Then
HE ALWAYS GOT what he wanted...except when it came to this woman.
Theo Lawrence groaned with something akin to pain as she arched her hips into him, her soft, heated flesh rubbing against his aching cock. He fisted his hands in the front of her thin, ribbed tank top, yanking the fabric up to expose her small breasts, the nipples rosy red from his fingers.
“Don’t stop.” Pressing her lips into the corded muscle of his neck, Jo Marchande dug her fingers into his shoulders until it hurt, sparking deeper need to life inside him. All the while, her hips rocked restlessly, teasing the rock-solid erection that was straining at the stiff denim of his jeans. “Please don’t stop.”
“You’re killing me.” He didn’t want to stop—oh fuck, how he didn’t want to stop. He’d never loved anyone in his life the way he loved her, and not being able to be inside her was exquisite agony.
The one decent thing he’d done in his life, however, was to keep his hands off his underage girlfriend. He loved her—loved her family—far too much than to disrespect them by taking her before she could possibly be ready.
It was the hardest thing he’d ever done. Especially when she was dead set on making him change his mind.
“You don’t have to hold back.” Hand sliding down between them, she rubbed her palm over his arousal. His erection jerked in response, angry at being confined to its denim prison. “You know you don’t. I want this. Want you.”
“Not while you’re still seventeen.” His words were strained. He tugged her shirt higher still, and she took the opportunity to rub her breasts against his chest, heating his skin to a feverish pitch. “It’s not right.”
“You’re only two years older than me.” Her voice was stubborn. This was nothing new—his girl was nothing if not determined. Single-minded. He admired it in every aspect of her life.
Except for this one.
“And two years won’t be a big deal when you’re eighteen,” Theo growled against the top of her head. He inhaled the scent of her shampoo, straight spicy mint, something he’d never be able to smell again in his life without being aroused. “Tomorrow. We can wait one more day.”
In Massachusetts, the age of consent was sixteen. It damn near killed him to do it, but he was making them wait until eighteen. It just seemed like the right thing to do.
“No.” That stubborn streak in her voice thickened, and she dipped a finger inside his waistband. She swiped over the swollen head of his cock, and he groaned when a droplet of liquid leaked out in response.
“Jo.” Drawing on every last ounce of strength that he had, he forced himself to take a deep breath, pulling back and putting a single precious inch of strength between them. It wasn’t much, but it allowed him to inhale without the smell of her skin sinking into the very cells of his being. “It’s not happening. You know me well enough to know that I don’t change my mind.”
“I’m not asking you to.” He looked down into her face, the one he’d known since they were kids. Mischief was sparkling in her storm-gray eyes, bubbling up through the thick haze of lust.
“You’re going to have to use smaller words.” Dipping his head, he pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, then trailed his lips down over her cheekbone. “All of my blood has flooded south of my brain. Far south.”
She laughed breathlessly, and he felt the exhalation, warm as it teased over his chest. “I’m not asking you to change your mind. But I am asking you to...to fuck me.”
His mouth went instantly dry, his cock surging forward, cheering at her words. Her dirty words, her innocent tone belying them, were rapidly bringing him to the absolute edge of no return.
“I’m not sure you know what it does to me, hearing that sweet little mouth of yours talking about such filthy things.” Releasing her tank top with one hand, he dragged it up, up until he could rub his thumb over her kiss-swollen lips. In response, she swiped her tongue over it, then sucked it into her mouth, showing what she wanted to do to another part of him.
What they both wanted her to do.
“I’m going to do more than talk about it,” she insisted. Slowly, slowly, she started to work at his belt, the sound of metal on metal one of the most erotic things he’d ever heard. “Haven’t you figured it out yet?”
“Jojo,” he exhaled, running the tip of his tongue over the seam of her lips. She parted them beneath him, and he licked inside. “No more teasing. What are you talking about?”
“I’m not seventeen anymore.” She grinned up at him triumphantly. Blood suffused her pale, creamy skin, camouflaging the golden freckles that he knew were there. “It’s after midnight, Theo. And I know exactly what I want for my birthday.”
Holy shit. Releasing her long enough to look at his watch, he watched as the numbers turned over from 12:02 to 12:03.
She was right. She was eighteen now. And with that knowledge, his noble intentions melted like sugar in a hot pan, becoming something even better.
He growled in response. He’d made it. And now there was nothing holding him back from sinking between those pale, pretty thighs that had taunted him for so incredibly long.
“Put your arms around my neck,” he demanded. She cried out when he palmed her ass, lifting her so that she could wrap her legs around his waist. Again, the heat of her sweet core taunted his cock, but it was different now.
Now it just spurred him on because finally, finally, he could touch her the way they’d both wanted him to for the last year—the longest year of his life.
“I can’t believe we’re finally doing this,” she gasped as he carried her to the foot of the bed. Sliding her down his body, he set her down on her feet, then again fisted his hands in the front of her thin cotton tank top.
“I can.” He grinned wickedly as he tugged. Jo exhaled harshly as her shirt ripped down the front. For a split second he felt bad—he’d ruined her shirt, and her family didn’t have a lot of money.
But when she looked up at him, there was no judgment in her eyes, just raw need.
He’d buy her a new shirt—he’d buy her anything she wanted, if she’d let him. Heaven knew he could afford it. Right now, though, the last thing he wanted was for her to start thinking about the differences between their lives—the one point of contention between them.
Right