Neither of us seem to be so hot in the decision-making department, but I’m prepared to follow his lead on this. I reach for my purse and pull out my phone.
Twenty-six
Roman
I’ve made a ton of mistakes in my personal life, but I’ve always tried to keep it out of the professional. After the two collided in New York, I should know better but here I am again …
… and I don’t care.
Her hand on my chest. My mouth on hers.
One taste and I’m gone.
I cup her gorgeous ass and yank her close enough to feel how hard I’m getting. Again. Even though she milked my cock perfectly with that hot, sweet mouth. I should have made her come first but in that moment, letting her suck me deep just felt so fucking right. I hadn’t realized how much I needed it, but somehow she knew.
Her arms circle my neck, and she kisses the corner of my mouth, an almost too sweet gesture for the level of lust I’m feeling.
Or maybe that gesture is just right. Lust is merely a word right now. My chest is swarming with a ton of other emotions, and lust is the least of it. I want to protect her, fight dragons for her, punch anyone who says she can’t. Not that she needs me going into battle for her.
I lift her against me, needing to feel that heat between her thighs. She groans as her favorite parts meet my favorite parts in a hot as hell how do ya do. I take that sweet kiss and manipulate it to my liking—a dirty, deep, wet swirl of my tongue inside her velvet mouth.
Her moan makes me harder and my hardness makes her moan louder. We’re a feedback loop of mindless, oh yeah, never-stop-baby desire. I’m acting like I haven’t been with a woman in … okay, that’s about right. This is exactly how it’s going down. I’m a teenage boy suddenly presented with the prom queen. Every reason for not doing this is dissolving in a melting pot of hormones and lust.
I flip our positions so her back’s against the door and she’s hitched up, her thighs over my hips. No position has ever felt so good but I’ve a feeling that lying on top of her in a bed might ace it. I leave her lips to ask, “Bedroom.”
Really, it comes out more like, “Br-oom” because word formation has deserted me.
“Behind you,” she gasps.
I shift her higher against me and head to the bedroom, while she kisses every part of my face. It’s kind of sweet how much attention she pays to my cheekbones and eyebrows, nose and lines at the corners of my eyes, parts of me I don’t feel are all that deserving. I suspect she’s giving my mouth a break so I’ll keep my eyes open and not break a leg on the way to the bed.
I lay her down. She blows a strand of hair out of her eyes and leans up on her elbows to watch as I peel off my shirt.
Those gorgeous blues glaze and darken.
“You are something else, Roman Rossi.” She sits upright and places both hands on my hips, her thumbs running along my V-cut. Her eyes never leave my face.
That’s … different. With my ex, there wasn’t much of that eye contact. She was always pretty clear about what she needed from me. Hard and fast, not a lot of tenderness or connection. I spent most of my twenties in a weird dynamic of fucking my wife, but never making love to her. I tried, but she wasn’t having any of it.
This already feels like a vast improvement. It shouldn’t—or I shouldn’t allow myself to hope.
I should want to urge her forward, demand she get down to business and let me get her off as fast as she did me, but apparently I’m enjoying the slowdown. And when she places her soft lips on my stomach, she hums, a vibration over my skin that raises it in gooseflesh.
I let out a sigh at the rightness of it.
“Let me see you properly,” I ask. Beg.
Inching back, she unhooks her bra to reveal the most beautiful set of tits I’ve ever been privileged to witness. Her pale skin, mapped with light blue veins, makes my mouth water.
“Jesus, you are gorgeous.” Gentling her back on the bed, I cup one perfect breast and brush a thumb over her nipple, weirdly proud when it peaks under my touch.
Looking up, I clash gazes with her. Her lips part, and I realize it’s been twenty years since I kissed her. So I take her mouth with mine and commit to this moment and to her. No more hesitation. If I’m going to cross the line, I’m going all the fuck in.
I strip her completely, ensuring no more barriers—not clothes, not jobs, not that niggling voice telling me this is a mistake. I’ve taped its mouth closed. Finally we’re where we need to be: skin-to-skin, exploring and touching.
She has a thing for my arms. She can’t help running her fingertips over my biceps, squeezing the muscles.
“They are,” I murmur.
“They’re what?”
“Real.”
She swats at my arm—another quick check she can’t resist—and then she coasts a palm over my pecs. “These, too?”
“Yep. Think I need to do some checking of my own.” I plump one supple breast and take it to my mouth. Then inside, swirling my tongue over the rosy peak before graduating to a lusty suck. She arches off the bed in pleasure and that response makes me fucking wild. Still sucking, I move a hand down her rib cage, her belly, through the thatch of curls to find her wet and hot.
I release her breast to speak. “Open up for me, ciliegina.”
“Chili what?”
“Little cherry.” I stroke through her pussy and take those shivers of desire as my due. All mine. “Sweet as pie.”
Continuing to rub through her slick, hot heat, I figure I can multitask and kiss her pale, perfect skin. The muscles in her belly contract when my lips skim her skin. When my tongue gets a taste of the heaven between her thighs, she’s moaning again.
“So sensitive.”
“Not usually,” she pants as I ratchet up the tension with a finger inside her. “Your hands, they’re …” She shakes her head, rolling her hips to suck me deeper. I add another digit, pushing and stretching her, seeking out the points that’ll light her up.
Turning an index finger, I glance against her clit, just a whisper to test the limits.
“Yes, that’s—oh, yeah, that’s it, Roman.”
I love hearing my name on her lips. I don’t know why that’s important but it is. I need to know I’m the one she wants here, that I’m not replaceable.
I shake my head, wondering why I thought that. Knowing the origin but preferring to push it away. I don’t need the ghost of my marriage haunting this bedroom.
I rub more, generating more slickness as my cock insistently pushes against her leg. Pre-come leaks, streaking against her skin and I suck in a controlling breath. Watching her fist the sheets and the eyes rolling back in her head assures me she’s close but I like drawing it out. I had thought this would be quick, a desperate effort at release—get ’er done so we can rear view it and move on—but it no longer feels like that.
It feels fucking monumental.
I want to spend all day and night with parts of my body embedded inside hers, looking for all the ways to get her off, then switch to her wringing every last drop of come from me. I want it to last, then I want to start over and find new ways to fuck that neither of us have thought of.