“Feels so good.” His molasses voice slid over her, dark and sweet, and she nearly lost it. They were the three sexiest words she’d ever heard. She wanted to take them and bottle them and spread them all over herself, writhe in the sensation they gave. His loss of control was a drug.
“It looks good, Ivan.” This couldn’t be Uma talking. She was no femme fatale. “You’re beautiful.” His head jolted up at her words, with a little scoffing sound. “Youare.”
She leaned back on his bed, raking her eyes down to her own filthy peep show, then back up, dying to see his face when he came. Ivan the Viking warrior, above her, pretending to take her, using himself. The rhythm took over, and Uma imagined his ass hardening with each thrust. Her own hips writhed slightly, trying without success to gain some sort of friction on the bed. She could have reached down, but touching herself could wait until she was alone in bed. She wanted to be present for this. Every detail needed to be imprinted on her brain, available for playback at her leisure.
She startled them both by moaning. His eyes popped open to meet hers. It wasn’t clear which did it, Uma’s moan or meeting her eyes, but something in him snapped. His hand moved faster, gripping himself so tightly that it had to hurt. That sound of skin on skin, with the occasional slick, sliding noise, was absolutely filthy.
“Oh, fuck, Uma.”
Her eyes darted, face to cock and back, taking in every detail of this man losing it for her. His hands forgot to do the little twist at the top; his muscles bunched almost painfully; veins protruded along his thick forearms. He looked surprised when he came, on a quiet moan, eyes half-closed but still burning into hers. She looked away long enough to watch three long spurts fill his cupped palm.
There came a moment of stillness, rife with what they’d done. A harsh breath escaped when Uma finally remembered to let it out, and she croaked, “Come here.”
After wiping his hand on his discarded shorts, Ivan flopped onto the bed and lined himself up beside her and pulled her into a tangle of limbs, his naked and hers fully clothed. There was something almost sad about the contrast. She didn’t dare picture it with her clothes off—his pristine skin still looking naked beside hers, littered with ink.
He leaned over her, a sweet smile on his face, and said, “I want to kiss you again.” Asking permission, taking care in that way he had.
Uma couldn’t help but smile back at him, just a little.
His lips were full and soft, his kiss so sweet. And so intense. It started slow, then lost control. Even with a couple of jarring tooth clashes, it was the most passionate kiss Uma had ever had, deeper tonight with their new knowledge of one another.
Twice, he reached for the button on her jeans, and twice, she pushed him away.
They made out like that, mouths and hands and writhing bodies, for what seemed like forever, learning each other. First hungry, then deep and sweet, tapering off to gentle caresses, until she settled into his neck, and he eventually relaxed and fell asleep, half on top of her.
For a while, Uma enjoyed his weight and the silence. The fire had died down, leaving the workshop dark and cold, full of unfamiliar shapes.
Finally, she fretted. Again, that nasty habit: the worrying at night in bed. She’d managed to sleep in this bed before. She could do it again. Any reasonable person would pull the blanket up to her chin and snuggle in with the gorgeous man she’d made out with.
But not Uma. She had to tear it apart, piece by piece, worry at it and make it into something bad.
“What you doin’?” Ivan’s groggy voice broke in to interrupt her insane musings.
After a brief hesitation, she decided to be honest. “Fighting with myself.”
“What about?”
“Whether or not I should leave.”
He grunted and pushed up on an elbow, a dark shape above her. “Who’s winning?”
She smiled briefly. “Guilt. I shouldn’t have even come here tonight.”
“Why not?”
“It’s just not a good idea. I’m too…raw. You know?”
He didn’t answer right away, and Uma wondered if she’d hurt him a little. It never feels good when someone regrets what they’ve done with you, especially if they’re still right there in your bed.
“Well, you may think guilt’s winnin’, but from where I’m sittin’, you’re still here, lyin’ in my bed.” He flopped back down and pulled her with him, tucking her head onto his chest. “Only regret is that you won’t let me into those pants so I can return the favor.”
She laughed and pushed at the hand touching her waistband.
“What is it? You don’t like to be touched? ’S that it? Or’s there something you don’t want me to see?” Uma stiffened. “’S dark in here, Uma. You don’t even have to take ’em off. We’ll keep the jeans on, okay? Lights off, covers on?”
She didn’t say no, which was like a resounding yes. She could almost pretend not to notice what he was doing. Slowly, so slowly, he tugged open the button and pulled down the zipper. The jagged sound was muffled by the blankets. His hand slid into her pants, one inch at a time, giving her time to push him away.
It was quiet with her breath tightly reined. She didn’t hear him breathing either, but she could have sworn she heard the lazy, measured beating of his heart. They were waiting, listening to each other. Every tiny, wet, embarrassingly sloppy noise was loud in the vacuum created by their held breaths.
