“But it won’t be because of your abs.”
“Is that why you keep staring at them?” I was undoing her jeans now, sliding a hand into her knickers.
“I don’t keep staring at them.” She managed to look at my eyes.
“Okay. You keep telling yourself that.” I started to remove my hands.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
I stepped back and folded my arms. “I’m not carrying on until you admit that you like my abs. I’ve worked hard for these – they deserve more recognition than you pretending not to stare at them.”
She kept her chin up. Her jeans were still undone and her breathing was heavy. I knew that before we slept together in Iceland she hadn’t been with anyone for months. I figured – maybe hoped and I’d analyse that later – that she hadn’t since.
“You don’t want me to walk out of here anymore than I do…” Her finger pointed at my dick.
“I’ll just jerk off in the shower and remember what your tits looked like and how they bounced when I fucked you hard.” I gave her my smuggest smile.
“And I’ll go home and think about anyone other than you and get myself off.”
I didn’t like that.
Four steps and my hands were on the back of the door either side of her. “We’re meant to be getting married.”
I lifted her left hand, the obscene diamond glinting on her ring finger.
“Doesn’t mean I can’t picture other men that aren’t you.” Her finger prodded me again in pretty much the same place.
“If you think you’re going to be lying next to me in a bed thinking about what another man can do to your body, you need to think again.” I caught her hand.
Her eyes blazed, her lips parted. She didn’t try to pull her hand away.
“That isn’t in our contract.”
“Doesn’t need to be.” I ended my sentence with my mouth on hers, or her mouth on mine – I had no clue who got there first because it didn’t matter.
Somewhere on the way back to the bedroom her jeans came off, my sweats were discarded, there would later be the discovery of her bra over the back of my sofa and we would never find her knickers.
We did find my mattress again and this time there was no critique of how untidy the room was. There were nails on my skin, my teeth nipping her flesh. I pressed two then three fingers into her, hearing her keen, holding back from letting baser instincts take over.
This woman riled me. She made me feel something I couldn’t control. Something I wasn’t sure I wanted to control.
I sucked on her nipple, rough and hard, her hand pulling my hair and her heels starting to kick into my back.
There was tussling, biting, whispers of dirty promises and then somehow she was on me and I was inside her, watching her bounce on my cock, one hand on her hip, the other playing with her tits. Her head tipped back and I felt her tighten around my shaft, my own hips thrusting.
Somehow, amid the desperation, we managed to find a rhythm. I turned us so she was on her back, pushing her legs wider, fucking her deeper and slower until her orgasm hit and she shouted my name.
It sounded like music to my fucking ears.
Then I lost it, seeking my own release which was within touching distance. When I came I lost my sight. The world died for a second and the only thing left in my universe was Sophie.
We lay on the bed, my cock still buried in her, my arms now round her. Face to face, her tits pressed against my chest, her leg over my hip as if she wanted to keep me there.
“Is this us pretending what it’s like to be engaged? You know, just trying to make it believable?” Her words were soft, her eyelids heavy. I figured Sophie Slater liked to sleep after a good fuck.
“That’s exactly what it is.” I kissed her forehead.
* * *
