“Drinks? All this way…fordrinks?” she said, shaking her head. She was breathing hard, her chest heaving against mine and her cheeks flushed. “Please tell me my building didn’t collapse or you found a tyrannosaurus skeleton or some other ridiculous thing.”
I rolled my eyes. This wasn’t the time to ask her if she was fucking me for architectural advice, and honestly, I couldn’t find a way to form those words without sounding like a self-important asshole.
“Would you shut up about your fucking building for a minute and let me kiss you?”
I backed her against the wall, yanking her up on her toes, kissing her like we were alone in this terminal and there was nothing else but her, and I felt wild. It was raw and demanding and urgent, and if it weren’t for that tiny, obnoxious corner of my brain and its incessant reminders not to rip her clothes off in an airport, I would have been inside her by now.
Lauren’s hand moved, sliding along my torso and past my navel, and her fingers dipped into my boxers. We looked down at the same time, staring at her fingers against my skin, her palm over my belt buckle, and the thick bulge of my erection as it pointed northeast.
“Yeah, I think I’d like some day drinking,” she said with a smirk.
Chapter Nineteen
LAUREN
Okay, so thefizzle out wasn’t happening.
It was probably better that way. Moderation, right? I was the queen of moderation; it was the only reason my ass wasn’t the size of a picnic table.
I leaned against the elevator wall and eyed Matthew. He was the last person I expected to see when my flight from Chicago landed, and I still couldn’t wrap my brain around him flying to New Orleans. He said he wanted to be with me, but there was something behind his eyes I couldn’t get past. “I see you haven’t gotten treatment for that creeping problem yet.”
“And why would I?”
He shot a glance at the group of woman alongside us in the elevator, and wrapped his arm around my waist, pulling me in for a quick kiss. It was nothing like the overwhelming moments we shared in the airport, or the borderline indecent ones in the cab, but it reminded me of the immediacy, the automaticity with which I responded to him.
Whether I liked it or not, my body knew Matthew, and knew what to do without my direction.
I tried suppressing a wide yawn when we stepped off the elevator, shielding my mouth to hide my exhaustion, but he noticed with raised eyebrows. Time zones were kicking my ass. That, andAmerican Horror Story. “I’m tired. It’s a long, bizarre story. Or not so long, but definitely bizarre.”
Matthew grasped my hand at the threshold to the room, a sweeping view of the French Quarter stretching before us, and the muddy Mississippi in the distance. He didn’t have to tell me he upgraded the suite; there was no way in hell I reserved a room like this when I’d been staying in glorified shoeboxes the past two weeks.
He stood behind me, his arms wrapped around my torso. “Too tired for…drinks? We could just talk.”
I pivoted, shaking my head. Talking seemed far too complex right now. “Remember all those times you promised to bend me over your desk? Let’s work on a rendition of that.”
Walking through the double doors leading to the bedroom, I kicked off my shoes and stripped out of my clothes, and laid against the tall, four-poster king bed, my face to the fluffy down blankets. He edged my feet apart, and made room behind me. Not looking up from the bed, I heard the rustle of fabric and the metallic purr of his zipper, then I felt him, and that was all I needed to rouse that deep spiraling ache in my core. He was hard and hot, and rasping his stubbly chin over the most sensitive parts of my shoulders, and I was never comparing him to bread ever again.
His fingertips trailed up and down my spine, and then lower, over my ass, slipping inside me, and I knew I’d never been so wet. As much as I told myself I didn’t want this, my body wasn’t lying about what it wanted. “Miss Halsted,” he growled.
He pressed into me, his head sliding through my slit, and I was already there, the early tingles of orgasm crawling up the backs of my legs, around my ribs, through my scalp. His hand spread over my back, pushing me flat against the mattress, and when he finally filled me, we moaned, greedy and hungry and desperate for each other. We didn’t move for a long moment, and I savored the weight of him inside me.
“I think your pussy missed me.” He moved my hair to one side and kissed my neck. “I think it wants to come all over me right now.”
“Mmhmm,” I said. “It missed your cock and your fingers and your tongue.”
He grabbed my hands, stretching them out over my head, holding them in place, and brought his other hand to my clit. My teeth connected with the blankets, and I groaned against them, knowing I was seconds away from dissolving into a sloppy orgasm puddle.
Matthew started moving, sliding in and out at a leisurely pace while his fingers hovered near—never exactly on—my clit. I sensed him straining, his muscles pulled taut, his breaths coming fast, his control eroding with each measured stroke.
“Didyoumiss me?”
There was a method to his agonizing madness. As if he knew there was one place I couldn’t hide from him, one moment when I was wholly unfiltered, his thumb strummed my clit—just as I’d shown him—and I came, screaming, “Oh fuck, Matthew, yes, I’m never leaving you again.”
I was too busy shattering to care what I admitted, but I knew I wasn’t ready to absorb his reaction, and kept my eyes screwed shut and my face buried in the blankets.
“Good,” he growled. “I missed you too.”
He didn’t relent, the pressure low in my belly building again, and when his words turned into unintelligible pleas and demands, I whispered, “I want to feel you coming inside me.”
