Chapter 69

“Not even if I tried to tear out yours?” Defenseless and sprawled beneath him, it’s probably not the smartest question to ask, but something in me is suddenly dying to know. How much leniency would he give me before I suffer the same fate as Mickey? Or anyone else who’d challenge him? 

He stares down at me, smoke-colored eyes flaming with a level of passion I’ve never seen. “My life’s already yours, sweetheart,” he vows. “Just as yours is mine.” 

I feel the weight of his words settle in my chest, taking root between my lungs and my heart, and the desire to touch him increases tenfold.

I reach for his sweater, and he immediately understands, shedding the material and revealing the expanse of taunt, sun-kissed skin that’s been hiding beneath thick cashmere. 

“I want to draw you,” are the first words out of my mouth, which probably isn’t great dirty talk, but I can’t help myself. 

He’s beautiful. 

Too beautiful. 

This is the sort of bare chest that Da Vinci would’ve appreciated in his quest for the perfect human form. Lean and strong, honed from years of disciplined training, and an elite pair of genetics. 

As I greedily trace every sculpted ridge of his abdomen, my hands itch to grab a pencil and recreate every divot on the page. To painstakingly sketch the veins branched across his forearms like rivers on a map. 

Later, I tell myself. 

I could spend hours lost in the dips and valleys of his torso, but Adrian catches my hands – flat over his chest, over his heart – and shoots me a hungry smile. “Your turn, sweetheart.” 

I’m almost positive my heart’s lodged in my throat, but I oblige – or try to. The second I try to discard my t-shirt, he stops me. “Allow me.” 

My eyes flutter shut as he peels the material over my head. 

What if he doesn’t like what he sees? 

What if his curiosity starts and ends here? 

After all, it’s been more than established that Adrian’s not the average eighteen-year-old boy. If he can shrug his shoulders at Millie Roger’s double-Ds, who’s to say mine will stir his interest? 

There’s a sharp inhale, and I peek one eye open. 

Adrian’s fallen silent, eyes fixed on my exposed chest. 

I swallow, bracing for disappointment. “It’s alright if you don’t like them,” I say. “This is new to you, so if…” 

“I think you may be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” he mutters, and I hear it in his voice – a sense of wonder. Like someone discovering electricity or Diet coke or chocolate cake or something equally life changing for the first time. 

And then he starts touching me. 

He’s careful at first, kneading the flesh almost experimentally, but when his thumb grazes my nipple, it sends an unexpectedly pleasant sensation rippling through me – and I gasp. 

He pauses. 

He smiles. 

And then he tweaks the other one. 

It’s almost unfair how much of an unnaturally quick learner he is. There’s no real hesitation, no awkward fumbling to be found, and in moments, he’s figured out how to straddle the line between pleasant sensitivity and discomfort. 

He rolls my nipples between his nimble fingers, chuckling when the movement elicits another soft moan. “You make the sweetest little sounds, sweetheart.” His voice pitches low, almost gravely. “Now I want to see what others you can make.” 

I’m not prepared for him to use his mouth again. 

He trails a line of lingering kisses down my throat, past my sternum and right –

Oh. 

That feels good. 

I’m not sure which sensation should command my attention. His mouth on one nipple or his fingers on the other or –

Wait? 

What’s he doing with the other hand? 

I’d been too distracted by what he’s been doing above my waist to realize what he’s been doing below it. 

Unbuttoning my jeans. 

Nervous energy thrums in my veins, the anticipation of what’s coming finally settling in. 

“Adrian,” I say, though I’m not sure what I mean to say. 

Please don’t stop? 

Please don’t ruin me? 

Whatever it is, it never makes it out of my throat. 

He pulls back, his eyes as dark as I’ve ever seen them. “Lift,” he commands, and I obey, raising my hips so he can shimmy off my jeans and expose the baby blue cotton panties underneath. 

Of course, today of all days, I pick these. 

Not the lacy black ones I splurged on a year ago. Not the sheer red pair my mother bought me as a gag gift when I was fifteen that I stuffed in the back of my closet and promptly tried to forget about. 

But these – plain cotton, zero sex appeal. 

When this is over, maybe I should frame them. 

These panties have seen a lot today. 

First, attempted murder and now the loss of my virginity. 

Fortunately, Adrian seems entirely too focused on everything that surrounds the panties to give them much thought. 

He plants more open-mouthed kisses down the dip of my sternum and across both hips, and then shifts, laying flat on his stomach and parting my legs. 

His hands grip my hips. 

Understanding dawns. 

Oh my God. 

He’s going to –

“Do you know what I’ve been thinking about since the night of the dance?” He lets out a low, throaty chuckle, and I feel his breath ghost the sensitive flesh of my inner thighs. 

A shiver wracks through me. “What’s that?” 

“Your taste.” He presses a kiss to one thigh. “I haven’t been able to get it out of my head.” A kiss to the other thigh. “Do you know how many times I’ve thought about finding some empty classroom, flipping up your skirt, and having my fill of you? Or even here, in this room, as you sketch on the chaise or drink your coffee in bed…” He fingers the edges of my panties, and slowly – painstakingly slowly – begins pulling them off. 

A shot of need pulses through me. “Why didn’t you?” I don’t mean for it to sound whiny, but it does anyway. To think I could've had his head between my legs even a couple of hours sooner…

“Because…” My panties are almost entirely off now. “I could tell you were hiding from me.”

“I wasn’t –” He suddenly delivers a sharp slap to my ass, and I gasp. 

“You were.” There’s a hard edge to his voice now. A warning. “You were scared. That’s understandable, but…” He yanks my panties all the way down. “You’re not allowed to hide from me ever again.”

His mouth is so close to my center. 

So close enough that I can feel every word fan my –

“Do you understand?” His nails dig into my thighs. Another warning. 

“Yes,” I rasp. “Yes, I understand.” 

He answers, not with his mouth, but his tongue.

Pleasure rolls through me as he swipes it across my lips and then my clit – because, of course the boy who studies medical textbooks like it’s a recreational hobby knows exactly where the clit is. 

I feel a low groan vibrate through my core. “You taste even better than I remember,” he mutters. “Fucking delectable, sweetheart.” He presses his tongue completely flat to my clit and licks. 

Oh God. 

He shouldn’t be so good at this. 

I don’t remember handing him the cheat codes to my body, but he seems to know exactly where to lick, to kiss, how much pressure to apply. 

He’s gentle at first, circling my clit and my outer lips with light, feathery strokes that send surprisingly strong waves of pleasure rippling from head to toe. 

And then, just as I realize the pleasure’s beginning to build, he changes tactics. His tongue, toying with my outer lips, dips inside of me. 

It’s unexpected. its unexplored territory. It’s the best goddamn thing I’ve ever felt in my life. 

My entire body arches into him, seeking more, more, more, as his tongue invades me. 

A moan that sounds more animal than human is ripped from my throat. “Please. That feels –” The rest of the sentence dies as his tongue curls, and my body with it. 

Heat coils in my lower belly. 

“Please,” I plead. I have no idea what I’m begging for. 

There’s another shock of pleasure as he shifts his attention back to my clit. 

My muscles tense, the coil of heat tightening inside me. 

“Please.”

I’m tugging on his curls, unsure as to when I even started running my hands through it.