Into You Series: The Complete Collection

Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

F ive days later I’m outside his door. I told him it was my turn to be the awkward one waiting on the date. He said that was ridiculous, but I’m a woman of my word.

I’ve tried to look presentable this time. No heels—just comfortable shoes. No bodycon dress—only a simple dress that flatters my figure. My curly hair was magically tamed by Grace, who was excited to help me get ready. She tried to push a corsage as well, but I insisted this wasn’t prom. In fact, prom seems like a cakewalk compared to this.

I inhale and knock. There’s some movement before the door is opened and only then do I let out my breath. It’s hard to hold it in when this guy is in front of you.

He’s taken the same approach I did: clean-cut and nice, but still relaxed. I take in every part of him—the fitted black Henley tee, the dark denim lacking any holes or scuffs, and the casual Vans that look immaculate and, if I had to guess, maybe even new.

“Did you break those in beforehand?” I ask, nodding to the shoes.

He laughs a bit, then slowly shakes his head. It’s like he doesn’t have time for words because he’s too busy staring at my hair, my lips, my dress … everything about me.

I feel my face redden, so I sidestep him into the room to ease the tension.

His room is the same layout as ours but decorated to fit his personality. There are posters of various bands. They’re not loosely sticky-tacked like ours, though, but framed. Neat. Clean. His desk has his laptop, some notebooks, and textbooks stacked with bookmarks sticking out every which way. Below is the built-in bookshelf with rows and rows of books on psychology.

“You never mentioned you like psychology that much.”

“I was a bit too distracted by you.”

I twist on my heel to look at him once more. He’s smiling and, just like that, I’m smiling too. His presence is intoxicating. He could be a study in what makes a staggeringly beautiful man. His broad shoulders, his cut jawline, and the way his fingers are flexing by his side, like he can’t decide what to do next and whether it’s acceptable to take any action.

I want those hands running over me, to see how they look sliding across my stomach, onto my waist, over my new tattoo … owning me, because that’s really all it boils down to. Wes has owned my body and mind since before he even knew who I was.

“Where’s your roommate?” I ask.

“Studying,” Wes answers simply, almost like an exhalation into the room, breathing life and balance between us. His words combine with mine, a mix of our breaths creating unbreakable tension, our tightrope of connection knotted together more than ever.

“Hey, Ray?” he asks.

“Yeah?”

“Is it stupid if I say that I don’t want to wait?”

My stomach churns, my heart leaps, and my legs act of their own accord as they bolt toward Wes, jump up, and wrap around his waist. And then our lips meet.

Fuel—pure energy—coursing between us, a desperate ache to touch the next freed area of skin. Our lips devour each other’s, biting, licking, sucking. My hands dive into his hair, letting the locks flow through my fingers, still damp from his shower, still smelling like shampoo and sending my heart racing. I wonder if he can feel the pumping of my veins against his, the pounding of my heart against my chest, as he pins my back to the now closed door, palming my ass as I tighten my leg hold around his waist.

“I’m not using you. You know that, right?” I say between feverish kisses, placing one right after the other, trying to take tastes of him that will never be enough. My fingers fumble to grip the sides of his shirt, pulling it over his head to reveal his strong torso, the toned curves of his shoulders, arms, and stomach.

“That megaphone act?” he says, devouring my mouth again, biting my lower lip, breathing heavily as he kisses his way over my jaw, my neck, and down to my collar. “I figure you’re either really wanting to see the rest of my tattoos or you’re actually into me.”

I laugh. “Can it be both?”

“I don’t even care.”

I suck in a sharp breath of air as his free hand lowers the strap of my dress down my shoulder, planting kiss after kiss along the free area, licking a line down from the curve of my cleavage and into my bra, shoving it aside to take my hardened nipple into his mouth.

He rolls his tongue over the crest, sending waves of pleasure exploding from my raised nipples through to my core and down between my legs.

Wes presses his weight into me, balancing me against the door so his hand can continue to roam over my shoulder, under my breast, taking more of me into his mouth, sucking and licking the surface. I dig my fingers deeper into his hair, tugging until he’s forced to pull away from my breast and meet my eyes.

With a wicked grin, one that makes my stomach slip and breath hitch, he carries me to his couch and places me down. Once I’m sitting up, I start on his belt, unhooking it from its holdings, unbuttoning the pants, and lowering the zipper that looks too strained to be held back any longer.

Wes inhales sharply when I lower his waistband down to finally reveal him to me. I shouldn’t be surprised he’s as big as he is. What is surprising is his thickness—the sheer girth of him staring back at me. Though I’m more turned on by the challenge of it all—the goal to fit it into my mouth as soon as possible.

I take him in, eliciting my first moan from him, a victory as I stroke the length of him, licking the tip, teasing him, making eye contact as he stares down, hooded eyes gazing into mine. I pull the rest of him into my mouth and his head falls back, eyes closed, groaning again.

I’m not one for power trips, but I could own this man all day long—take him deep and watch as his inked abs breathe in and out, stare as the patterns ebb and flow with every stilted breath he takes due to me and the pleasure I’m providing.

I stroke him up and down with my other hand, hearing him breathe heavily until suddenly he’s pushing my shoulders back and releasing himself from my mouth.

Wes bends at the waist, stepping out of his pants and lowering his knees down to the floor in front of me. His hand snakes up my leg and under my skirt, sending shivers rolling through me. He strokes a finger over my thigh, sparking every nerve, and he’s pressing into me so I can feel every pulse shooting into my throbbing core, an unspoken thump over and over that begs to be taken by this man.

His thumb nudges past the opening of my underwear and strokes over my most sensitive area. I lean back against the couch and his free hand wraps around my lower back, pulling me closer to the edge of the seat. My spread legs are open wider, displaying myself for him as my neck rolls over the headrest.

I attempt to fumble out words, but they come out in more of a moan than I intend as his thumb continues to make small circles over my center, pulling a tightrope in my stomach that grows tenser by the minute.

My eyes close as I let every tiny stroke against me roll through my body. I hear him moving, but I don’t see where he goes. His fingers disappear for a moment as I hear a ripping of plastic, but they return quickly, this time one, then two sliding into me, curling and stroking exactly where it needs to be.

I can feel the pressure in my stomach coiling in on itself, the pulse in my thighs growing quicker. I clench myself around his fingers. I think for a moment that I might be close, but his soft utterance of my name sends me there in an instant. There’s pleasure. Everywhere. My knees. My toes. My hands.

I’m still feeling the quickening of my heart when he removes his fingers, and I’m still hearing the pounding in my ears when I open my eyes and see him glancing over me, spreading his fingers over my stomach and centering himself at my opening. Our eyes lock and he slides himself in, easy and smooth due my wetness. The orgasm only exacerbated an existing want, need , to feel him inside me, but I would have been just as turned on without it.

He pulls out slowly, then pushes deeper in. The farther in, the more I’m starting to recall the girth of him—the thickness now making its home where it belongs. But I’m done with waiting and chaste behavior. I scoot closer to the edge of the couch, pushing myself down onto him. It’s an instant pressure and pain, but the pleasure overtakes those other sensations within an instant.

I let out an involuntary moan, and he does the same as we start our rhythm. I push down onto him and he thrusts into me. His hands land on my hips, pulling my sides with each push to get him deeper and deeper inside me.

I see the tattoo on his finger, stroking its way down to caress my new tattoo, the secret one hidden just for him, the lavender that belonged to him from day one. The sight alone boils my thoughts over into a new orgasm, overwhelming and certain in its presence, overtaking me so that I’m moaning his name.

Wes thrusts harder, deeper, more intently, now breathing, groaning, and finally releasing inside me.

His lips are pressed against mine in a second. We’re breathing in each other’s air, sharing the same space that I no longer wish to share with anyone else.

Kiss after kiss against lips, arms, shoulders, and down my stomach, legs, and knee until he’s poised in front of me, completely naked, displaying every single tattoo. But the one that sticks out the most is the freshest one with the cleanest line art: the flower. My flower.

“That one is my favorite,” I say.

And he answers with assured confidence when he says, “It’s my favorite too.”

THE END