Making Him Sweat & Taking Him Down. Meg Maguire

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      “I haven’t got any condoms.” She gasped, unsure how she’d gone from lying on her back to being held to his chest, legs wrapped around his waist. He stood and carried her out of the room and past the kitchen.

      “What are you doing?”

      “Faster than bringing the condoms to you.” He pushed the door to his dark room open with his shoulder and set her on his bed. It felt sexy, sitting there, smelling him everywhere in this private space. Still, Jenna wasn’t sure how comfortable she actually wanted to get.

      As he rooted through a dresser drawer, she said, “I wasn’t upset about not having condoms.”

      He turned to her, streetlight glinting off the shiny plastic square in his hand. “Oh?”

      “Give it to me.”

      He crossed to the bed and handed it over. Jenna tucked it beneath a pillow. “I’m in charge of when that thing gets used. If it gets used.”

      “The woman always is.”

      “Good.”

      “Where were we?”

      In a breath they were on their sides, legs tangling, hands exploring. The kissing grew shallow and their breathing heavy. Everything about him was sexy. His wet hair, the firmness of his shoulders and his chest, the heat of his skin. Memories flashed through her head, of watching him in the gym not even an hour before. He could do extraordinary things to an opponent with that deadly body. What on earth could he do to her?

      She sighed as Mercer cupped her breast and edged his body lower, kissing her collarbone as he fondled her. She shifted her legs, welcoming the taunting brush of his erection against her thigh. She tugged the front of his shirt up a few inches and stroked her palm over his bare, hard stomach, fingertips brushing his waistband and the soft hair hiding just behind it.

      “Jenna.”

      There was a rasp to his voice, the same gruffness she imagined might possess him as he stepped into a ring. Damn, she was objectifying him again. But she’d never moved this fast with a guy before, and he was the perfect man—the perfect body—to be reckless with. Whatever they had, it was bigger than either of them.

      Charged with lust, she tugged until he peeled his shirt away. With a coaxing push, he rolled onto his back. Jenna slung a leg over his waist to straddle him. She couldn’t get close enough to this man.

      He swore, hands flying to her hips to hold their bodies tight, center to center. She pulled her camisole up and off. They were bathed in yellowy streetlight, harsh and gritty and urban, just like the man beneath her. The honk of a car horn, the screech of brakes, the quarreling of strangers below on the sidewalk…bring it on. Whatever happened, she wanted the quintessential Boston experience, as brash and unapologetic as this fling.

      Mercer’s hands slid up her belly to her breasts, kneading as she undulated her hips, torturing them both with the friction through her damnable pajama bottoms.

      “Let your hair down,” he said.

      She tugged the elastic from her ponytail.

      “Jesus, you’re sexy.”

      And you’re extraordinary, she wanted to tell him, as she memorized every exceptional, intimidating contour of his bare body. She missed his hand wraps, even fantasized what those padded gym mats would feel like under her back… There she went again, with the fetish she hadn’t even known she had.

      “Take those frigging pants off, for the love of Christ.” He tugged at the drawstring and she rolled to the side, both of them fighting to be the one to strip them away. No man had ever made her feel this wanted before, as if he couldn’t control himself, nor had any man made her feel the same in return. A need this fierce and primal.

      He climbed on top of her, shoved his knees beneath her thighs and ground their bodies together, just slightly too rough for comfort, just exactly perfect. His breaths became grunts, so like the noises she’d heard him make when he was working out. She scraped her nails down his side, angling her hips and welcoming the rough drag of his hard cock against her soft folds. He tilted his hips back, letting her feel the insistent press of his head between her legs, the thin barriers of cotton as maddening as a straightjacket.

      “This is such a stupid idea,” Mercer said, sounding happy about it.

      “I know.” She got lost staring at his torso, at the explicit flex of his chest and abs as he rubbed his erection against her. All this plus an even more enticing sight, if she chose to make use of that all-access pass she’d tucked beneath the pillow. With another man, she’d have said no, save it for the next date, savor the baby steps. But this might be—this should be—the only night she and Mercer made this mistake together. If she was going to binge, no point stopping at a slice; she’d eat the whole damn cake.

      She pushed at his chest. “Get your shorts off.”

      She joined him, both of them sitting up and wrestling away their underwear. Then he was on her again, the hot press of his bare cock against her thigh tightening her like a spring.

      “Mercer.”

      A groan answered her as he fumbled his hand between their bodies, centering his shaft along her lips. She was beyond ready, and with one, two, three strokes he was slick from her, their friction wet and dangerous and hotter than the best sex she’d ever had. He clasped her knees, gaze locked on the action happening between them. That fascinating face looked strained and fierce, lips parted. He was intriguing at rest, handsome when he smiled. But this…this was the only expression she ever wanted to see him wearing. Only one look could possibly thrill her more, and that would be the one he wore when he slid inside her.

      She shoved her arm under the pillow, and the crinkle of the plastic snapped his attention to her hand.

      She ripped open the condom and he took it from her, leaning back to roll it down his length. He was a bigger man than she’d had before, but the intimidation was fleeting. Before she could take a final, bracing breath, he was at her entrance. No asking, “Are you ready?” No caution. No resistance or protest from her body as he pushed inside, so deep their hips touched.

      He swore again, and she dragged her nails down his ribs and sides. Even in the sickly ambient light she could see the red stripes that rose on his skin.

      With a groan he braced his arms at her sides, thighs nudging hers wider, and began to thrust. She wrapped her legs around his waist, angled her hips to welcome him as deep as she could. She’d never felt this need before, this urgent craving to be possessed by someone. He was surely wrecking her for every slender, deferring academic who might come after, wrecking her entire perception of what her “type” was.

      “You feel amazing.” His eyes were shut, as though he wanted nothing distracting him from the sensation.

      “So do you.” He felt exactly as he should—big, rough, forceful. She watched his body owning hers, her pleasure mounting.

      His eyes opened. “You need anything special? To get off?”

      Not exactly poetry, but his words encapsulated what this was, a mutual itch-scratching, two animals taking what they wanted from each other.

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