A Secret for a Secret Page 13

  “You’d be perfect for me if you’d stop teasing me and just fuck me already.”

  She nudges the back of my neck with her toe, and I let her pull me down on top of her until her knees hit her chest. I adjust her legs so they’re wrapped around my waist and brush my lips along her jaw. Rolling my hips, I slip low again. I don’t push in, though, instead savoring her soft moans and the tremble in her limbs.

  “Make me yours.” She drags her fingertips down my cheek. “It’s all I want, just to be yours.”

  I curve my palm around the back of her neck and push inside on a low groan that she echoes. She arches, chin tipping back, eyes rolling up, and I shudder at the feel of her clenching around me.

  “God, Queenie, are you coming already?”

  Her nails dig into my arms and her lids flutter open, her hazy gaze meeting mine. “Is that what you want?”

  Heat slams through my veins, and the urge to just . . . take becomes painfully acute. “Yes.”

  “Tell me,” she murmurs.

  “I want you to come while I’m inside you.” I suck her bottom lip and roll my hips again. “I want to covet every single one of your orgasms, and when I’m done with you there won’t be any question as to whether you’re mine.”

  “Was there ever really a question in the first place?”

  “Not for me, no.”

  She strokes the edge of my jaw, a hint of vulnerability in her eyes. “And are you mine?”

  I sweep my thumb along the side of her neck. “All yours.”

  “Good.” She pulls my mouth down to hers, smiling against my lips. “Now fuck me like I know you want to.”

  I ease my hips back, pulling out all the way to the ridge before sinking back in. The first few strokes are slow, but with every moan and whimpered plea from Queenie to go harder, faster, give her more, make her come again, goddammit, the final threads of control threaten to snap.

  “I’m not made of glass. Stop worrying that you’re going to break me.” She slaps my ass.

  I push up on one arm and give her a look, sweat dripping from my temple to the pillow beside her, dangerously close to her cheek. I lean to the side, still trying to maintain some kind of rhythm as I wipe my forehead on the sheets, then shift so I can see her face again. “Jeez, Queenie, how much harder do you want me to go?”

  “Why? You getting tired? Need to get on your back and let me do the work for a while?” She arches a challenging brow. “I’m more than happy to bounce around on your cock like you’re my personal pogo stick if you need a break.”

  “Are you questioning my stamina?”

  “Maybe we should do a couple of shots. You were a lot less restrained last time,” she goads.

  “Last time I wasn’t inside you.” I punctuate the statement with a heavy thrust.

  Queenie groans and slaps my ass a second time. “Again.”

  So I do. And it gets me another ass slap.

  “Stop slapping my ass.”

  “Or what?” She does it again.

  I give my head a slow shake. “Remember that you asked for it.”

  Her eyes light up with something like triumph and then confusion as I push up, sit back on my heels, and pull out.

  “What—”

  I grab her ankles and flip her onto her stomach. She shrieks and then gasps when I grip her wrists and stretch out on top of her, raising our hands over her head. My erection slides along the crack of her ass, and I adjust my position until I’m nudging against her entrance again. I brush my lips over her cheek. “Is this okay?”

  “Yes. More than okay.” Her voice vibrates with excitement. “This is what I’ve been waiting for.”

  I press my lips to her temple. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

  “It won’t be.”

  I ease in and Queenie lifts her hips, pushing her butt up with a groan. And I give in, letting need and desire take over as I drive into her. I release her wrists, afraid I’m cutting off the circulation. She reaches back, fingers twining in my hair, twisting her head, seeking my mouth. I tuck one hand under her chin, tipping her head up and back so I can kiss her while I . . . basically pound her into the mattress.

  There’s not a lot of finesse on my part. The headboard slams into the wall, a piece of art hits the floor, but I keep moving over her, groaning as she clenches around me, ridiculously pleased that she’s coming again, because it means I can let go.

  The orgasm hijacks my body, slamming into me like a punch in the spine. I bite her shoulder, my erection kicking inside of her as I come. It isn’t until I collapse on top of her and she grunts out a “You’re really fucking heavy, King” that I push up on my dangerously shaky arms and roll off of her.

  I wipe my sweaty face on the pillow. “Crap, sorry.” I brush her wild hair out of her face. It’s a knotted, tangled mess, and that would be 100 percent my fault. I skim the bite mark on her shoulder and cringe. “Are you okay?”

  She props her chin on her fist and grins. “I’m great. How are you?” She reaches out and runs the fingers of her free hand through my damp hair.

  “I’m . . . are you sure you’re okay? I went at you pretty hard.”

  “I’m positively positive. I’m actually fantastic times a thousand. Also, I asked you to go hard.” She bites her lip, eyes searching my face. “I can handle a good dicking, King, especially since the only thing you’ve done in the past two weeks is dry hump me for a few seconds when you kiss me good night and graze my nipple through layers of fabric. I think we both needed that, don’t you?”

  I laugh. “Yeah, I guess we did.” I slide an arm under her back and pull her closer so she’s sprawled out over my chest.

  I brush her hair away from her face, but she’s just as sweaty as me so it sticks to her cheek, and it takes me a couple of tries before I manage to tuck it behind her ear.

  “I think we need a shower,” I say.

  “Probably, but it might be a good idea to get in sex round two before we do that, since I assume we’re going to get sweaty again.”

  “You want a round two?”

  She arches a brow. “Don’t you?”

  “Well, yeah, of course, but—”

  “But nothing, then. This time I get to ride you.” She braces her hands on my pecs and straddles my hips. “And if I forgot to mention it, I’m staying over again, but this time I won’t do a runner in the morning.”

  CHAPTER 15

  MORNING AFTER

  Kingston

  I crack a lid and glance to the right. Beside me is an empty pillow with a head dent. My disappointment at Queenie’s absence in my bed is short lived as I breathe in the smell of sex and . . . bacon?

  I throw off the covers and sit up with a groan. Foreign muscle aches make moving more difficult than usual. Being a professional athlete means I’m in pretty damn good shape, but it’s been a while since I’ve had sex.

  So much sex.

  And definitely not the hair-pulling, neck-biting, thrust until the headboard dents the drywall and art falls on the floor kind of sex I had last night.

  Banging and clanging comes from my kitchen and . . . singing? I smile and push off the mattress, fighting another groan at the ache in my thighs and my glutes.

  I grab a pair of boxers from my dresser and leave the room—bed still unmade and last night’s clothes scattered all over the floor. It’s not how I typically operate, but this morning isn’t typical, so the tidying up can wait. Until after I find my girlfriend, who, judging by the smell, is making breakfast. I don’t know why it surprises me, maybe because I’ve assumed she’d be more of a sugary cereal and Pop-Tarts kind of woman.

  My kitchen is a mess. Spoons, bowls, and measuring cups litter the counter, along with flour and discarded eggshells. Several cutting boards and knives are stacked by the sink. My first thought is that this is going to take forever to clean up. My second thought is that I’m glad my cleaner will be here tomorrow to take care of what I can’t today. Including the pile of sheets and towels heaped in m
y closet. We ended up changing them more than once, and showering twice.

  But any worries I have about the mess disappear as soon as I spot Queenie amid the chaos. She’s wearing an apron that my family gave me as a joke. It has a buff male body on it, which is odd, with the way her chest accentuates the pecs. She’s holding one of my mixing bowls—I don’t use them very often, but the guy who comes in to prepare my meals every week is always grateful for my stocked kitchen. I have my mother and momster to thank for that.

  Queenie looks up from the open book on the counter and starts when she sees me. “Did I wake you? I was kind of hoping to surprise you.” She stops stirring whatever is in the bowl and sets it on the counter. “I thought we deserved a really great breakfast, but I know you like to follow the recommended eating plan so I made some high-protein, slow-release pancakes with oats, and then I figured that was kind of boring so I made some with shredded coconut, pineapple, and macadamia nuts, and I also made banana-pecan ones because they’re still healthy. I considered adding chocolate chips, but I wasn’t sure if you’d eat any of them, so I held off. Oh, and I made bacon, because it’s delicious, and if you’re going to cheat on your meal plan, you should always cheat with bacon.”

  I open my mouth to speak, but all the words get lost as soon as Queenie turns her back to me. And I find out that the apron she’s wearing is the only article of clothing adorning her amazing body. A bow frames the center of her back, the ties dangling tauntingly over the swell of her perfectly bare bottom.

  Queenie looks over her shoulder, her expression expectant. When I don’t answer right away, she tips her head to the side. “Kingston?”

  “I’m sorry, what was the question?” I ask her butt.

  “Would you like some of the turkey bacon in your fridge? It has a Post-it on it that says ‘Friday,’ and I wasn’t sure if that meant it’s for Friday or if it goes bad by Friday, which would mean it should get eaten sooner rather than later.”

  “I’m good with whatever bacon you’ve already made.” I move in behind her, slip my finger under the tie along her waist, and pull the bow. “How much time do we have until breakfast is ready?”

  Thirty minutes, an orgasm each, and some almost-burned bacon later, we’re sitting at my breakfast bar eating pancakes I would literally kill for, bacon, and a fresh-fruit platter.

  “Move in with me,” I blurt. I blame it on the banana-pecan pancakes.

  Queenie pauses with a strip of bacon halfway to her mouth—she’s eaten six. “You should probably wait until you’ve seen me have a real meltdown before you start throwing out invitations to move into your pad. I mean, I know I give a mean blow job and I make delicious pancakes, but you should be sure you can handle all of this before you decide you want to share a bed with me every night.” She motions to her now T-shirt clad body. It’s one of mine, and it almost reaches her knees, and the sleeves hang past her elbows. “Especially since I’m a cover hog.”

  She’s obviously trying to let me off the hook for saying something so asinine. There is no way I’d ask a woman to move in with me after two weeks of dating, at least until Queenie. She’s a tornado, and half the time I don’t know what to do with her, but I still want to get caught up in her vortex.

  “I’m pretty confident I can handle anything you throw at me.”

  She props her cheek on her fist and gives me a soft smile. “We’ll have to wait and see if that’s true, won’t we?” She slides off her stool, gathering her empty plate. “Are you done, or do you want to see if you can polish off the rest of this?” She motions to the half-finished fruit platter, dish of pancakes, and few remaining strips of bacon.

  I pat my stomach. I could definitely keep going until everything is gone, but it’ll make me lethargic at practice later. “I think I’m good for now.”

  “You can save it for breakfast tomorrow.” Queenie grabs our plates and carries them over to the sink.

  While Queenie tackles the dishes, I put away the leftovers. She doesn’t rinse the plates before she puts them in the dishwasher, and there doesn’t seem to be any kind of rhyme or reason to how she loads it.

  “What’s up? You look like you’re about to have a coronary.” Queenie jams the mixing bowl in between the plates.

  “Nothing. Everything’s good.”

  She stops what she’s doing and props a fist on her hip. “Do you need to rearrange this?”

  “No. It’s fine.” I grab the dishcloth and run it under the hot water so I can wipe down the counters.

  She grabs the rag from me. “You’re going to switch everything around when I’m not looking.”

  “I’m not—”

  She fights a grin. “Just do it. You know you want to.”

  I give in, because she’s right. I unload the dishwasher completely, rinse everything off, and reorganize it so all the dishes will get clean. Queenie absently wipes the same spot over and over on the counter, watching me with an entertained smirk.

  I raise a brow. “What’s with that look?”

  “Your quest for order entertains me.” When I close the dishwasher, she dangles the rag from her fingers. “Wanna show me how to wipe down counters properly now? Just so I know for future reference.”

  She grabs my hand and places it on top of hers, then turns to face the counter. I stand behind her, and she lifts things out of the way as I smooth the cloth along the surface. Wiping counters down has never been an activity I would consider sexy . . . until now.

  I stop paying attention to what I’m doing about halfway through, because her butt is rubbing up on my erection. She pulls her chestnut hair over her shoulder and exposes her neck, so I lean down and kiss the creamy, sweet expanse. It turns into another orgasm exchange before I finally finish cleaning up the kitchen and put everything back where it belongs while Queenie sits on the counter, laughing at me.

  “Do you want kids?” she asks when I finish rinsing out the cloth and setting it to dry on the edge of the sink.

  “What?” If I were drinking something, I probably would’ve choked on the word.

  “Kids, do you want them? And I’m not asking because I suddenly want to have your babies. I’m sure they’d be pretty and all, but we’re not even at the let’s move in together stage, let alone the let’s plan a family stage.”

  I smile at her explanation and the pink tint to her cheeks. “Um, yeah, I want kids, eventually. Do you?”

  “I think so, yeah. I’d just like to have my own life figured out before I go adding someone else’s welfare to the list of things I need to manage.” She picks at a loose thread on my shirt. “You do realize that kids are balls of chaos, right?”

  “Well, yeah, sure I do.” I’ve spent enough time around my coach’s and teammates’ kids to know that they make constant messes. But that’s why I have a cleaner.

  “It means you’ll have to give up all the nitpicky order and organization.”

  “Maybe they’ll all like order and organization too.”

  She laughs and jumps off the counter. “Maybe.”

  My phone chimes from the breakfast island. “That’s Hanna. We usually video chat every other morning to check in.”

  “I’ll go get ready for work and give you some privacy.”

  “You don’t have to do that. I’m sure she’d love to say hi.”

  “I should probably be wearing something other than your T-shirt for momster conversations, though, don’t you think?”

  I look over her outfit. “Hmm. You make a good point.”

  She rises up on her toes and kisses the edge of my jaw. “You talk to your momster, and I’ll get ready for work. I can say hi another time when I look less like I’ve been fucked six ways from Sunday.” She pats me on the cheek and leaves me alone with my phone and my third erection since I woke up this morning.

  I’m falling in love with her chaos.

  Fifteen minutes and one brief and slightly embarrassing video chat later—Hanna called me out on my messed-up hair, and my stammered responses
told her more than she needed to know—I find Queenie standing in the hallway outside my bedroom. Her bag is slung over her shoulder, and she’s wearing a pair of black dress pants and a very pretty gauzy top that’s both professional and sexy.

  I wonder how long I have to wait before I tell her she should leave clothes here for future sleepovers.

  “You have really cool art.” She motions to the piece hanging from the wall. “Where did you get this?”

  I move in behind her and wrap my arm around her waist. “Hanna’s the artist in the family. She calls it a hobby, but she’s incredibly talented. Has her work in a bunch of cafés in our hometown that feature local artists. Anyway, almost every painting I have is one of hers.”

  Queenie turns her head and rubs her cheek on my biceps. “She has great vision. The colors are stunning.”

  “She does. She’s a financial consultant, but she really loves this, so she teaches classes on the side.” I’ve been looking for a way to bring this up without being too obvious. “You paint, too, don’t you?”

  She tips her chin up, her confusion evident. “How do you know that?”

  “You have an easel at your place.” I noticed it the first time I was at her house, and once I peeked under a covered canvas while she was getting ready for a date. She also talked about being arty that first time we went for dinner, but she didn’t elaborate at all. It makes me think it’s something she doesn’t like to talk about.

  “Oh, right. I used to do it a lot when I was in college, but not so much anymore.” She ducks out from under my arm. “You should get ready so we can head to the arena.”

  I want to push, but I also don’t want to admit I’ve snooped, so I leave it alone. For now.

  CHAPTER 16

  THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM

  Queenie

  My morning is awesome. I’ve had more orgasms in the past twelve hours than I’ve probably had in an entire month collectively. I’m quite literally in the best mood ever.

  And I have the most amazing boyfriend in the world. Who asked me to move in with him. I’m sure it was an accident—a knee-jerk reaction to awesome pancakes and morning BJs—but still, it’s a great start to what is going to be a fabulous day.