Just One Moment (Just One Song #4) Page 5

  Holy fuck.

  I squeeze the base of my dick to stop from shooting my load as soon as I read her text.

  Come, Sarah. Need you to go before me. I'm so hard. Waiting for you.

  Sarah: I'm coming. Now, Lynx.

  Fuck. Yes.

  It's all I need to see before my hand begins pumping. My hips thrust up as my hand slides up and down. It takes three vicious pumps until I'm spurting cum all over my stomach.

  "Fucking hell," I mutter as my hand begins to slow down. My dick is sensitive to the touch and cum drips all over my stomach and chest.

  I squeeze my eyes closed and wait for my racing heart to slow down. I type out another text just to make sure she's finished and I haven't left her hanging.

  You come?

  Her response makes me grin. Loud and hard. :-) Thanks, Lynx.

  I want to see you tomorrow.

  I reach for a box of Kleenex in my nightstand and begin wiping off my stomach while I wait for her to confirm.

  There's something about Sarah that tells me I need to move slowly, need to not get attached to her and ensure she won't get attached to me, but as a thick feeling of dread slides into my gut while I wait, I suddenly wonder.

  Would becoming attached to someone as good in bed as she is be a bad thing?

  She's not only hot as fuck and as adventurous as me in bed, but she's actually fun. She laughs loud and often, she cares about Kennedy, and she's been her biggest supporter in getting her back together with Grayson—something that makes my friend fucking happy for maybe the first time I've known him.

  A release of pressure that feels like relief slides through me when my phone dings.

  Okay. Tomorrow.

  From the time it took her to send the message, I know she had to think about it. Just like she had to think about maintaining a benefit-only relationship with me.

  As I drift off to sleep, I realize that everything I know about this girl is a turn-on.

  Even her willingness to send dirty messages is a fucking turn-on.

  I fall asleep, replaying the last few minutes in my head, and when I wake the next day I realize that once again, Sarah's magical pussy has worked, even when I haven't been near her.

  Because I sleep the entire night through, dreaming of Sarah and having sex with her and laughing with her and holding her hand—instead of suicide bombers, underage terrorists, and bombs that blow your battle buddy to smithereens.

  CHAPTER SIX

  SARAH

  "YES, MRS. RODRIGUEZ, I understand." I tap my pen against the desktop and make a wish for time to speed.

  Or for this woman to stop talking.

  "This is my daughter's only wedding," Mrs. Rodriguez says into the phone in her thickly accented voice. "It needs to be perfect. She's also young, she doesn't understand what she wants all the time."

  She understands enough to choose to get married.

  I don't speak the thought. Mrs. Rodriguez is a difficult woman, and I'm learning that she is most definitely in charge of her entire family. She's now steamrolling every decision her daughter Marissa wants for her wedding reception at the hotel.

  I've never been in the middle of such a power struggle before. Considering Mrs. Rodriguez is paying for everything, it's been a tremulous line for me to walk: please the bride versus please the payer.

  I sigh into the phone and close my eyes. "Mrs. Rodriguez, I understand your frustration, but isn't it more important to give Marissa the day she wants?"

  The question is pointless. We've already been over this.

  She huffs into the phone and I can hear her snarl. "What is important is that our families, joined together on this day of wedded bliss, have a party worthy of the event."

  "I understand," I repeat for perhaps the tenth time on the phone. "I will ensure it's done exactly how you want it."

  I've been dealing with this family for months, but this recycled argument isn’t worth this stress or these constant phone calls.

  "You will have everything you want for your daughter's wedding reception."

  She sighs into the phone. "Thank you, Sarah, that is all I ask."

  "My pleasure." I fake a grin and scratch down a date on my planner. "Now, let's meet in two weeks to discuss the final room setup, okay?"

  She agrees, and we make our plans before I hang up and drop my head into my hands.

  This woman. This family. This is the poster example of why people with overbearing, helicopter parents should simply elope. I've met a number of these types of moms over the years and they never cease to amaze me. They want what they want and screw the fact that they've already had their own wedding. They want another one. I swear if they could get away with wearing a wedding dress to the event, half of them would do that, too.

  I'll keep my word to Mrs. Rodriguez, though. Whatever she wants, she'll get. If Marissa can't grow a spine in the next two weeks before final decisions are made and scheduled, that isn't my problem.

  I make another note to contact a vendor regarding floral deliveries for this Saturday's upcoming reception we're hosting, and find my eyes sliding to my phone.

  My texts from Lynx are still on my phone. So is the new one he sent me today stating: My place. Seven.

  My lower stomach began pulsing as soon as I’d read it and then warmed further as my eyes had drifted to the string of texts from last night.

  Hell. I have never done something like that with someone before. I still don't even know what possessed me to tell him that I had started touching myself right before he texted.

  It was all true. I was touching myself. A part of me was wishing he hadn't put a Sunday night restriction on us getting together. Ever since I’d left his place on Friday night, I hadn't been able to stop thinking about the things this man can do to my body.

  So last night, when I climbed into bed and my mind began wandering to the events of our last hookup, I didn't even want to stop myself from rubbing one out while thinking of Lynx.

  That he texted right as I was getting warmed up made it all the hotter.

  The orgasm I had, knowing he was jerking himself off to the thought of me, was everything I'd described. It came at me quickly and powerfully and lasted longer than any other orgasm I've ever given myself.

  It was almost as powerful as if Lynx had been in the room, doing all the work.

  I'm still not used to the exclusive arrangement with him. Friends with benefits is one thing, but that still implies spontaneity or randomness in hookups. The fact that Lynx wants to see me so frequently should concern me.

  It does concern me.

  Just not enough to halt it, which is why I eventually agreed.

  Plus, he had just told me what he wants to do the next time we're together, and even though I'm concerned, I'm still turned on by the prospect of what he described to me.

  So much so that I've not only looked at our texts from last night throughout the day, but every time I do, my inner thighs tighten and pull together, my sex beginning to throb a little bit harder.

  When he finally does get his hands on me tonight, I'm going to detonate like a short-fused bomb.

  But first, I have to look into canceling the order on pink peonies Marissa Rodriguez wants for her wedding, which would make the elegant reception room soft and sweet, and prepare an order for the white and red roses Mrs. Rodriquez is insisting on.

  The mother of the bride does have a point: with an early November wedding, fall or even winter colors are a more appropriate flower scheme, and you can never go wrong with roses. It's just so different from the sweet, springtime flowers Marissa has desired for months.

  I push the mother-daughter battle that is sure to ensue out of my mind and get back to work, focusing on the tasks at hand. I want to get out of the hotel on time, make my way to my apartment, and get to Lynx's at seven o'clock on the dot.

  I don't want a miss a moment of the few hours I have to spend with him.

  ***

  I stand in front of the door to Lynx�
��s loft with my heart hammering against my ribcage. Every time I come to his place, I’m always struck by the “cool” factor of the building. It’s an old warehouse that has been renovated and converted to lofts. Yet it still maintains the old-style look and feel. It’s the perfect combination of vintage and modern mixed together.

  One of my fingers presses against the scar at my temple before I drop my hand and rub it along my thigh. It does nothing to stop the tingling in my fingers.

  Why do I feel so nervous standing in front of his door, raising my other hand to knock?

  The doorman in the building has already announced my presence, so I know he's expecting my knock any second.

  And if he spies me standing outside, dancing around like I need to pee, that'll embarrass me more than my fidgeting.

  Straightening my shoulders, I cock a hip to the side and strike a seductive pose when I rap on the door three times to get his attention.

  I hear footsteps behind the door and have barely dropped my hand to my side when Lynx opens it.

  "You're on time," he says, holding the door open and blocking my entrance.

  His dark eyes gleam with interest as his gaze drops to my dress and he slowly inspects my body.

  "I'm not a fan of being late. Besides," I say, hoping my words are confident and seductive, "it sounds like you have an evening of activities planned."

  My lips twitch even as my hand rubs down the outside of my thigh. I've been looking forward to tonight for the last twenty-four hours, but now that it's here, butterflies swarm my stomach, making it roll and tighten.

  I should have probably eaten dinner before coming over.

  Food would help.

  He nods once and that interest spikes into something darker. "I do. Definitely. Come in."

  He stands off to the side and gestures for me to enter. I do, kicking my heels onto a rug once I'm inside. I love my shoes—all kinds of shoes with all kinds of heel heights—but after a day of working and trekking in heels to the L train station, I'm still anxious to get rid of them.

  Except now, our already noticeable height difference is glaringly clear when Lynx walks toward me and stands in front of me.

  At over six feet, he towers over me by about a foot.

  "You have a good day?" he asks.

  I think of Mrs. Rodriguez, who called me two more times before I left the hotel, and frown.

  "Eh." My eyes flicker to his and I ignore the question. "I'm looking forward to a good night."

  With a wink, I skirt around Lynx's side and take in the gorgeous loft. It's essentially one large room with a small and narrow metal staircase that leads to his bedroom area. It's not even a full bedroom, but has a metal railing that wraps around the entire upstairs area instead. Downstairs is one large room with a kitchen and eating area off to our right, and in front of me is his wide-open living area. Only a narrow brick wall gives any sort of separation to the spaces.

  It's totally urban and masculine, with the classic rich brown brick, exposed ductwork along the ceiling, and dark brown furniture. Every time I come here I feel like it seems too bare without anything hanging on the walls and only a few lamps that are used to light the space. The kitchen—with its gleaming metal countertops, stainless steel appliances, and dark wood cabinets—almost make it seem sterile.

  I must make a face because Lynx asks, "You don't like my place?"

  I look at his wry grin and shake my head. "I do," I tell him and wave a hand in the air. "It's large and cool, really, and open. Just, looks sort of empty."

  Lynx takes my hand and pulls me toward the kitchen. My eyes flicker to the staircase and I feel my eyebrows pinch together again. Shouldn't we be headed that way?

  "I don't like feeling enclosed," he explains and guides me to where there are three white takeout bags on the kitchen counter. "Have you eaten yet?"

  "You bought me dinner?"

  He lets go of my hand and moves to the fridge, pulling out a bottle of white wine and a beer. "I did. Got home from the gym late and haven't eaten."

  He pops the top on the beer and grabs a wine glass for me.

  My eyes widen at the realization that he actually has wine glasses. Most men—single men, anyway—don't. My expression pinches with confusion and I tilt my head to the side. I’m still in shock at the bags of food in front of me.

  "You bought me dinner."

  He flashes me a lazy smile. "You’ve already said that. Is it a problem?"

  It is. It shouldn't be. Should it? We've shared meals before when we're out with Kennedy and Grayson. This is different, though. Dinner at the house of a man I'm planning on sleeping with?

  "It feels very date-like," I mutter.

  He slides a glass of wine in front of me and chuckles. "It's food, Sarah, not a proposal."

  He sits down on a barstool and gestures for me to take one next to him, pulling the food in front of us. "I stopped at Hajime on my way home—you ever hear of it?"

  My mouth begins watering and I almost rip the bags out of his hands. Hajime has some of the best sushi in the city, and not only do they do incredible sushi but their crab rangoons and pad-thai are out of this world.

  Next to me, Lynx snickers. "I guess that's a yes."

  "Did you get crab rangoons?" I ask, pulling several different plastic containers out of the bag.

  When he doesn't answer, I look at him to see him rubbing the back of his neck. And is that...a blush on his gorgeous cheekbones?

  "Um. Yeah. I didn't know what you'd like, so I got pretty much everything."

  My eyes widen and something deep inside my belly flutters.

  Must be hunger pains.

  I smile and finish sifting through the bags, spreading out all the containers on the countertop in front of us.

  I let Lynx take off all the plastic tops and I scrape my chopsticks together, smoothing them out, before we both reach for separate containers and begin eating.

  "This is really delicious," I moan around a mouthful of chicken and peanut sauce. When I swallow and reach for my wine glass for a sip, I almost jump in my chair when I see Lynx looking at me. Watching me. "What?"

  "You like food." He states it as fact and shoves a large bite of an eel roll into his mouth.

  Now it's my time to fight a blush. Luckily, even with my fair skin, it takes a lot to force the heat to show on my cheekbones. I take another swallow of my wine and reach for a California roll.

  "Is that a problem?"

  "Men like a woman with an appetite."

  I take a bite of the roll and chew slowly. It feels like it lodges in my throat.

  Perhaps that's my pulse when he says, "Tell me about your family."

  I force the roll down and close my eyes. When I open them, I twist on my stool and face Lynx. He's looking at me expectantly.

  "This feels like a date," I tell him. "Dinner, noticing things, talk about family..."

  My thought trails off when his eyes narrow. He takes a slow pull from his beer, and even though his questions make me uncomfortable, I can't help but watch the way his throat works as he swallows.

  He's so strong. Everywhere.

  Tendons pop on the sides of his neck. Muscles bunch on his biceps beneath his gray T-shit with Bartlett Gym printed over two gloved fists pressed together over his left pec. The shirt covers the curves and bumps and ridges of his chest and abdomen, and I know the slick pants he has on fit his narrow waist and cover thighs that make me want to drop my knees and lick along the muscled lines.

  He's turning me into a nympho and we're both still fully clothed.

  "Is it too much to get to know the person you've been fucking for two months?"

  He sets the beer down and I'm pulled from fantasies of grabbing the waistband of his pants and pulling them down, dropping to my knees along with them.

  Or actually...

  "Sarah?" he asks when I don't answer.

  I pull my eyes to his.

  My lips twist into a wicked grin, and without speaking I stand from m
y stool and take the small step toward him until I'm standing between his legs, his knees spread wide. The slickness of his pants feels cool against my already heated skin.

  "Lynx?" I arch a brow and press my palm to his cheekbone. "I like you just fine when we're fucking."

  I drop my hand and rest it on his thigh, pressing my other hand to his other thigh. His eyes widen as he watches me slowly sink to my knees in front of him.

  He clears his throat, and I see his pulse begin to beat faster in that divot at the center of his collarbone. "What are you doing?" he asks in a gruff voice.

  I smile and trail my fingertips to the waistband of his pants. I pull him forward and force him to lift his hips while I begin tugging the pants down, wanting to see him.

  My own heart begins to race as I see his erection harden beneath his pants, tenting them.

  His head falls back as I continue pulling his pants down until they drop to his ankles. He kicks them off and braces the heels of his feet against the rungs on the stool. "Jesus, Sarah. I just wanted to talk."

  "I think this seems like more fun." I lean forward and wrap my hand around his now fully hard dick. It's perfect: thick and long without being scarily so. His heavy balls hang down and I can't resist leaning forward, gliding my tongue along the line that separates them.

  His hand falls to the top of my head. "Yes."

  I begin pumping him with my fist, uncaring that the wood floor beneath my knees is cold and unforgiving. I run my tongue from the top of his sac along the underside of his hot, thick shaft until I swirl the tip of my tongue around the ridge at its head.

  "Fucking hell. You're good at this."

  I grin and glance up at him to see him staring down at me. His full lips are parted. His dark brown eyes swirl with lust and need.

  I feel like I could conquer the world. There's something powerful that happens to me when I’m in this position—so vulnerable, yet so much in charge.

  I open my mouth and keep my eyes on him while I begin to suck him off. He carries the faint taste of soap and an even fainter smell of sweat, which I assume is from working at the gym all day. His thigh tightens beneath my hand while my other hand strokes his erection as I take him deeper into my mouth.