It’s a slow undressing, tugging his shirt out from his pants and pushing it back off his shoulders, kissing his tattoo as I undo his leather belt and then the button and fly. The suit trousers drop to the floor and he steps out of them, bending and lifting each foot to shuck his socks. My gaze is drawn to a big purple mark on his left hip. A soft sound of dismay falls from my lips as I so gently touch my fingertips to it. “Are you hurt?”
“It’s just a bruise.”
I run my hands over his hips in his formfitting black boxer briefs, squeezing the square, masculine bones of his pelvis, then sliding around back to cup his muscular butt.
A low groan escapes his mouth as I grip those firm glutes, and he slides his hands into my hair, thumbs on my jaw, and tilts my head so he can kiss me. Our mouths meet in a fiery impact, opening, tongues sliding, devouring. I tilt my hips and press against him, thrilling at the feel of his erection against my lower belly.
“Lilly.” He groans and drags his mouth over my jaw. “I’m a mess.”
“We’re all a mess.”
“I want to be with you. But I don’t want to drag you down with me.”
“You’re not. I can handle it.” I pull back to peer into his eyes. “Maybe I can lift you up.”
His eyes fall closed, his jaw tight, and I hook my fingers into his briefs and drag them down.
His beautiful body is naked, and now he undresses me, not that there’s much to take off. His hot eyes watch his fingers as he works open the small buttons on my nightshirt, parting it to reveal my breasts. “This is hot,” he breathes, sliding it off my shoulders. “So pretty. And these…” He touches my lace-edged panties. “Want them off you.”
When I’m naked too, I move to the bed. He follows me and comes down over me, fitting himself between my legs. His mouth covers mine, his tongue licks inside, and we kiss deeply, over and over, until my body is burning for him, my pussy aching and squeezing, hungry to be filled.
He slips a hand between us and drags his fingers through my slit. “Wet,” he murmurs.
“Yes.”
After he grabs a condom and puts it on, he slowly enters me, propped above me on one strong arm, his biceps bulging, his eyes fastened on me. I hold his gaze steadily, drowning in the warmth of his eyes, stripped bare by the intensity. The pressure of his cock filling me steals my breath and I bend my legs back to accept him.
Once he’s deeply seated, he bends his arm to lower himself to kiss me again, his hand tenderly cupping my face. His mouth brushes gentle kisses over my cheek and jaw and neck as his hips move slowly, sliding in and out of me with delicious friction. I curl my hand around his biceps and hold on, flames licking over my flesh. It’s simple, slow, missionary, but intimate and enthralling as he moves in and out, rocking his hips against me. I lose myself in the sensuality of it, the feel of his body against mine, inside mine, the scent of the shampoo he used after the game, the sound of his low groans. I hook my heels over the backs of his thighs, his knees spread wide.
Then he pushes up again to stare down at me, watching me. He caresses my leg from ankle to knee, pulling it higher, moving faster. Deeper. He touches his forehead to mine and our ragged breaths mingle. Tension curls inside me, squeezing, building, and when he lowers himself on top of me again, the pressure on my clit is just what I need and I let myself go, let myself fly, pure bliss taking me soaring.
“Fuck yeah,” he rasps in my ear. “Squeeze me with your pussy…that’s so fucking good, Lill, I fucking love it. You make me feel so good.”
“I love it too,” I gasp, and then it’s his turn. He groans and growls as he pumps into me, his strokes drawing out my orgasm almost painfully. His body tautens, stills, pulses inside me, and then he collapses onto me, his weight a sweet, reassuring pressure. He shifts to the side, burying his face in the side of my neck, and I open my mouth on his shoulder in a long, sweet kiss.
We both fall dead asleep after that, usual for me, but Easton must have been exhausted, I suspect both physically and mentally. When Otis makes some soft whining noises in the morning, I quickly slip out of bed to take him outside and let Easton sleep more.
Still early on Sunday morning, traffic noise from 9A is light. I see only one other person walking their dog on the grassy area across from the apartment building, then I return inside. I cross the gleaming stone floor of the lobby toward the elevator.
“Morning, Ms. Evans,” Javier greets me.
“Good morning.” I flash him a smile and prepare to pick up Otis.
“How’s Otis doing in the elevators?” Javier asks.
“Oh, he’s getting better.” I lift him with my hand beneath his back paws. “Whatever happened to him sure traumatized him.”
“It was traumatic,” Javier says. “We all thought he was gonna die.”
I pause. “It happened here?”
He nods. “Yes. This woman he was with got into the elevator and the doors closed before Otis got on. He was about to be strangled! But Mr. Millar saved him. It was pretty close. I don’t know how he managed to get the leash off.”
I blink at Javier. “Oh. Wow. I didn’t know that.” Mr. Millar didn’t tell me those details.
“I think Otis was nervous about elevators to begin with,” Javier continues. “Which was why he didn’t get into the elevator with her. But now he worships Mr. Millar.” He frowns. “Still don’t know what happened to that woman. She just took off and abandoned the dog, and she wasn’t even the owner.”
“Well, he has a good home now,” I say absently, still absorbing this new information. “Have a good day, Javier.”
“You too, Ms. Evans.”
I carry Otis into the elevator. “Nobody told me about that,” I say to him. “I knew you were traumatized somehow. I didn’t know Easton saved your life.” I kiss him between his eyes. “He’s a hero, Otis. But you already knew that.”
Easton’s still asleep, sprawled on his stomach in his huge bed. I study him for a moment, my heart tender and aching. He’s so relaxed, unlike his usual wired self. I love seeing his face peaceful, his mouth in softer lines. He saved Otis’s life, a dog he didn’t even know, and he’s never told me he did that. He’s a good man and he shouldn’t have to be going through what he is.
I close the door softly and head to the kitchen. I picked up a few things yesterday, knowing I’d be staying here last night, so I can make breakfast for us. I’m not the best cook in the world, but I make fantastic pancakes. Pancakes got me through a lot of heartache; maybe they’ll help Easton.