Beautiful Player (12 page)

“You’re so fucking
pretty
,” I murmured, without thinking, running my thumb over her cheek.

She jerked her head back upright, and, with a lingering glance to my mouth, pulled me out of the kitchen, a small, devilish smile on her face.

“Where are we going?” I asked, letting her lead me down a narrow hall lined with closed doors.

“Shh. I’ll lose my nerve if I say it before we’re there. Just come with me.”

Little did she know I’d follow her down this hallway even if it caught fire. I’d come to this dirty bohemian party with her after all.

At a random closed door, Hanna stopped, knocked, and waited. She pressed her ear to the wood, smiled up at me, and when we heard nothing, turned the knob, letting out a cute, nervous squeak.

The room was dark, blessedly empty, and still relatively sterile from the recent move. A bed was freshly made in the middle of the room, and a dresser was pressed tight in a corner, but the far wall was still lined with boxes.

“Whose room is this?” I asked.

“I’m not sure.” Reaching around, she flipped the lock at my back, and then stared up at me, smiling. “Hi.”

“Hi, Hanna.”

Her mouth dropped open and her beautiful eyes went wide. “You didn’t call me Ziggy.”

Smiling, I whispered, “I know.”

“Say it again?” Her voice came out husky, as if she was asking me to
touch
her again, to
kiss
her again. And maybe when I’d called her Hanna it felt like a kiss. It certainly had to me. And part of me—a very large part of me—decided I didn’t care anymore. I didn’t care that I’d kissed her sister twelve years ago and her brother was one of my closest friends. I didn’t care that Hanna was seven years younger than I was, and, in many ways, very innocent. I didn’t care that I’d probably fuck it up, or that my past would bother her. We were alone, in a dark room, and every inch of my skin felt like it was buzzing with my need for her to touch me.

“Hanna,” I said quietly. The two syllables filled my head, hijacked my pulse.

She smiled a secretive little smile and then looked at my mouth. Her tongue slipped out, wetting her bottom lip.

“What’s going on, Mystique?” I whispered. “What are we doing in this very dark bedroom, exchanging flirty eyes?”

She held up her hands, her words coming out in a breathless tumble. “This room is Vegas. Okay? What happens here stays here. Or, rather, what’s
said
here stays here.”

I nodded, mesmerized by the soft curve of her bottom lip. “Okay . . . ?”

“If it’s weird, or if I cross a friendship boundary that by some force of magic I haven’t yet crossed, just tell me, and
we’ll leave, and it will be the same level of ridiculous it was before we walked in.”

I whispered, “Okay,” again, and watched as she took a deep, shaky breath. She was tipsy, and nervous. Anticipation pricked along the back of my neck, and down my spine.

“I’m so wound up around you,” she said quietly.

“Just me?” I asked, smiling.

She shrugged. “I want you . . . to teach me things. Not just about how to be around guys but how to . . . be
with
a guy. I think about it all the time. And I know you’re comfortable doing this stuff without being in a relationship, and . . .” She trailed off, looking up at me in the dark room. “We’re friends, right?”

I knew with absolute certainty where this was going, and murmured, “Whatever it is, I’ll do it.”

“You don’t know what I’m asking.”

Laughing, I whispered, “So
ask
.”

She stepped a little closer, put her hand on my chest, and I closed my eyes as her warm palm slid down to my stomach. I wondered for a beat if she could feel my heart hammering all the way down my torso.
I
felt my pulse everywhere, slamming through my chest and all along my skin.

“I watched another movie,” she said. “A porny one.”

“I see.”

“Those movies are actually pretty bad.” She said this quietly, as if she was worried she might be offending my male, porn-loving sensibilities.

With a quiet laugh, I agreed, “They are.”

“The women are so over-the-top. Actually,” she said, considering, “so are the guys for most of it.”

“
Most
of it?” I asked.

“Not at the end,” she said, her voice dropping to barely a decibel. “When the guy came? He pulled out of her and did it
on
her.” Her fingers moved beneath my shirt, tickling over the line of hair that went from my navel and beneath the waist of my pants. She sucked in a breath, running her hand up higher and over my pectorals, exploring.

Fuck
. I was so worked up I could barely keep my hands from reaching for her hips. But I wanted her to lead this conversation. She’d pulled me in here, started this. I wanted her to get it all out before she turned it over to me. And then I wouldn’t hold back.

“That’s pretty common in porn,” I said. “The guys don’t come inside the women.”

She looked up at me. “I
liked
that part.”

I felt myself grow rigid in my pants, and swallowed thickly. “Yeah?”

“I liked it because it felt
real
. I feel like I’m just figuring these things out. I haven’t really tried before . . . or maybe I haven’t wanted to explore it with the guys I’ve been with. But ever since I started hanging out with you, I can’t stop thinking about these things. I want to figure out what I like.”

“That’s good.” I winced in the dark room, wishing I hadn’t answered so quickly, sounded so desperate. I wanted more
than anything for her to ask me to carry her over to the bed and fuck her so loud the entire party knew where we’d gone and what she was getting.

“I don’t really know what feels good to men. I know you say guys are easy, but they aren’t. To
me
, they aren’t.” She took my hand, and with her eyes trained on my face, she brought it to her breast. Beneath my palm, she was exactly how I’d imagined a hundred fucking times. So full and soft, all lush curves and creamy skin. It was all I could do to keep from lifting her, and crushing her between my body and the wall.

“I want you to show me how,” she said.

“What do you mean ‘show you how’?”

She closed her eyes for a beat, swallowing. “I want to touch you, and make you come.”

I took a deep breath and glanced over at the bed in the middle of the room. “Here?”

She followed the path my eyes had taken, and shook her head. “Not there. Not a bed yet. Just . . .” She hesitated and then very quietly asked, “Are you saying yes?”

“Um, of course I’m saying yes. I’m not sure I could say no to you even if I should.”

She bit back a smile, slid my hand down to her hip.

“You want to give me a hand job? Is that what you’re asking?” I bent my knees to look her in the eyes. I felt like an asshole being so blunt, and this whole conversation felt
completely
surreal, but I had to be clear what was actually happening before I let go of my tenuous self-control
and took it too far. “I’m just making sure I understand.”

She swallowed again, suddenly shy, and nodded. “Yeah.”

I stepped closer and when the light botanical smell of her shampoo hit me, I grew aware of how amped up I was. I’d never been nervous before, but right then I was terrified. I didn’t care so much about how good it was for me—it could be awkward and fumbling, too slow or fast, too soft or too hard—I knew I’d fall apart in her hands. I just wanted her to keep feeling this open with me, every second. I wanted sex to be
fun
for her.

“It’s okay to touch me,” I told her, trying to carefully balance my need to be gentle with my tendency to be demanding.

She reached for my belt, unfastening it, and I moved my fingers from her hips, sliding up her waist to the top button of her shirt. Her smile was giddy, and she tried to duck her head to hide it but failed. I had no idea what I looked like, but I imagined my eyes were wide, mouth parted, hands shaking on her tiny buttons. Slipping her shirt from her shoulders, I noticed the way she hesitated on my fly, fingers unsure, before she moved away to let her shirt fall to the floor.

She stood in front of me in a simple white cotton bra. I reached behind her, meeting her eyes for permission before I unclasped it and slid it from her arms.

I’d been unprepared for the sight of her naked chest, and stood staring, dumbly.

“Just so you know,” she whispered, “you don’t have to do anything to me.”

“Just so
you
know,” I said, just as quietly, “keeping my hands to myself would be impossible right now.”

“I want to pay attention. You might . . . distract me.”

I groaned; she was killing me. “Such a good student,” I said, leaning to kiss the juncture of her shoulder and neck. “But there’s no way I can stand here and not look at these. You may have noticed I’m a bit obsessed with your chest.”

Her skin was soft and smelled amazing. I opened my mouth, bit her gently, testing. She gasped and pressed into me, the
best
fucking reaction. My mind flooded with images of her nails digging into my back, my mouth open and pressing hard and hungrily into her breast as I rocked over her.

“Touch me, Hanna.” I lifted the weight of her breast in my hand, pushed it higher, squeezing.
Holy fuck, she’s edible.

She’d moved her hands back to my fly, but they remained there, unmoving. “Show me how to do this?”

It was probably the hottest thing I’d ever heard a woman say. Maybe it was the tone of her voice, a little hoarse, a lot hungry. Maybe it was knowing how accomplished she was, and this one task felt so far out of her comfort zone but she’d asked
me
to help. Or maybe it was simply that I was wild for her, and showing Hanna how to pleasure me made me feel like I was telling the universe,
This one belongs to me.

I moved her hands to the waist of my jeans, and together
we worked them and my boxers down my hips, freeing my cock between us.

I let her look at me while I lifted both hands to slide her hair behind her neck, leaning in to kiss her throat. “You taste so fucking good.” I was so hard I felt my pulse hammering along my length. I needed relief from this tension. “Shit, Hanna, wrap your hand around me.”

“
Show
me, Will,” she pleaded, running both hands over my stomach and down, just barely touching where the tip of my cock strained, erect. We looked down the length of our bodies and swayed slightly in unison.

I took her warm hand, wrapped it around the middle of my shaft and slid it down and then back up, groaning a long, drawn-out
“Fuuuck
.”

She moaned quietly—a tight, excited sound—and I almost broke. Instead, I squeezed my eyes shut, leaned down again to kiss a line up her neck, and guided her. It was so slow. I hadn’t had a hand job in forever, and would take head or sex over a hand one hundred percent of the time, but this, right here, was perfect.

Her lips were so fucking close to mine. I could feel her breath, could taste her candy-sweet plum drink.

“Is it weird that I’m touching you here and we haven’t even kissed yet?” she whispered.

I shook my head, looking down to where her fingers wrapped around me. I swallowed, could barely think. “There’s no right or wrong here. No rules.”

She lifted her eyes from where she’d been staring at my mouth. “You don’t have to kiss me.”

I gaped at her. I’d wanted to kiss her for weeks now. “Shit, Hanna, yes. I do.”

Her tongue slipped out to wet her lips. “Okay.”

I bent low, hovering so close, moving her hand up and down my length, and just taking her in. Her lips were a breath away from mine, her little sounds coming out whenever she reached the head of my cock and I let out a grunt. It felt too good to be just a hand job. And all of this was suddenly too intimate to be
just friends
.

I looked at her eyes, and then her mouth, before moving that last inch to kiss her.

She was so fucking sweet and warm, our first kiss was unreal: just a slide of my lips over hers, asking:
Let me do this. Let me do this and be gentle and careful with every part of you.
I kissed her a few times, full lips, careful kisses so she knew I’d take this as fucking slowly as she needed me to.

When I opened my mouth just enough to suck on her bottom lip, a thrill ran through me at the sound of her tight moan.
Christ,
I wanted to lift her up, fuck her mouth with my tongue, and take her against the wall, with the party raging outside and my eyes on her face, watching her process every single sensation.

When she pulled back, she studied my mouth, my eyes, my forehead. She studied
me;
I couldn’t tell if it was a general fascination with what she was learning, or specific to
this moment, to me. But nothing would have pulled me out of my trance. Not fireworks outside, or a fire in the hall. My need to someday be inside her—to completely possess her—spiked through me and planted beneath my ribs, pressing.

“You’ll tell me if this is lame, right?” she asked, voice quiet.

I laughed, wheezing. “Oh, it’s not lame. It’s so fucking good, and it’s just your hand.”

Looking unsure, she asked, “Do . . . others not do this?”

I swallowed thickly, hating the mention of other women right now. Before, I’d almost wanted them to be a lingering presence, a reminder to all parties what was and wasn’t happening in a moment like this. With Hanna, I wanted to wipe their shadows from the wall. “Shh.”

“I mean, do you usually just have sex?”

“I like what
we’re
doing. I don’t want something else right now; will you just focus on the dick in your hand?”

She laughed, and I pulsed in her palm, loving the sound. “Fine,” she whispered. “I just have to start with the basics.”

“I like that you want to learn how to touch me.”

“I like touching you,” she murmured against my mouth. “I like that you’re showing me.”

We were moving faster together now; I showed her how hard to squeeze, letting her know it was okay to hold on tight and that I needed it to start getting faster and harder than she’d expected.