Page 80 of Spin Control

“I have an IUD. And I’m clean. I can show you my most recent test.”

“I’ll show you mine, too.”

We both pull up the information and exchange phones.

“I’ve only been with you since I took this,” I admit.

“Same,” he says. ”I’ve only been with you.”

I check the date on the test. It’s from right before the season started. My surprise must be all over my face because Wes laughs. “I told you I’m reformed these days.”

“You did,” I say. “But I thought…well. I guess I figured…”

He shakes his head. “I haven’t thought about anyone else since you walked into Martine Headquarters wearing that fucking pencil skirt.”

The air shifts, and then we’re both moving. Phones drop, forgotten, and our mouths meet in a hard, desperate kiss that’s immediately all tongues and teeth. When Wes’s hands grab the hem of the shirt he loaned me, he pauses just long enough to ask, “Can I take this off?”

I nod, and in one smooth motion, it’s over my head, thrown somewhere beyond the end of the bed. Wes’s eyes travel down my body, and he groans as he runs a hand over his face. “Can I touch you?”

“Yes,” I say, breathless at the thought of his hands on me.

He softly grips the sides of my ribcage before cupping my breasts. I’ve always been self-conscious about them, wishing they were fuller. But when Wes runs his thumbs over my nipples and reverently whispers, “You’re perfect,” before leaning in to kiss me softly, I don’t find myself scoffing or rolling my eyes or thinking it’s a corny line that he can’t possibly mean. Instead, I believe him.

Our hands and mouths explore the new expanses of skin as we rid each of the rest of our clothes. Soon, we’re lying on our sides again, but the mood is different now—steady and sure rather than urgent and heated.

“Do you still want this?” Wes asks.

I nod. “Do you?”

“Of course I do,” he says, his smile a little self-conscious and surprisingly sweet.

I lift my top leg and drape it over his hip. It isn’t quite the same as being in total control—but I think it’s a good compromise. “Like this.”

Wes nods eagerly, and gives me another one of those shy smiles. “Whatever you want, Jacobs.”

I shift my hips and the thick head of his cock slides against me. “Please,” he says, his voice ragged. “Can I?”

I nod, and then he’s reaching between us, gripping his length and guiding it to my entrance. He closes his eyes, and drops his head to my shoulder, inhaling slowly before pressing a kiss to my collarbone. I shift until he’s notched inside of me, and Wes makes a desperate sound that’s somehow both a moan and a growl. “You already feel too good.”

“Come on, Grant,” I say. “Are we doing this or not?”

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he mutters into my skin. But then he flexes his hips and there’s a sharp pressure, followed by a slide that goes on and on until we’re flush.

I never considered that having sex without a condom would be so completely different—not just physically, but emotionally. So I’m caught off guard when tears well in my eyes, when my heart pounds harder, when my skin erupts in goosebumps.

“Elizabeth,” Wes says softly, and when I meet his gaze, I’m surprised to find that his eyes are wet, too. He leans in and kisses me, gently, tenderly, with emotion that I seem to understand but can’t quite name.

I rock my hips forward, and gasp into Wes’s mouth. “I know,” he murmurs. ”I feel it, too.”

So I let myself get lost in this, in him, in us.

I tell him I’m close and he wraps an arm around me, holding tight as he whispers praise into my ear until he groans out a low, “Can you come with me, love?”

And then I’m nodding and he’s looking directly in my eyes. I dig my nails into his shoulder, and he grips my hip, and when I feel like the crashing waves of pleasure are going to carry me away, he leans in and kisses me, anchoring me here, with him—and he never lets go.

Seconds or hours later, when I finally blink, a cascade of tears falls down my face. But then Wes is kissing them, tracing his fingers over their tracks.

When he says my name, I answer with his.