And, fuck, seeing myself halfway out of my clothes, still in my boots—
His motions change. Back to soft flicks of his tongue. Pressure and pleasure everywhere. Then more. Higher. Left.
There.
"Fuck, Ian." I reach for him. Find the tie binding me. Keeping my arms over my head. Keeping me at his mercy.
He focuses on that perfect spot. Again and again. Until I'm brimming with sensation. Pleasure and pressure and deep, pure need.
He pushes me to the edge.
I let my eyes open. Let my gaze shift to the reflection. Focus on the hard scrape of his fingernails. The sound of his groan dissolving into my flesh. The smell of his skin.
Every sense, all at once.
Too much.
Not enough.
How can it be both?
How can I want more when I can barely take this?
My thoughts disappear with the next flick of his tongue.
He winds me tighter and tighter. Until it's too much to take.
But I do take it.
More and more tension.
More and more pleasure.
More and more.
With the next flick of his tongue, I unravel. Pleasure spills through my limbs as I come.
I groan his name, bucking my hips, desperate for every bit of him I can get.
He works me through my orgasm, but he doesn't release me. He keeps that same perfect pressure. So much it aches. It's too much. More pain than pleasure. But I need that too.
Then it's all pressure. So much I ache. So much I'm desperate for release.
I come fast this time. And hard. So hard I see white.
The room disappears. Only the sound of my groan and his breath and his name on my lips.
He releases me. Places a kiss on my thigh. Pulls my dress down my legs.
No underwear.
And no bra either—I don't need one in this.
I'm naked under here. Still his, to claim, whenever he wants, however he wants.
How can I feel so desperate and satisfied at the same time? My body is humming with bliss. With relief. With an ache for more of him.
Him inside of me.
I want that so badly. To touch him, taste him, feel his cock stretching my walls.
My eyes blink open. The window this time. Too bright for our reflection. That perfect white light.
The sun bouncing off the water. The sand. The ocean. The wide open sky.
Paradise.
One idea of it.
I'm a New Yorker, through and through. I'll take the city any day. But here, in his bed, his hands on my wrists, his lips on my neck—
Fuck.
"Ian." I dig my nails into his neck. "Please." I don't know what I'm asking. I never know what I'm asking him. Only that I need it right now.
He undoes the knot. Tosses away the tie. Brings my wrists to his lips. Plants a kiss on each. "After I feed you."
"What if I'm not hungry?"
He lowers my hands to my sides. Wraps his arms around me. "You're going to need your strength. Trust me, vixen. I'm going to drain every drop of your energy."
Chapter Forty-One
Ian
Eve places her feet on the footrest of a kitchen stool. Presses her knees together. Smooths her frock.
"This is insane." She takes in the wide, open room. The windows looking out on the beach. The others looking out on the garden.
The barest hint of sunset. A soft glow. A faint orange hue.
I'm not sure how long we've been here. Only that it's something out of a dream.
Eve in my bed. Lazing on the couch with her Kindle. Scribbling in that notebook she brings everywhere.
In my space, my house, my life.
Though it's not my space. It's not my house.
And it's not my life.
This is a vacation, a daydream, a fantasy.
Maybe that's better. Maybe that's where she belongs. Some fantasy of a life where I'm capable of loving her fully, letting her in, catching her when she falls.
She's there too. In a daydream. Looking at the house like it's something out of a film.
It is.
Marble countertops, glossy tile floor, turquoise stools around the kitchen island.
The entire place is shades of blue and green. Aquatic colors. Subtle beach imagery.
Cerulean towels, soft blue leather couch, tile in a shade of sand.
I didn't think hard about this rental. A place on the beach for the summer. One close enough for a day trip or a weekend holiday. It's only forty minutes in a helicopter. A few hours in a car or on the train. Close enough for an evening.
And it's blue and green everywhere. The colors I associate with her. One of the only things I knew about her when I signed the check for this rental.
It's an obvious choice. The colors of the ocean for a place by the beach.
The colors of my obsession for a place to fuck her.
Which is it?
The beach? Her body? Her heart?
I don't know.
I want to fuck her. I want to fuck her senseless. To bring her back to the bed, spread her thighs, drive into her until she's groaning in equal parts bliss and agony.
And I want to hold her, cook for her, feed her, listen to every thought in her head.
"Aren't you supposed to mock American excess?" She swings her stool so she's facing me. Drops her voice an octave. Attempts to put on a British accent. "Ah, you Yanks just love your big houses." She drops the impression. "Or something."
"Is that how I sound?"
She nods. Smiles that sly smile that lights up her gorgeous eyes. "It is ridiculous. Have you seen the size of houses in Iowa? The bedrooms are bigger than my apartment. Some of them are bigger than your apartment. Well, maybe not your apartment."
She slides off the stool. Looks to the dining room. A wide-open space with a long oak table, matching chairs, simple shell decorations.
"This room is bigger than your apartment," she says.
"Almost."
"And that's not excessive?"
"Why come to the States if not to enjoy excess?"
"Uh-huh." She turns to me. "When did you rent it?"
"This spring. Places in the Hamptons go fast."
"What do you… do with it?" Her eyes flit to the beach, then they're on me. "I just can't see it. You're still wearing your suit."
"I'm not wearing a tie."
Her cheeks flush at the memory. "It's still a suit."
I shake my head.
She nods. Moves closer. Until she's close enough to run her fingers over my suit-jacket. Up my arm then down the neckline. She undoes the button. Looks up at me can I?
I nod yes.
She peels the jacket off my shoulders then drapes it over hers.
Her eyes meet mine as she strikes a pose. "How do I look?"
"Fetching."
"I was going for dapper."
"You need trousers for that."
She smiles as she removes the jacket. "Should I put this somewhere?"
I motion to the stool.
"It won't mess up your… what does this cost?"
"What it's worth."
"Three figures or four?"
"I don't keep track."
"Uh-huh."
"How much did your frock cost?"
"A hundred-something dollars. A lot for me. But nothing compared to some of the things you've sent me."