It only seems to inflame him; he walks forward, forcing me back against the scaffolding, cold metal bars crossing my back. It’s too much, too much, and I take a swipe at his lips with my teeth.
Only then does he gentle. It’s like he was waiting for me to fight back, like that’s what he needed all along. Maybe that’s what he meant when he said save me; maybe I have to hurt him to do it.
I pull at his white dress shirt, his jacket, but he’s made too solid to move. The only way to reach him is through my mouth, and I nip at him wherever I can reach—his lips, his chin, the angle of his jaw. He sucks in a breath, but it doesn’t sound like pain. It sounds like someone who’s felt something too good, and he backs up that impression by pushing his hips against me. There’s an outline there, unmistakable. Hot and hard against my belly. Sutton is large, but Christopher is made of steel—not just in his cock, but his abs, his arms. Everywhere I can reach, he’s forged with fire.
Except for his throat. There the skin is tender, almost velvet, with a late-night bristle that burns my cheek. I slip my tongue out to taste him; he’s elemental earth. He vibrates at the slickness, tilting his head back so I can reach better. I move down, down, down in defiance, pressing my lips to the hollow at the base, feeling his heartbeat move through him.
“Please,” he says, and he sounds so lost. He sounds like I feel most of the time. I never imagined that Christopher Bardot would bare the most vulnerable part of his body.
Never imagined that he would beg.
This is someone always in command, the smartest man in the room, the most determined. And when he cedes control to me, power rushes through my veins. I can do anything if this man needs me.
Anything except decide what to do next. Despite the wildness of our threesome in the Den, despite Sutton’s creativity, I’m not really that experienced when it comes to sex. I don’t really know what normal sex looks like, and I’m pretty sure that’s not what Christopher would want anyway.
He solves the problem by pulling away long enough to yank off his jacket. He lays it down over the dusty floor, ruining the expensive fabric. “For your knees,” he says, and I remember the salt-sweet taste of his cock in my mouth. I drop down, too eager, but then he’s beside me. Under me.
And I realize that none of Sutton’s creativity prepared me for this—for Christopher lying flat on the bits of rubble, only half-shielded by his jacket. For my knees on either side of his head, padded by his jacket, the pale peach cotton of my dress spread out over him. It’s only shock that has me reeling back, only shock that has me gasping, “No. Wait. Don’t.”
Even so I’m not expecting him to actually stop, to push my skirt away long enough to ask in hard, explicit terms, “You don’t want me to lick your cunt?”
My hips react in a visceral way to the word cunt; they rock forward as if asking for his tongue, needing it. Sutton pressed me up against a wall and held me there. Christopher ordered me onto Sutton’s cock and fucked my mouth. There’s a certain amount of helplessness I can pretend in those situations—I didn’t know his mouth would make me orgasm. I couldn’t predict his lap would have a stiff cock pointing up.
And even if those kinds of nonexcuses only work in my head, I didn’t realize how much I was relying on them before now. Before now when I have to place my body over Christopher’s face and lower my sex to his mouth. There’s too much action involved, too much knowledge.
I can’t, I can’t, at least until he says, “I’ve been dreaming about this. Since that night I held you naked in the cabin. I knew I shouldn’t think about you that way. I had just pulled you out of the goddamn water, but it was all I wanted. I dreamed about you waking up and kneeling down on top of me. I dreamed about how you would taste—salty from the bay, sweet from your sex. I’d lick you and lick you until you were dripping down my face, until I was slippery with you, and then you’d come, riding me hard enough I’d barely be able to breathe, and I’d reach down and grip my cock. That’s all it would take. I’d just hold myself and come while you moaned my name above me.”
“I want that too,” I breathe. None of my imaginary sex dreams prepared me for this, but every nerve ending has come awake. There’s an ache between my legs, and I’m afraid he’s ruined me. Something in me cracked when I heard him speak just now, and the only way I’ll ever be assuaged will be with a mouth under my spread legs while I rock my hips just how I want it.
Only, I would have thought I’d have more power on top like this. His hands grasp my ass, somehow covering almost all of it, even though there should really be too much. He holds enough to mold my movements, to rock me to his beat instead of mine. It’s too fast at first, and I gasp above him. I don’t even have any balance, and I’m forced to hold on to the bars of the scaffolding that shoots up around us. The old rusty wheels complain at the pressure, but they hold still, locked into place.
He licks me through the cotton, but it does nothing to disguise the feel of him. It only seems to make it sharper, the wet fabric pressing into my folds, into my clit. All I can do is hold on as he searches for something that makes me squirm.
And then he bites me, teeth only slightly blunted through the cotton, right on my clit, and I scream a little, making birds fly up from somewhere in the library where they shouldn’t be. His hands pull me toward him again and again, there’s no escaping the sun-blinding pleasure, and then I’m coming, a mess of slick arousal sounding slippery against his lips.
Christopher doesn’t reach down to grasp his cock, even though I moan his name. Instead he flips me over so I’m on the ground looking up at the crack in the wall. A zipper. A tear. And then he’s above me, inside me, my legs spread so wide I’m almost bent in half. His face looks carved into sharp angles, his eyes hard black stone. Everything about this is too much. “I should be high for this,” I gasp, and I expect him to tell me that I shouldn’t be, not ever, it isn’t safe, isn’t legal.
“Later,” is all he manages to say, and it rings through my body like a bell. Keeping time, that bell. A promise that I’ll hear it again, and I arch my body up in gratitude.
His cock pushes deeper, and I have to squirm away from the fullness.
He seems to think I’m hurting, because he murmurs, “I’m sorry.” One hand curves beneath my neck, the other beneath the small of my back. He’s holding me up away from the ground even as he fucks me into it, shielding me even as he tears me apart.
I’m not expecting to come again, but then he shifts his hips. He hits some new angle, and my hands fly up above my head. It’s like I’m falling, even though I’m already at the bottom. My hand finds one pole of the scaffold, and I hold on tight. Pleasure rises inside me, sharp and sudden. Christopher quickens in three hard thrusts, and then he’s holding me so tight I can’t breathe, my climax taking me just as swiftly. I’m held suspended in the air by his embrace, floating beneath the shaky scaffold and the broken wall. It’s as if the whole building shudders when we come. There’s dust in my eyes. Dust, dust. That’s why they burn.
I’m not sure what I expected after sex beneath the scaffolding. Maybe that Christopher would disappear into the shadows, making me wonder if it was just a dream. Or maybe he’d say something mean about how rich girls don’t have feelings and I’d have to awkwardly flounce out of the building that I own, like that disaster of a dinner at Koi.