“She called. We argued.” He turns the corners of his lips down. “And haven’t spoken since.”
“You can’t just turn off feelings.” I look down at my fingers, twisting in my lap. “Did it take you some time to get over her?”
He stands, crosses around to my side of the table, and pulls me to myfeet. The cool morning air charges, heating, circulating in the small space separating our bodies. He eliminates even that, setting his hands at my hips, pulling me flush to him.
“Hey.” With one finger, he lifts my chin, urging me to meet his eyes. I don’t want to. As transparent as I am to him, I know he’ll see all the ways I’m jealous. All the ways her very existence makes me question what we have. All the ways I’m insecure hearing how he wanted her.
All the parts of me that ask if he, even a little bit, still does?
“Can I tell you something?” he asks. Our bodies are so close, his words rumble into my chest, and for a moment, it feels like he’s knocking on my heart. He can come in. As much as I’ve fought it from the moment we met, he’s probably already inside.
“Yeah?” I ask, forcing my gaze to remain locked with his.
“I liked Camille a lot.”
“I know,” I say through the hot lump forming in my throat.
“Until she showed herself, and I could never unsee what was beneath that beautiful exterior.” He takes my hand, lays the palm flat to his breastbone. “But you, I’ve seen since the first night we met, and I can’t unsee your light. You have nothing to worry about, Neevah. You hear me?”
He cups my face, swipes his thumb across my lips until they open for him, inviting him to enter. With a deep sweep of his tongue, he does. We moan together, our hands in agreement, roaming over arms and faces and asses. He walks us backward to one of the VIP pods, and we step through the curtains into luxurious privacy. An oversized plum-colored couch dominates the space flanked by small tables on either side. The drawn curtains block the breeze, but allow in skeins of sunlight, revealing the desire in his eyes.
“Are we really doing this?” I whisper into our kiss, an illicit thrill zipping through my body at the thought of this intimacy with the whole city watching, yet oblivious.
Wordlessly, he tugs his belt loose, unsnaps his jeans, discarding them, his shirt and his briefs. He’s fully erect. Extended. Hard. Long.
Readyyyyy.
I’ll take that as a yes.
I tug the sweatshirt over my head, shuck off the jeans and shoes, standing only in a black sheer bra and panties. He deftly flicks open the front closure of my bra, and my breasts spill out like they’re eager for his touch. He doesn’t disappoint, cupping them, thumbing the nipples until they’re hard, budded. He slides his hand into my panties and his fingers find me. The stroking, back-and-forth slide across my clit is shockingly erotic. It’s only been a week since we made love in Santa Barbara, but my body is starving for this, and when he slides two fingers inside, my muscles clinch around him almost convulsively.
“Do you know how many times this week I thought about this pussy?” His breath mists my earlobe, inciting a shudder that skids down my nape and across my arms. With slow, deliberate, deep thrusts, he invades me. With each stroke, I go limper, my breath catching and releasing.
“Some days I couldn’t concentrate.” He pushes impatiently at the strip of lace ringing my hips, shoving the panties down to circle my ankles. “I walked around with a hard-on half the day.”
I chuckle against the strong column of his neck, reaching between us to grip him, pull him, relishing the harshness of his breath in response to my touch.
“I was so turned on Wednesday,” I tell him, capturing his eyes. “Watching you tug on your lips the way you do when you’re trying to figure something out.”
“I do?” he asks, absently, bending to take my nipple in his mouth.
“You do.” My head drops back and I whimper at the warmth, at the tender tug of his lips wrapped around the sensitive tip. “And it was so damn sexy I went in my trailer on break and touched myself.”
He goes statue-still, his hand tightening at my hip.
“I came so hard,” I rasp into his ear.
“Turn around.” It’s a guttural command.
He bends me over the arm of the couch, and my hands hit the cushion for support, to steady myself. At the sound of the condom wrapper tearing, my inner muscles contract, bracing for him. He spreads my cheeksand, slipping his whole hand between my legs, cups the trembling flesh. I’m unprepared for the swipe of his tongue. For the subtle abrasion of his beard scraping the inner skin of my thighs. For the sound of him eating me. I push back against his face, helpless, no shame. Digging my nails into the cushions, I widen my legs to give me more, to take more for myself. He grips my thighs, holding me steady for his devouring mouth until, with a sob that sails over the rooftop, over the city, I contract around his delving tongue. The orgasm hits hard, tightening the muscles in my thighs and calves. With staccato breaths, I bury my face in the couch, biting my lip to the point of pain.
“Canon,” I beg. “Stop teasing me and—”
He shoves in, and the words tumble back down my throat, recessing into the shock of this pleasure.
“Jesus.” Need shreds my voice to ribbons.
He coasts his hand up my back, gently cuffs my neck. Ass in the air, I rise up on my toes, begging for breath, petitioning for more dick. He gives it to me, pushing impossibly deeper.
