Hold Me Close. Megan Hart

       chapter seven

      “How was he?”

      She wasn’t startled. Didn’t scream. She’d known Heath was waiting for her the second she came into the kitchen and saw the back door was slightly open. You’d think she’d be smarter about it, take a baseball bat or something to protect herself in case it was a serial killer who’d happened to pick her house out of all the ones lined up along this suburban street. You’d think she’d have been more careful about locking her doors, the way her mother had urged her over and over again to be.

      When the worst had already happened to you, everything else seemed a lot less dangerous.

      “None of your business.” Effie went to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water, listening for the sound of the crack as she broke the sealed lid before she drank greedily.

      Her stomach rumbled. Mitchell had taken her to a Chinese place for dinner, and there’d been no way for her to eat any of that jumbled-together sort of food. Nor any good way to explain to him why she couldn’t have anything touching each other on the plate. Not without sounding like a lunatic. She’d gone to Bill with a different sort of appetite and he’d left her hungry, too. She pulled out a block of sliced cheese and took a piece. She offered one to Heath. He refused.

      “Dammit, Effie.”

      She turned and leaned against the counter. Heath wore all black. Ancient jeans, ragged at the hems. A black hoodie over a black T-shirt. He’d left his shoes by the door, and he wore no socks. She had to look away from his bare, long toes—his feet killed her with their perfection. His arms stuck out a few inches below the sleeves. Heath had a hard time finding clothes that fit him. Legs and arms and torso too long. At six-five he was gangly, even now as a man when he’d filled out with muscle.

      Thinking of his body, Effie swallowed hard and drank more water. Her thighs rubbed together, slick from her earlier, unsated arousal. Her lower abdomen still felt crampy.

      “Where did he take you?”

      “Jade Garden.” She chewed slowly. Swallowed. Washed down the rest of the cheese with a swig of water, then another.

      Heath let out a short, sharp bark of mocking laughter. “No wonder you’re hungry now.”

      “He was a nice guy,” Effie said mildly. “He’s a software engineer. He makes good money. He smelled nice. He wears glasses.”

      Heath moved closer. He’d been working in the cafeteria at a local private college for the past couple years. He did most of their catered events. He stank of grease and fried foods with an undertone of grass and smoke. He would taste like honey. Effie didn’t move away, but she didn’t lean into him, either. Didn’t soften or bend, didn’t open her mouth for him to kiss her.

      Heath leaned in to sniff her neck. His lips moved against her skin. “You fucked him.”

      “No.”

      “You fucked someone,” he said and slid a hand under her dress and between her legs. His fingers cupped her hard enough to force a gasp out of her. In the next second he’d pushed his fingers inside her. “He’s still dripping out of you.”

      In, out, his fingers slid against her slick heat, but he was wrong. She wasn’t wet inside from Bill, but from this. Oh, fuck yes, for Heath, always for him. He could look at her from across the room, no words. None needed. A glance, and she was weak-kneed and trembling at the thought of his touch. Of his mouth, that tongue. His teeth.

      The water bottle fell to the floor, splashing her legs with chilly liquid. She put both her hands up flat on his chest. His T-shirt bunched under her fingers. She pushed at him, but Heath had put his other hand at the small of her back, holding her still.

      He slid his fingers deeper until his thumb pressed her clit. His teeth took the place of his whisper, fierce on the tender skin of her throat. Effie’s head tipped back; now her fingers clutched at his T-shirt not to push him away but to keep herself from falling. Not that Heath ever would have let her.

      He would never let her fall.

      “So fucking wet,” Heath breathed into her ear. His hand moved faster. He added another finger, stretching her. His thumb stroked. Had it only been this morning that they’d been doing this?

      He backed away from her so suddenly that Effie took a couple stumbling steps forward in order to keep her balance. She cried out, low, as she lost her grip on his shirt. Her head spun.

      “I waited for you,” he said. “I was worried.”

      What else could she do then, but draw him close to her and hold him? What else but to kiss him, first gently and then as though they each were the only meal the other would ever need? Here in the dark and in the morning’s ugliest hour, it was surely all right to take him by the hand and lead him into her bedroom, where he stood in front of her as she undressed slowly, piece by piece until she was naked in front of him.

      Heath hesitated before stripping out of his hoodie, then pulled his T-shirt over his head with one hand over his shoulder in that purely male way. He tugged the button on his jeans and then slid the zipper down notch by notch without ever looking away from her. He wore no briefs beneath, and at the first sight of the dark bush of hair, Effie let a low groan slip out of her. Heath pushed his jeans down and kicked them off.

      Effie backed up slowly until she reached the bed, then scooted back on it. She opened her thighs to show him her treasure and reveled in the way his gaze flashed in the light coming from the window. Propped on her elbow, she let the fingers of her other hand toy with her cunt, easing inside and then up to circle her clit. Slow, slow, until her head fell back and her back arched at how good it felt to have him watching her.

      “Did he eat that pussy?”

      “Yes.”

      “But he didn’t make you come.”

      A stuttering, sighing moan ground from her throat. “No.”

      “Look at me, Effie.”

      She managed to lift her head. Heath’s cock was in his fist. He got harder as she watched. Long and thick, his cock was slightly curved upward. Effie had been with dozens of men. She’d seen a lot of erections. Long, short, thick, thin, bent, uncut. Low-hanging balls or tight and high. Some men trimmed or shaved their pubic hair and some let it grow dense and wild. Yet of them all, Heath’s was the only one she could have picked out of the crowd. She knew his body as well as she knew her own.

      And he knew hers. Moving closer, he knelt between her legs to rub his prick along the seam of her cunt, up and over her clit again and again until she fell back onto the bed, legs splayed wide to urge him inside her. He teased her with the tip of his cock, his hands planted beside her head, his hips barely thrusting. Slick, flesh on flesh. She wanted him to fill her.

      When at last he began to move, her hands went above her head, palm to palm, fingers linked. She gave herself up to the pleasure of him rocking his cock against her. She lost herself in it. She came in slow, rolling waves, aware she was crying out but not caring. So many times they’d had to fuck in silence, careful not to let anyone overhear