#beach week

If he wakes up, he could leave. Not to party with the guys--the house is quiet enough that she figures everyone has passed out--but to sleep on the couch, where he’s been camped out this week. She did tell him she didn’t know if she would have said yes if he’d asked her out. That in and of itself could seem like an indication of how he should approach what they’ve done tonight. It would be the casual thing to do, but the thought makes her stomach feel scooped out. Icky.

But she’s got to move. Just a little.

It’s not exactly Mission Impossible, she thinks, lifting her head no more than a half inch. She looks cockeyed at him to gauge her success in remaining undetected.

She’s better at seduction than wiggling free of him apparently: his eyes open at half-mast and his brows draw down together before she even eases back down.

Great.

She smooths her hand over his chest, trying to will him back to sleep, but his gaze finds hers and his hand trails up her side, dragging her cami with it. Not the desired effect and yet, not unwanted. He doesn’t seem to be drifting off exactly, when he mumble-hums, nudging her cheek with his nose.

“What time is it?” he says, voice slow and gravely.

“Dunno. Phone’s over there.”

Turning on his side in a rustle of sheets and careful maneuvering that leaves her half under him, he hums again. It’s rumbly, sexy in its quietness, and her fingers seek out his chest to make sure he doesn’t squirrel away. She’d like to pursue this dreamy feeling middle of the night intimacy with him. Especially since with her head on the pillow instead of tilted awkwardly, her neck feels appreciably better. She sighs in relief, as he slips his left arm under her waist and pulls her in close.

He’s hard. A giddy sensation bubbles up in her chest, as she rubs against him.

Despite the fact that he shows no continued interest in what time it is, she gives her assessment on a shuddery breath, “Late.”

For the time being, his interest is squarely on her. There are some benefits to waking a sleeping guy up. Eyes locked on hers and hips moving lazily--she’ll take that for now.

He nuzzles into her neck, lips and breath warm. She inhales deeply against the tingle in her scalp, when his mouth closes on her pulse point.

“Or really early,” she says, tipping her head enough to give him better access. “You want coffee?” she asks with a grin, as he pulls her earlobe through his teeth.

“No, I’m awake.”

His mouth finds hers and his thumb traces along her cheek, her jawline, tipping her chin up, as he kisses her. Slowly.

She wonders whether it would be like this every time. If he’d always take his time, teasing and spinning out her desire until her fingers are curled in and her toes bunched. If by the time his tongue brushes hers, she’ll be making these throaty, needy noises. She wouldn’t mind that.

She really doesn’t mind the way his hands move over her, mapping her curves in a way that feels as desperate as it is restrained. He’s reining himself in, all thready want from the tightness of the tendons in his neck to the flex of his hand at her hip. Held in check, until his fingers play at the band of her sleep shorts and she whispers his name and cants her hips.

Hand disappearing inside her shorts, his fingers slide over her and in--slick and long and crooked just so--and mouth falling open, her hands clasp at his shoulder. A few circles of his finger and her whole body begins to tighten, her need centering in on the small movements of his hand and the filthy things he murmurs at the shell of her ear. Things that would normally turn her bright red, but only make her legs scramble against the sheets in almost painful want.

She’s about ready to tell him to get another condom from the dresser, when he dips down her body. She grabs at him again, her body reflexively trying to stop him, because she wants more now. But then he slides her shorts and panties down over her hips, and with a kick of her feet, they’re discarded, as he nudges her legs apart. And he does exactly what she wanted earlier without having to ask, without it being about returning the favor.

That’s a first: Jon Snow is a damn revelation.

The scratch of his beard twined with the softness of the kisses he places along the inside of each thigh only make her feet more restless, but he anchors her hips in place, and then his mouth is there. Hot and wet and moving over her in such steady confidence that she can’t stop the rock of her hips, rolling against the pressure of his tongue. A hot flush spreads over her lower stomach, a deep ache, and she threads her fingers in his hair. She’ll be embarrassed tomorrow, but she needs this, wants it.

Two fingers pump inside her, amplifying the intensity of sensation, and there’s a brief moment where she wants to retreat away from the stroke of his tongue. It’s too fast. She wants to prolong this circling, drowning feeling But, she’s lost all self-control and he knows too well what he’s doing. She’s falling over the edge before she can pull herself back.

She comes sharply. The pleasure rolls over her, radiating out to the tips of her toes, forcing her to curl in even as he holds her firmly in place. She comes for what feels like forever with her fingers twisted tight in his hair and his tongue and fingers still moving over and in her. Until it’s all too much, and she gives him a little shove with a grunt.

He pulls back just enough, and she says oh my god half a dozen times, sucking in air. It’s the only words her tongue can form, an accompaniment to the lazy kisses he trails along her thigh--obscenely wet kisses.

Dear god.

“Was that loud?” she finally asks, lifting her trembling hand to cover her face.

He laughs. The puff of his breath against where she’s sensitive draws one leg up.

“You’re fine,” he says, as he rests his check against her thigh.

He might be lying to save her from obsessing. It feels like it can’t be the truth, since that may have been the only time she’s been completely out of control with a guy. She wasn’t in her head at all; no crafting of a reaction.

She tries to feel mortified, but her body’s like melted butter and it won’t allow for it. She feels like she’s sunk six inches into the mattress. Like maybe she’ll never walk again. Which would be just fine. Especially if she convinces him to join her here forever.

Splaying her fingers, she cracks an eye open, then the other, feeling the continued nudge of his nose and drag of his beard in a fuzzy-brained bliss. Reaching down to run her hands through his hair, she stares up at the shadows on the ceiling.

She stretches her hand farther, enough to scratch her nails over the back of his head, then shifts her shoulders. Her neck doesn’t hurt anymore. Carding through his curls, she tests the arch of her neck with her other hand, tapping along the muscle to see if any stiffness remains. Nothing.

Grinning to herself, she wonders whether good sex qualifies as physical therapy.

“You want some water?” he asks.

She peeks down at him, wetting her lips with a swipe of her tongue. Water sounds good.

“Sure.”

Propping himself up, he pulls the sheet up to her stomach before he unfolds his body from the bed and stretches his long arms above his head. It does nice things for his abdominal muscles. Her heart skips, either from how good he looks, scrubbing at the back of his neck, or from the sweetness of him covering her up before he goes.

Someone’s playlist is playing downstairs, too quietly to make out, but otherwise the house is quiet. Hopefully, Jon doesn’t run into someone in his boxers.

She wince-smiles, as she slides down in the sheets and covers her face with both hands. She really slept with Jon tonight. Really, really slept with him. Slept with him and then messed around again. She has never done anything like that. Ever.

Maybe she should feel weird about it, because that’s not like her and it’s Jon, but also, it’s Jon. It’s kind of like how friends fall into being more and it’s serious right away. Direct pass.

Except, she doesn’t know whether it’s serious or whether he would want it to be serious.

At least he doesn’t show any sign of slinking off to the couch before people wake up, which must mean he has no intention of pretending this didn’t happen around the guys. Or her brother.

She kicks the covers back and sits up, pulling her hair back in her hands. She’d put it up to feel more together, but she’d have to go fishing in her backpack for a hairband and she doesn’t feel up to that yet.

The door he left cracked opens swings wide. He comes in, carrying two plastic pool cups. The door makes a hollow noise, when it closes, which reminds her how thin the walls and doors are.

God, she really hopes she wasn’t as loud as she felt in her head.

She swings her legs around to sit on the edge, and he hands her the full cup, as he takes a swallow from his and joins her on the bed.

“Thanks.”

Oddly enough, she didn’t feel shy with Jon’s head between her legs, but she does now, fully aware of her discomfort with not knowing where this is going, while trying to appear cool about it. The cool girl--that’s not a persona she’s ever attempted before. And she doesn’t really want to spend the summer pretending if they’re really going to spend the summer doing something.

Her heart is racing, but she forces herself to say it, to lead into what she’s feeling. “I’m not really a random hookup person.”

He squeezes her thigh. “I’m not a random.”

“No,” she tilts her head toward him. “You’re my brother’s best friend.”

His hand chafes over her leg. “That weirds you out.”

“Maybe.”

Her phone chimes from the dresser, where it’s been plugged in charging all night--once, twice, three notifications one right after the other--and she looks to her left.

“You need to get that?”

“No.” Two more chimes and she rolls her eyes. “I can guess who it is.”

“Your mom? It’s like four in the morning.”

Her mom texts a lot. She texts all of them, regularly, and you’ve got to respond within an hour or she gets worried. No one is supposed to worry her without reason. That’s the rule. Of course, Jon knows the rule. Because, he definitely is not some random guy. So, whatever they’ve just done, it’s never going to be some beach week hookup to be forgotten next week.

That’s what the rapid fire texting is about: her hooking up with Jon Snow.

“I’d bet my life on it being Harry,” she says, sipping from her cup.

Probably calling her any number of ugly things.

She knew someone would text him. Just knew it. Because who ever says girls are the gossips is wrong: guys on the team love to talk.

“He texts you?”

Her chest starts to tighten. Is a possessive ex a turn off? She really doesn’t want to spoil things before they’ve actually started.

“Not usually, but someone probably told him about us tonight or whatever.”

“Right,” he says, setting his cup on the bedside table. She hands hers over for him to do the same. “Come here,” he says, easing down into the bed with an upturned hand.

She follows, allowing him to pull her on top of him. That he isn’t saying goodnight at the first sign of drama hopefully is a good sign.

He swipes her hair back from her temple. “Sorry I mauled you on the porch.”

“I’m not.”

His answering smile, just a crooked little twitch of his soft mouth is enough to make her arch against him. His hand skates down over her back and she huffs out a shaky laugh at the squeeze he delivers to her ass.

“Probably set you up for his meltdown though. You want me to tell him where to go?”

“No, that’d be a mess. With team politics?”

“Fuck the team. He’s not my teammate anymore.”

“True,” she says, drawing abstract shapes on his chest with her index finger, “but I got it.”

Harry will get bored and move on. Just like he got bored with her. In the meantime, she can ignore him. If she lets Jon handle it, she’ll be the girl who needs protecting from her bad decisions. She’ll mop this up herself.

“I really fucking hate him,” he says, sliding his arm under her shoulder and tugging her up his body until she’s eye level with him.

“Mmm... he’s not my favorite either.”

She goes practically cross-eyed this close, looking into his big grey eyes, and then he kisses the tip of her nose. She smiles so stupidly big. It’s sweet, so achingly sweet.

“That asshole beat me to it, you know.”

She braces herself on his chest, propping her chin on cupped hands. “How’s that?”

“Asking you out, and then I got drunk and told your brother I screwed up.”

She swallows, as his eyes flick to her lips and back. She is so entirely wrung out, but if he wanted to make out for the next hour or whatever, she totally would. Her pulse is already picking up, thinking about how nice his lips are and how good his hands feel clinging to her.

“So, if you’re dreading a big reveal, he already knows,” he says.

His gives her that flat smile, and she brushes his hair off his forehead, trying to draw something warmer from him. He’s closing himself off, after revealing something.

She knows it’s there, under the surface, more to unearth. Knows he’s good and kind, and he wouldn’t do anything to hurt her. But, he’s almost completely blank, as his she scratches at his scalp with a frown.

Maybe a confession of her own will do the trick.

“I’d have said yes.”

Or she’d like to think so. It would have been the wiser move, rather than agreeing to go out with Harry in all his ego driven childishness. Maybe she’s just smarter now, because it’s a yes now for sure. Even if the sex didn’t rock her world. Which it did. Twice.

But a good memory might not be for the best, when it comes to romance. Yes, she has a whole store of romances saved up, ready to slot Jon into the romantic hero role, and sometimes, the best ones start with a white lie like this.

She rocks up to press her nose to his. His hand finds the back of her head, holding her fast.

“Are you still asking?” she asks, lips close enough to brush his.

And he kisses her and doesn’t hold anything back.