With those in hand, he rerouted them to the couch, turned around, and sat on it, putting them in exactly the same position they’d been in before, except inside the warmth of the cottage.
But no sooner were they settled than she hopped off his lap. He was about to lodge a protest when he realized she was undoing her jeans.
He’d built a fire in the fireplace before she arrived, and it had burned down mostly to embers, but it was enough to see by. And she was something to see as she kicked off her jeans haphazardly.
“I’m coming right back there.” Her voice was husky as she nodded at his lap. “So unless you want me to hump you over your clothes, I suggest you take your pants off, too.”
Oh, crap. He pressed down on his dick for a second to get it to calm down before he did what she told him—but not before contemplating the strangely hot image of a naked Nora “humping him” while he was fully clothed. Something to remember for later, maybe.
The minute he sat back down, relieved of his pants, she climbed on top of him and immediately started on the buttons of her blouse. Following her lead, he pulled his shirt off. She slid closer on his lap until they were back where they’d been outside—minus the clothes. Which meant her nipples scraped against his chest, and she ground against his cock. She was wet already. So wet.
He hissed. He wanted to devour her. But he forced himself to be still, like she was. Closed his eyes and resisted bucking his hips up in time to the pulsing in his dick.
It was funny. This was exactly the same position they’d been in last night, in her room—her straddling his lap. But despite the mechanical similarities, everything was different. Before, they’d been teasing each other, alternately laughing and rocking against each other.
This was…heavy. Not in a bad way. But he had always thought of desire as something that escalated, ratcheting up and up and up until it exploded. This was the reverse. Like a coil spinning slowly inward, twisting inexorably tighter, like it was going to keep collapsing in on itself in a kind of slow-motion implosion.
“Jake.” She invoked his name on a long, slow exhalation as she started moving her torso from side to side against his. He remembered how much she’d seemed to like having her breasts played with last night, so he slid his hands down to cup them from the sides, aiming to add to the sensation as she rubbed herself against his chest. Her nipples were sharp little nubs. It felt like someone was drawing on him. “Oh my God, Jake.”
She pulled back with her torso, and he let his hands slide around to cup her breasts from the front. She hissed as she listed sideways. She was aiming for the box of condoms on the couch next to him.
The woman was good with her hands. In a matter of seconds, she had the box opened and a condom unwrapped. It was his turn to hiss as she unrolled it over him. She hadn’t actually touched his dick with her hands last night. He’d come too soon, rutting against her like a teenager. And even though this touch—the condom-unrolling touch—was all business, it felt so good. The pixie hands looked so good, one of them steadying him as the other sheathed him.
She kneeled up on the sofa and placed her hands on his shoulders as she hovered over his length. “Okay?”
A noise came out of him he didn’t recognize. It felt like a laugh—a laugh of incredulity because of course, yes, this was okay—but simultaneously like a groan of agreement. “Yeah,” he bit out. “You?”
Her answer was a wicked smile—and a slow, tight slide down his dick.
He tipped his head back and closed his eyes. “Fuuuuck.”
He had forgotten what this was like. Or maybe he’d never known what this was like. What she was like. She was tight and hot—and she was going to be his undoing.
She paused about halfway down and inhaled. He opened his eyes, righted his head, and examined her face. Her eyes were closed, and her face was screwed up in what he hoped was pleasure and not pain.
He let his hands settle lightly on her hips. Not to exhort her, but to remind her that he was with her. To facilitate their disentanglement if that was what had to happen. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” She smiled but kept her eyes closed, like she was concentrating on something in her mind’s eye. “I just need a sec.”
He took the opportunity to examine her face. He’d thought of her as being tinged with the supernatural the first time he’d seen her. The pixie with the almost-white hair and the blue-gray eyes, she’d seemed cool, gilded with ice almost. But now, on his lap, in his cottage, painted with warm, orange light from the dying fire, she was positively radiating heat. It wasn’t just the wet warmth that encircled his cock, a velvet vise—though it was that—it was Nora. She was warm. She was warming him, somehow, when nobody else had been able to for so long.
She opened her eyes wide, said, “Wow,” and sank down most of the rest of the way.
All he was doing, on the surface of things, was sitting on his ass on the couch. He was no longer carrying her. He wasn’t lifting anything or holding anything up. But sweat poured from his skin all the same. Had he just thought she made him warm? No, that wasn’t the right word. He was on fire. The effort required to just sit there, while she impaled herself on him, looking at him the whole while with astonishment, like he’d invented sex or something, was almost unendurable.
“There,” she breathed as she sank the last few millimeters.
Her eyes were warm, too, as they bored into his. Cool gray-blue but also warm, which should have been impossible.
There was so much pressure gathered at the base of his spine, in his balls, that all he could do was let loose a low groan. He fought to keep his eyes open through it. He didn’t want to be the one to break the eye contact between them, which, oddly, felt like it was connecting them as much as their bodies were. He thought at first that they were going to take another pause, because she didn’t move initially. Then he thought they were going to resume the same slow, languid, heavy rhythm from before, because she tilted her hips slowly forward, an inch or so maybe, like she was trying to work herself even deeper onto him.
“Yes,” he exhorted, because that was a plan that suited him just fine.
But then she shocked him by running her hands, which had remained resting on the tops of his shoulders during her long, slow, exquisitely torturous descent, up the sides of his neck. His pulse thundered under her touch, but the pixie hands didn’t stop there. They slid up over his jaw. Over his ears, squishing his earlobes as they dragged their way upward. Finally her hands were buried in his hair.
She made fists, tangling her fingers in his hair as she lifted herself a few inches off him.
Don’t go. His hands instinctively tightened their hold on her hips. But he forced himself to let go, because of course he couldn’t keep her there if she didn’t want to be there.
But she wasn’t going, not for good anyway. She slid back down and moaned. It felt like a reprieve, and it sent a bolt of lust spiking up through his chest.
And back up she went, tightening her grip, using his hair for leverage to help her thrust against him. She was establishing a rhythm, and once he got the hang of it, he put his hands back on her hips, letting them splay over her ass cheeks and help lift her up and encourage her down.
It was a rhythm that was going to kill him, though. Just end him right here and now. It was slow. So torturously, deliciously slow. He started lifting his hips up to meet her measured downstrokes. He couldn’t help it, but she didn’t seem to mind. She just opened her eyes wider and laughed. A single, disbelieving “Ha!” escaped her lips, but it morphed into a moan.