“You’ve been thinking about this, too,” he murmurs against my throat, his voice thick with satisfaction.
“Since St. Petersburg.” Since before that. Since the wedding. Since he covered my body with his at the gallery, and I felt every hard inch of him pressed against me.
He strokes me slowly at first, learning what makes me squirm and what makes me moan. His thumb circles my clit while two fingers slide inside me, curling to hit the spot that makes my vision go hazy at the edges.
“That’s it,” his voice is low and encouraging as he adds, “show me what you like.”
I can’t form words anymore. I can only move against his hand and chase the pleasure building low in my belly. He reads my body like he reads everything else, noticing every reaction, adjusting his rhythm, and driving me higher with each stroke until I’m trembling and gasping beneath him.
“I need—” My words dissolve into a moan when he adds a third finger and increases his pace.
“I know what you need.”
He withdraws his hand, and I whimper at the loss. The sound is embarrassing and desperate, but I don’t care. I need him inside me. Now.
Tony seems to understand. He releases my wrists and reaches for his belt. I hear the clink of metal and the rasp of a zipper, and then he’s shoving his pants down just far enough to free himself. He doesn’t bother removing them or anything else; he just yanks my underwear to the side and positions himself at my entrance.
“Tell me you want this,” he demands as the head of his cock nudges against me without pushing in. “I need to hear you say it.”
“I want this.” I grab his hips and try to pull him closer. “I want you. Please, Tony.”
He thrusts inside me in one long stroke, and then we both freeze for a moment. Adjusting. Savoring. He fills me, stretching me in ways that border on too much in the best way. I feel impossibly full, pinned beneath him with my dress bunched around my waist and his body still mostly clothed above me.
“Okay?” he asks through gritted teeth, the muscles in his neck corded with the effort of holding still.
“Yes. God, yes.” I dig my heels into the backs of his thighs, urging him to move.
He does. Slowly at first, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in. Each thrust drags against my inner walls, hitting spots that make sparks dance behind my eyelids. I wrap my legs around his waist and try to pull him closer and deeper, needing more than he’s giving me.
“Patience,” he says, but his voice is strained. He’s holding back. Trying to make this last.
“I don’t want patience.” I rake my nails down his back hard enough to leave marks through his shirt. “I want you to fuck me like you mean it.”
At that, his pace increases, snapping his hips against mine with enough force to make the couch creak beneath us. The sound of skin against skin fills the room. I’m still wearing my dress, and he’s still mostly clothed, but neither of us cares enough to stop and undress.
This is need. Pure and overwhelming. Weeks of buildup finally finding release.
Tony hooks one of my legs over his shoulder, and the new angle changes everything. Suddenly, every thrust hits exactly right, grinding against my clit with each stroke. I cry out, unable to stay quiet, and he covers my mouth with his palm.
“The walls aren’t that thick,” he reminds me, but his eyes are burning with desire. He likes the sounds I’m making. Wants to hear more of them even as he muffles them.
I’m so close. The pressure is building to something inevitable, coiling tighter with every thrust. I can tell from the way his rhythm is becoming erratic that he’s right there with me.
“That’s it,” he murmurs at my ear, breath hot on my skin. “Let go on me. I want to feel you.”
The words push me over the edge. My release crashes through me in waves, and I bite down on his palm to keep from screaming. My inner walls clench around him in rhythmic pulses, and Tony follows seconds later with a groan that vibrates through his body. I feel him pulse inside me, and his hips jerk through the aftershocks while I milk every drop from him.
For a long moment, we just breathe. His forehead rests against mine. His weight is a comfortable pressure keeping me anchored to the couch. To reality. To whatever this thing between us has become.
Then, his phone rings.
Tony’s body goes rigid. He pulls out of me carefully but quickly, reaching for his pants pocket. When he sees the screen, something unreadable crosses his face.
“I have to take this,” he says.
“Now?” I scoff. “Right now?”
“I’m sorry. I’ll be quick.”
