The room was warm, but a riot of goosebumps broke out across my skin, my nipples tight and straining against the thin fabric of my bra.
The second my lips were free of my shirt, they were his again.
A mewl into his mouth when his thumb brushed the aching peak of my nipple, my fingers twisting in his hair, my hips wild, angling for his.
I wished we were somewhere else. Somewhere soft where I could feel the weight of his body on mine. But this would have to do.
I flexed my legs, squeezing until his hips pressed into mine, hard enough that it was almost painful, if it didn’t feel so good.
Oh, this will do, I thought, my tongue brushing his, his hand on my neck, thumb tilting my chin, pinning it so he could delve deeper into my mouth. This will do just fine.
My arms circled his neck as I wrapped my legs around his waist, angling my body so he could do what he would with my breast. Fingers hooked my bra and pulled, freeing my breast. God, I wanted his mouth on me, wanted the heat of it, the slick satin of his tongue on my skin. But I settled for the lock of our lips and his hand on my breast. My ribs. My stomach.
His fingers found my button and opened it with a snap. The vibration of my zipper as he lowered it thrummed down the seam of my pants, against the delicate, aching flesh between my thighs.
Fingertips grazed the hem of my panties, the satiny front, cupped my sex. Tested the valley, circled the peak, his hips grinding into the back of his hand, the pressure spurring a grind of my own.
The kiss broke, leaving me stupefied and slack-jawed, my lids too heavy to keep open. His arm, hot and strong, wound around my waist, and he picked me up. The steaming skin of his solid chest against my exposed nipple sent a shock of pleasure down to the place that needed him so. My legs locked tight enough that he let go, slipping his hands into the back of my jeans until his hands were full.
Before I realized what was happening, his hands shifted, working my shorts and panties half off in the same motion as he set me back on the table. A yelp of surprise into his mouth, and my jeans were moving down my thighs. One sneaker in his palm, then on the ground. The other followed. And in little more than a handful of breaths, I was naked but for my bra.
Too stunned to parse, too hot to care. His lips moved down my body, closing over my nipple just like I’d imagined. But imagination was nothing compared to the real thing—the slick heat of his mouth, his fingertip tracing the slick heat of my body.
Though not for long, not nearly long enough before he moved on, leaning me back, lips on the curves of my stomach, the swell of my hip. His hand on my thigh, a stroke, a pull to open it, to hitch it on his shoulder.
I willed my lids opened, the white of my fingers in the black of his hair. The bridge of his nose, the crescents of his lashes. His lips, swollen and dusky. The flash of his tongue, the feel against my thigh. My other thigh slung over his shoulder. The tan of his fingers against the pale of my skin. A tug of my hips, a flick of his eyes to catch mine and hold them. To make sure I was watching when he ran the flat of his tongue up my center and closed his lips over my hood, sucking gently.
I drew a ragged breath, my lids fluttering closed, head lolling and thighs trembling. His tongue shifted, soft and hard, flat and firm, slow and fast.
Seconds. Seconds of his mouth on me, and my awareness sharpened, zinging across my skin. My heart thumped, every nerve in my body zeroing in on the place he was latched to me.
A hiss through my teeth. Fist in his hair. Thighs locked, hips flexed, core tight, tighter, squeezing nothing.
Seconds, that was all it took.
I came with a gasp and a cry, my body flexing for a long, suspended moment, and when it let go, it was with a burst of pleasure, a fluttering pulse of my core, my heart, my breath.
But he didn’t stop. He slowed, eased, but didn’t stop. The rhythm of his tongue and the pressure of his mouth tuned to the rhythm of my body, spurring the orgasm on when it would have fallen. Instead, it floated on, galloping through me, holding me captive.
It didn’t end until he willed it, his lips in the crease of my thigh, the bend of my hip. Up he moved, and I was too tired to hold myself up. But there was no room to lay—a hutch was at my back, potted plants everywhere but the space where my ass rested and elbows planted. Fern fronds tickled my shoulder blades. I hadn’t noticed it until just then.
His arm hooked around me, hauling me to sit with the sole intention of kissing me. I was boneless in his arms, at his mercy like a sacrificial lamb. And when he’d kissed me thoroughly, he broke away, smiling down at me.
“Jesus, Tess,” he breathed.
My cheeks flamed with embarrassment that I’d come like a rocket after a solid four seconds of contact with his devil mouth. Because surely those lips were a sin, and damn me to hell for wanting them like I did.
“I … it’s been a little while,” I admitted too hastily.
But he laughed. “Don’t bruise my ego, Tess—I just unlocked a life achievement.”
I frowned. “Making me come so fast?”
“Making you come at all.”
He kissed me before I could laugh. And before either of us decided on it, we were twisted together again, breaths noisy and bodies hard.
His especially. His impressive length found its way between my thighs again, this time with nothing but those goddamn basketball shorts between us. He wasn’t wearing underwear—I could feel the ridge of his head, thick and hard against the slick center of me.
He’d made good on his promise. And I had a feeling he’d do it again with the aid of the steel pipe in his pants.
Seemed I maybe owed him too, and I planned on making good on that.
Into his shorts my hands dove like a champion swimmer, sliding down the satiny skin of his shaft, the impossibly soft hardness of him in my palm heavy, thick. I’d known he was packing, but seeing was believing. Part of me didn’t know where he was going to put all that. The rest of me didn’t care.
I freed him, pushing his shorts off his ass.
He stayed himself with a long, steady exhale that broke our kiss.
“Tell me you have a condom,” I breathed, stroking him.
He hummed, catching my lips once, his hands patting his pockets before delving inside and emptying their contents onto the table. Keys. ID. A credit card.
And a condom.
I gave him a look and burst out laughing. “You are such a whore.”
But he smirked, smug and sure of himself and unruffled, as always. “Didn’t you just beg me for one of these?” He held up the packet in display before ripping it open.
“You don’t even have a wallet, but you have a condom?”
A shrug, his hand covering mine, gripping his base as he rolled the condom on. “I’m a minimalist, Tess. What can I say?”
A chuckle puffed out of me, our hands working his shaft together, our lips coming together, open, then closed. And then the laughter was gone, burned away by anticipation, by the shift of his hips that nestled his crown in the rippling flesh of my body. My hand clamped his neck, holding me steady as I leaned back, ass hanging off the table, lips parted, inches apart, eyes locked. Breath heavy.
His body rolled, slow and deliberate, and with the motion, he inched into me. Every wave brought him closer, closer, deeper, until he filled me completely and left us both breathless. And neither of us moved, his forehead pressing mine for a long moment. The pulse of his cock in me sent an echo back.