I push the jacket off his shoulders, and it drops to the floor with a soft shush. I lift the hem of his sweater, and he breaks our kiss long enough to oblige, pulling it up over his taut stomach and broad chest and off those insane shoulders. The view beneath is so spectacular that I don’t know what to focus on—the defined deltoids, pecs, or ridged abs dusted with a hairway that leads straight to heaven.
“Are you kidding me with this body?” I ask, smoothing my palms over his skin, feeling him flex under my touch.
“Guess the muscles do serve a purpose,” he says. “All the better to please you.”
His expression is ravenous as he takes my mouth once more. I barely register my own jacket being pushed off my shoulders, his tongue is doing such spectacular things to mine. Sparks ignite on my skin when his fingertips sneak beneath my shirt.
“Can I—” He swallows. “Undress you?”
“Yes,” I say, helping him with the buttons of my blouse. He watches, glassy-eyed, as I expose the skin underneath. He opens the lapels, guiding them over my shoulders and down my arms slowly, taking in every single movement.
Where I expect him to dive back in for another kiss, he surprises me by keeping an arm’s length of distance between us. My shirt now discarded, I’m standing before him in a sheer black bra, pencil-thin pants, and heels. He stands back, an incredulous look on his face as he takes in the sight of me.
“I don’t know if I’ll survive seeing you any less clothed than this.”
My lips quirk. “But what a way to go.”
I step out of my heels and unbutton my fly. I turn, peeling the pants over my ass, giving him the full view. My panties are sheer too, and his chest rises and falls heavily as I lean forward, pushing the pants down my legs before kicking them off. Rising back up, I arch my back to emphasize both my booty and my breasts, and the effect is palpable. The usual composure in his eyes vanquished by something reckless. Wild.
He’s done watching.
He advances on me, his kiss ferocious, frantic, like I’m stolen goods and he doesn’t know how long he’ll get to enjoy me before I’m repossessed. His hands are impatient, squeezing my ass none too gently, groaning, and my clit throbs in response. I practically climb him, gripping his shoulders, throwing my legs around hiswaist, and he holds me up, grinding his still-clothed erection into the notch between my legs. I’m impossibly turned on, circling my hips to get more friction there, to press his hardness right against my most sensitive spot. If I didn’t want to fuck him for real, I’d dry-hump him to death.
“Jesus, Ana,” he rasps. “Keep doing that and I’ll be done any second. I feel like I’ve been hard since you had your ass in my lap in that Uber in Seattle—I’m ready to blow.”
He walks us to the bed and lays me down as I reel from his words. Remembering that squishy rideshare, his clenched eyes, my hormone-induced dizziness. Knowing now how turned on he was heightens my own arousal.
He presses kisses to my mouth, my jaw, my neck, my sternum. He pauses at my chest, rising slightly to take in my puckered nipples, visible through the sheer fabric. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, leaning down to lick the nub through the fabric.
“Let me take off my bra—” I say, cut off by my own moan when his lips close around the stiff peak. The sensation causes a jolt of pleasure straight down to my core.
“I imagined what they’d look like,” he whispers against my skin as he moves across my chest, giving the other nipple the same attention. “Since Chicago, when you answered the door in that threadbare T-shirt with no bra underneath. Since Seattle, that tight goddamn camisole you sleep in. Couldn’t believe I got to see you that way.”
The memories assail me: the way his eyes shot away from me on both occasions. Learning he’s been dreaming of my tits all this time—maintaining that prim exterior for the sake of propriety while inside he burned for me—sends a fresh rush of wetness through my folds.
He leans back, kneeling between my splayed legs, looking down at me. I unclasp my bra, trailing it down my arms and throwing itaside. Keeping my eyes on his, needing to take in every nuance of his reaction, realizing just how much it’s contributing to the eroticism of this moment.
During hookups, I normally aim to take my own pleasure first and foremost. That’s kind of the whole point. But right now, watching his pleasure as he sees me nude for the first time, knowing we haven’t even gotten to the sex yet, seems to be rewriting a significant aspect of my sexual identity.
He stares. Takes his time tracing the lines of my body with his eyes. “You’re so beautiful,” he says, softly. “So fucking beautiful, Ana.”
He trails a finger down my torso, stopping briefly to gently pinch my nipple, causing me to clench around lamentable emptiness. He notices me squirming, and a gleam kindles in his eyes.
“Needy, are you?” he asks.
“Yes,” I breathe. “I’ve been hard up for days.”
He leans down, kisses the swell of my belly. “Days, huh,” he says sympathetically, trailing his tongue down my skin, kissing my open thighs. “Let me see what hard up looks like on you, baby.”
The gruffbabyon his voice, deeper than usual and thick with desire, threatens to undo me before he even hooks his fingers into my panties to pull them off, his eyes glued to that spot between my legs.
He leans forward, lashes fanning against his cheekbones as he inhales. “Jesus, fuck,” he groans, and presses a kiss to my clit—soft, tender, like it’s a precious thing worth cherishing. “I take it back. You are perfect. Everywhere.” I clench again and his eyes lose focus. “I’m going to take care of you. I hope you’re ready.”
“Please,” I whimper, senseless with need.
He swipes his tongue through my slit, a slow taste that draws a growl of appreciation from deep in his chest. He teases the lips of my sex for a few seconds, indulging in their feel, their flavor, before homing in on the sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex. Treatingit with precise, rhythmic flutters of his tongue. A gentle insistence that spreads bliss out in concentric circles from the center of my body to the tips of my extremities. Shimmering through my veins, my bones, my skin.
His attention is unwavering, consistent, only increasing in pressure and speed as the tension in my muscles builds. As if the movements of his mouth are directly governed by the responses of my body, connected by invisible marionette strings. Something inside me knows he won’t stop until he gets me there—and maybe not even then.
