He doesn’t rush the kiss. There’s no question he thinks he’s in charge, but he doesn’t rush it. Instead, he takes his time, playing my mouth and using his hands on the rest of me like he’s planned every move of this for months.
He doesn’t object when I start exploring his chest. Feeling my way up his shoulders and around his thick neck.
The man is all muscle. He has to be for his job, but right now, it’s all for me.
My breasts are heavy. My nipples are tight, hard peaks. And my vagina is asking if we can please straddle this man.
If he’s half as good at sex as he is at kissing, I could have my first man-made orgasm in—actually, I don’t want to think about how long.
Not important.
Whatisimportant is that his fingers are twirling in my hair, pulling hard enough to send sparks of pleasure across my scalp. That his other hand is splayed across my upper back, his thumb rubbing the back of my neck and giving me goosebumps. That his tongue is brushing against mine, teasing me, daring me to be the one to take things further.
That he smells like a winter forest on a snowy morning and tastes like a rich red wine.
That his whiskers are teasing the sensitive skin around my mouth.
I want to know how they’d feel on my inner thighs.
And I don’t know when I’ll get another chance.
So I ignore the quiet whispers in the back of my head ofis thissmart?andis this safe?andwill I regret this?, and I give in to the desperate need to swing one leg over his hips.
I bang my ankle on the table, but I hold on to the kiss, ignoring the pain as other sensations take over.
Specifically, the sensation of Fletcher’s thick, hard penis nestled between my thighs with only his sweatpants and my leggings between us.
He makes a low rumble in the back of his throat, then wraps an arm behind my back, holding me against him while he tightens his grip on my hair and deepens the kiss.
Yessss.
This.
This is what my body has been craving.
I’m seizing every opportunity before I leave the country.
Tonight, that opportunity is Fletcher.
Fletcher and his hard body and his scratchy face and his soft hair and all the tender spots he’s hiding in his heart that he pretends aren’t there.
Fletcher, my friend.
He’s the perfect final fling.
He wrenches out of the kiss, chest heaving, lids heavy, mouth parted. “I’m not thinking about your brother.”
I’m so thick in the cloudy haze of horny desire that it takes a minute for his words to register.
“I’m not thinking about him either,” I say.
My chest is rapidly lifting and lowering. I can’t focus on anything beyond his face. And I want to kiss him again.
“Good,” he pants.
“Good,” I agree.
We stare at each other.
