"God, you feel good," he murmurs against my neck, his stubble scraping deliciously against my sensitive skin. "The sounds you make..." He rolls his hips again, deliberately, and I can't stop the moan that escapes me.
His mouth trails down my throat, teeth scraping lightly over my collarbone. I'm panting now, my hands clutching at his shoulders, his back, anywhere I can reach. When his hand slides under my shirt again, this time moving higher to cup my breast, I arch into his touch with a gasp.
His thumb brushes over my nipple, and the sensation shoots straight to my core. I whimper, my head falling back against the wall. He takes advantage, his mouth finding the sensitive spot just below my ear. He sucks lightly, then harder, surely leaving a mark.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark with desire. Then he scoops me up as if I weigh nothing, carrying me back to the couch. He lays me down and follows, his weight supported on his forearms as he hovers above me.
I reach for the hem of the borrowed sweatshirt and pull it over my head in one fluid movement. Arthur goes still above me, his eyes roaming over my naked torso with unconcealed hunger.
I reach for him, pulling him down until I can feel the wonderful weight of him pressing me into the couch cushions.
The feel of his bare chest against mine pulls a moan from deep in my throat. His skin is hot, slightly rough with hair, the friction against my sensitive nipples sending sparks of pleasure through my body. His hips settle between my thighs, and I wrap my legs around him, holding him close.
He shifts, adjusting his weight, and the movement creates delicious friction exactly where I need it. I rock against him, seeking more, and he groans into my neck. His mouth finds my breast, tongue circling lazily around the peaked nipple before drawing it between his lips.
My back arches off the couch, hands tangling in his hair to hold him closer. The wet heat of his mouth combined with the gentle scrape of teeth has me gasping his name.
His hand slides down my stomach to the waistband of the borrowed sweatpants. He hooks his fingers in the elastic, then pauses, looking up at me with a question in his eyes.
I nod, lifting my hips to help as he slides them down my legs. The cool air of the apartment raises goosebumps on my newly exposed skin, or maybe it's the way Arthur is looking at me, like he wants to devour me whole.
I'm left in only my underwear.
"These too?" he asks, voice rough.
"Yes," I breathe, lifting my hips again.
He slides them down slowly, his eyes following the path of the fabric as it reveals more of me. When they're gone, I'm naked beneath him, exposed and vulnerable but not afraid. He sits back on his heels, eyes roaming over my body with such open desire that I feel my skin flush everywhere his gaze touches.
"You too," I say, reaching for the button of his jeans. "It's not fair."
He laughs, a warm, rich sound that makes something flutter in my chest. "Nothing about this is fair," he says, standing to remove his jeans and boxers in one efficient movement. "You showing up at my garage looking like every fantasy I never knew I had."
Then he's naked too, and it's my turn to stare. He's magnificent—all lean muscle and purpose, his erection jutting proudly from a nest of dark hair. My mouth goes dry at the sight of him, and I feel a fresh surge of wetness between my thighs.
The couch suddenly seems too narrow, too confining for what we both want. Without a word, Arthur helps me to the floor, where a large rug offers more space. He grabs a pillow from the couch and tucks it beneath my head, the small gesture of care making my chest tight with emotion.
Then he's over me again, his body covering mine, skin to skin with nothing between us. The weight of him is perfect, heavy enough to feel secure, not enough to crush. His mouth finds mine in a kiss that's deep and searching, his hands exploring every curve and dip of my body.
I run my hands down his back, feeling the shift and play of muscles beneath my fingers. He's solid, real, present in a way that makes me feel anchored. My nails scrape lightly down hisspine, and he shudders against me, his hips pressing forward in an instinctive thrust that makes us both groan.
His hand slides between our bodies, tracing a path down my stomach that makes my muscles clench in anticipation. When his fingers finally slide between my thighs, finding me wet and ready, we both make sounds of satisfaction. He strokes me with practiced patience, learning what makes me gasp and arch, what makes me cling to his shoulders and bite my lip.
"I want to hear you," he murmurs against my ear, his voice low and commanding. "Don't hold back."
His thumb circles my most sensitive spot as one finger slides inside me, then two, stretching me gently.
"You're so wet," he says, the words crude but spoken with such reverence that they feel like praise.
His mouth returns to my breast, adding another layer of sensation that pushes me closer to the edge. Just when I think I can't take any more, he withdraws his hand, leaving me empty and aching.
Before I can protest, he shifts lower, trailing kisses down my stomach. His intent is clear, and I feel a momentary flash of self-consciousness that disappears the instant his mouth replaces his fingers.
The first touch of his tongue against my center tears a cry from my throat. My hips buck upward, but his large hands hold me steady as he explores with lips and tongue, learning what makes me tremble and what makes me shout his name. When he slides two fingers back inside while his tongue works against me, I feel myself approaching the edge of something enormous.
"Arthur," I gasp, my hands fisting in his hair. "I'm going to—"
He doubles his efforts, his fingers curling to hit that spot inside me that makes my vision blur. The pressure builds and builds until it shatters, pleasure washing over me in waves that leave me trembling and incoherent. He doesn't stop, drawing out my orgasm until I'm tugging weakly at his hair, oversensitive and boneless.
