Her lips part like she’s about to say something, but I silence her with my mouth. She’s talked enough.
This kiss is slower, deeper. The kind that doesn’t ask permission and tells her exactly what’s coming. Her hands slide up my arms, nails scraping lightly over skin, sending sparks straight down my spine. I catch her wrists mid-movement and pin them above her head with one hand.
Her breath stutters. “Oh.”
That single sound does things to me. Things I haven’t felt in a long time. I lift her easily, setting her on the low ledge beside the wall. Her legs fall open around me without hesitation, heels digging into my hips as if she’s already decided where this is going. She’s responsive, eager, and so open it borders on reckless.
I let her feel my need for her between her knees before I touch her again. She swallows hard, eyes dark.
My hands wander under her blouse, and I pull her bra down to free her breasts. They are warm, soft, and enticing, fitting into my rough hands perfectly. She moans when I flick my thumbs against her nipples, arching her back to my touch.
I step further in between her legs, her skirt bunching up further around her waist, exposing her bare thighs to the cold wind. She might as well not feel it as she wraps her legs around my waist, bringing me closer, my dick rubbing against her. She moans atthe contact as I lower one of my hands to push her panties to the side and feel her.
“Fuck.”
She gasps, eyes wide, and I realize that’s the first word I’ve uttered to her all night. She’s dripping wet, and when I slide a finger into her pussy, her tight walls welcome me deeper.
Fucking a beautiful, strange woman out in the cold, on an airport rooftop bar, is the last thing I should be doing, but she’s too delectable to resist.
Making quick work of the button on my pants, she frees my raging hard-on, wrapping her hands around me, pumping me a couple of times.
“Fuck, that feels good,” I groan, lowering my head to her neck and bite, leaving a mark.
She swipes her thumb over the mushroomed head, and I nearly blow my load. “Stop,” I demand, needing to be in her.
Replacing her hand with mine, I align myself with her and look into her eyes for permission. She nods, and that’s all I need.
Pushing my hips forward, I sink into her till I’m buried to the hilt—not a single space left between us.
“Fuck, you’re big,” she mewls, letting out a long moan, her lips finding mine.
I smirk as I kiss her deeper, letting her adjust for a moment before I start moving. It’s slow, since there is no rush; the whole city is loud beneath us, but muffled since all I can hear are her moans. I move with purpose, barely holding control, the sound she makes cutting straight through whatever defenses I thought I had left.
She meets me stroke for stroke, nails biting into my shoulders, mouth open in silent sound as LA watches from below without knowing a thing.
I guide her through it, setting the pace, keeping her right on the edge of losing control without letting her fall over it until I decide. She clings to me, breath broken, whispering half-formed things into my shoulder that I don’t answer.
I don’t need to.
The cold night air contrasts sharply with the heat between us, the urgency building fast and unfiltered.
My hands find her breasts once more as I play with her nipples under her blouse. My touch is slow and controlled enough to make her gasp, but fast enough to make her impatient. I learn her reactions quickly—what makes her arch, what makes her whimper, what makes her go still because it’s too much all at once.
I move with the same discipline I use everywhere else—steady, intentional, and fully present—watching her come undone pieceby piece beneath my hands, beneath my mouth, beneath the weight of my attention.
When she finally breaks, it’s with her fingers digging into my shoulders, her body trembling against mine, breath coming apart in short, desperate gasps.
I follow not long after, restraint snapping cleanly, my grip tightening as I bury my face against her neck to keep quiet.
3
KATHERINE
Today, the elevator ride up feels longer than it should. I slump against the mirrored wall, forehead resting against cool glass, eyes squeezed shut as the numbers crawl upward one by one. Each stop sends a fresh wave of nausea rolling through me, my stomach pitching hard enough that I have to brace my hand against the rail to steady myself.
This is what I get for indulging in one reckless night—one too many drinks, one silent, dark-eyed man who kissed like he knew exactly what he was doing and had no intention of apologizing for it.
I swallow hard and breathe through my nose, like I’m talking myself down from a ledge instead of trying not to throw up inan elevator full of coworkers. The doors slide open on the tenth floor, my stomach drops, and I actually gag.
