Spring Tide (Coastal University Book 1)

My knees hit the floor as I drag Harper’s hips into place. She’s lying back on the edge of my bed, shirt riding up a half inch below her navel, elbows perched against the mattress. Our eyes meet—slate gray against warm cedar.

“Are you sure about this position?” she asks, worrying at her lower lip. “We could just lie on the bed head to foot? Or I could hop onto the bathroom counter, and then you wouldn’t even—”

“No,” I say gruffly. “This is just how I imagined it. Me on my knees for you.”

“Jesus,” she murmurs.

My hands slide up her body, pushing at the loose T-shirt until the undersides of her breasts are exposed. Goose bumps leave a trail beneath my fingertips. As I graze the hemline, her nipples pebble against the thin fabric.

“That feels good,” she whispers.

I stretch my arms across the bed, palms moving to cup both breasts. They’re so fucking soft—small and bell-shaped and perfect beneath my hands. On a deep exhale, my fingers sweep down to gently grasp her hips.

Although the top half of her chest remains covered, the rest of her body is bare to me now. Her freckled skin is warm to the touch. Her strong thighs are parted around my waist. If I’m being honest, it’s a miracle I haven’t come in my pants already.

Steeling my resolve, I shift back to press a kiss to her inner thigh. Her eyes flutter closed.

“So soft,” I rasp.

“I shaved my legs just before our date.” Her eyes shoot open. “Not because I thought anything was going to happen, I just—”

“Shh.” My lips kiss a trail toward the center of her body. “Harper?”Original from NôvelDrama.Org.

“Yes?”

“I can feel how you move against me, hear how you sound, but I’m not the best at reading cues or body language. I’m gonna need you to tell me what you like, what you want, okay?”

“Using words?”

I smirk against her skin. “If you can?”

“I can.”

With my fingers flexed, I slowly drag two knuckles against the seam of her. She’s already soaking wet and warm to the touch, silkier and softer here than I could have imagined. On the second graze through, a sigh of pleasure escapes her lips.

“More,” she pleads.

I use my thumb to push against the small hood covering her clit. There’s another half sigh before I pitch forward and suck on the tiny bundle of nerves. Three slow, deep pulls before I slide an index finger inside of her.

“One finger or two?”

She squirms against me, her hips writhing against my hand. “Mmm,” she moans in response, low and slow, but it’s not the answer I’m looking for.

“Harper?”

“Right,” she pants. “Just the one. Your fingers are . . .”

“Big?”

“Mhm. Is the rest of you?”

Warmth spreads across my cheeks. “Big enough to fill you, if that’s what you’re asking.”

I’m not huge or anything. I’d say slightly bigger than average and certainly nothing to be ashamed of. Judging by the snug fit of my finger inside of her, I’d bet money she’ll be satisfied by my size.

“Luca, can you—” She pauses, whimpering as I hook my finger and drag it against her inner wall. “Can you . . .” She trails off again, interrupted by another tiny series of whimpers. My finger continues to pump, my thumb pushing and circling her clit.

“Can I what, Harps?”

“Can you use your tongue?”

I kiss the side of her knee, smile against her skin, moving to circle her clit with my tongue. There’s a breathy moan. A soft sigh. I drag my finger out and grip her hips, yanking her another inch closer to my mouth.

The flat of my tongue slides across her slit, a gentle pass-through before I push inside of her. As she cries out my name, her fingers slide into my hair.

“Yes, yes, yes,” she murmurs the mantra, bucking her hips into me. Her body grinds and twists as she wrings out her pleasure. The low, steady pulsing of her clit throbs against the bridge of my nose.

I remove my tongue and draw the bud into my mouth—a few pulsing sucks—before I pull back and ask, “Fingers now?”

“Uh-huh.” She nods frantically, her body quivering and shaking above me. “Please.”

At the hum of her pleading, I plunge two fingers inside of her, curl them softly, and suck her clit one last time before she comes apart. A rush of sweet, earthy liquid coats my fingers, my tongue, then slicks across my palm.

She collapses onto the bed, her own fingers sliding out of my hair as I revel in her taste. At this point, I’m so hard that it’s almost embarrassing. There’s a wet spot at the front of my sweats, a dot of precum revealing that I’m likely quick on the trigger these days.

“You’re so good at that,” she says, followed by another breathless sigh.

I rise off my knees, press one last kiss to her thigh, and take a single step before she stops me in my tracks. “Where are you going?”

“I was just gonna grab a washcloth for you.”

She perches up fully on her elbows now, gazing up at me with hooded eyes. “Just take off your shirt and use that. It’s clean, right?”

“Ah.” I gulp low in my throat, twisting the hemline of my shirt between two fingers. “Sure.”

I suppose Harper saw me shirtless a few hours ago, but we were basking in the dim moonlight, distracted by the waves at Amber Isle. Here, in the stark brightness of my bedroom, I have to admit that I’m intimidated.

It’s not that I’m not proud of my body, but it’s far from perfect. I’m not lean or cut or perfectly chiseled like some of the defensive backs . . . or like the number one infielder on the baseball team. I’m a middle linebacker, which means my two-hundred-and-thirty-pound body weight is comprised of muscle covered by a thick protective layer. After all, it’s a body built to tackle and defend.

I know Harper said she’s attracted to me physically, but there’s a part of me that knows I’m way out of my league here.

“You don’t have to,” she whispers, shifting until she’s seated fully upright on the bed. She wraps both arms around me and slips her hands underneath the back of my shirt. Her mouth lifts in a coy smile as she adds, “I just thought it would be hot.”

I shake my head, slipping the shirt off with an amused huff. Bracing her shoulders, I gently shove her back onto the bed and swipe the fabric across her bare skin, cleaning up the mess we made between her legs. There’s a hamper in the far corner, where I toss the aftermath.

“Just like I thought.” She pulls at my wrists, yanking until I’m bent over the top of her. Our lips meet in a fevered kiss, a quick swipe of her tongue and a little nip against my bottom lip before she pulls back. “So hot.”

We shift until we’re lying side by side on the bed. She curls into me, fingers stroking across my chest and down toward my stomach.

“Was that okay?” I ask, my abdominal muscles clenching beneath her touch.

“More than okay.”

“Is there anything else you like?”

I realized a long time ago that neurotypical communication isn’t my strong suit. In the bedroom, especially, it can be difficult to figure out someone else’s body—to read their cues, learn their cries, and apply that information in order to make them feel good every time.

I spent three years learning how to please one person and one person only. I won’t waste any time with Harper.

“Yes, actually.” She places a chaste kiss to my neck, my jaw, my lips.

“Oh?”

“I like words, too.”

My brow furrows in confusion. “Words?”

“Your words.” She traces a pattern against my stomach. “Your thoughts.”

“You want to know what I’m thinking while we’re together like that?”

“During. Or after, even. Now?”

“I was thinking about . . .” I clear my throat, diving through the awkward lilt in my voice. I can’t say I’m used to dirty talk during sex, or after, but I sure can try. “I was thinking about how good you felt clenching around my fingers. How sweet you tasted. I was thinking about . . . how fucking hard you make me.”

Her fingers slip further down my stomach, trailing a pattern underneath the waistband of my sweats. “And now?”

“I’m thinking that I’m still hard. That I’ll probably be hard for days, just replaying the sounds you make when you come.”

Her hand slips another half inch down my waist. “Can I . . .?”

“Another night?” I clear my throat, doing my best to ignore the heavy throbbing inside my pants. Of course I want her to touch me, to take me into her mouth, yet there’s still something holding me back.

Maybe it’s because the last time someone made me feel good, they shattered me into pieces a few moments later. No remorse. No apology. Not even an opportunity to wash their scent clean first.

Or maybe, in part, it’s because I feel undeserving of Harper.

Whatever the case may be, it’s proving difficult to fight through this weird mental block.

It doesn’t matter anyway, because Harper takes the rejection in stride. With a soft smile, her fingers tap back across my stomach toward the side of my body. One hand curls around my waist.

“So tonight is all about me, then?”

“That was just as much for me as it was for you,” I say. “Probably more so.”

And that’s the stark truth. Harper already makes me feel good every day. It’s nice that I can make her feel good, too, at least in this way.

She hugs me tight, pulling back to meet my eyes. “You’re really good, you know?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re just so . . .”

“So?” I prompt, a crinkle in my brow.

She beams, her smile filled with unknown secrets. “Yeah,” she finally says, giving me absolutely no insight.

“Okay, Harper.” I kiss the crown of her head. “Do you want . . . would you stay the night? I know you have class in the morning, and I have practice, but it’s late.”

“Is that the reason?” she teases. “Because it’s late?”

“Because I want you to.”

“Yeah, I’ll stay.”

We snuggle under the covers together, our linked hands resting on my bare stomach. I shift a little—forward, back, then onto my side facing her, tucking up my left leg until I’m at least semi-comfortable.

I won’t admit it to Harper, but there’s an unavoidable ache inside my knee now. It’s painful but not unbearable. I’ll need to ice it the moment she leaves in the morning, but I knew the consequences of my actions before I started this.

“Harper?”

“Yeah?” she murmurs, her voice already filled with sleep.

“You’re good, too,” I say. “So good.”