, his breaths ragged and uneven.

“Are you okay?”

I nod, biting my tongue to keep from telling him he’s twice the size of Tobias. I flick that thought away, not wanting tainted thoughts anywhere near this moment of perfectly unadulterated lust.

He slides in a little deeper, and my lungs turn concave.

“Shit,” he breathes, his tone rough. I like it too much.

His jaw is locked as he finally fills me.

Bliss.

That’s the only word to describe how I feel.

“Now?” he asks.

“What?” The single word is practically a moan. I’m breathy, and my skin’s on fire. I have no idea what he’s asking. I’m too busy basking in the deepest degrees of pleasure.

He grins, a look so self-satisfied I want to roll my eyes. “Are you still okay?”

“I’d be better if you moved.”

He chuckles at my sass, and then he does just that and pulls out nearly to the tip and then thrusts inside of me with one long, slow move that is somehow even deeper.

“Again,” I demand, but it sounds like a plea.

He does, this time pulling all the way out. We both moan as he pushes inside, my walls contracting against his length. He does it again and again until I feel my orgasm building like it’s a tangible thing that he can direct.

I’m trembling, pleasure so intense my toes curl.

He grips my thighs, widening my legs, and I don’t object or even care. I let him handle me without an ounce of regret, afraid I’ll never experience this again.

He continues moving, his pace changing, driving me into euphoria with each hard thrust of his hips. His hands are on my butt, on my legs, on my breasts. It’s like he can’t get enough of me, and I feel equally as starved.

He shifts me to my side without drawing out of me, and from this angle, he’s even deeper. God. So deep.

He presses his fingers to my clit, and I am so close to coming apart that my body trembles.

“I want your name,” he says against my shoulder before dragging his teeth over my skin.

“Stop talking,” I tell him because I can’t think of a creative or snarky reply, not when I’m on fire like this.

He thrusts into me again. “Anything.” He sounds desperate, and a part of me cracks under the intensity of his stare.

“Fallon,” I tell him. “My name’s Fallon.”

With that secret in his pocket, he strokes over my clit and thrusts deeper—a reward or perhaps his victory. I’m too mindless to care.

I come apart, my orgasm blinding and so damn perfect I can hardly breathe. He carries my pleasure to the next note, his thrusts faster and harder before his body goes entirely rigid, and then he releases a guttural cry and leans his large body over mine, crushing me to the bed, and that’s just as freaking perfect.