We stood there in silence, wrapped around each other.
“Tell me something,” I whispered.
“Anything.”
“Tell me this is real. That all the chaos out there doesn’t touch what’s in here.” I pressed a hand over his heart.
He didn’t answer with words.
His mouth found mine. A silent, desperate answer to every unspoken fear. His lips were firm and demanding, and I opened for him instantly, a moan trapped in my throat as his tongue swept in. The taste of him flooded my senses.
His hands framed my face, thumbs stroking my cheekbones, holding me in place as he kissed me like he was trying to memorize the shape of my mouth.
The blanket slipped from my shoulders, dropping to the concrete.
He broke the kiss only to trail his mouth along my jaw, down the column of my throat. His teeth grazed my pulse point, sending electricity straight to my core.
“Owen,” I gasped, fingers tangling in his hoodie.
In one fluid motion, he bent and lifted me, my arms instinctively looping around his neck as he carried me through the sliding glass door into the warmth of the apartment.
His mouth found mine again.
The world blurred, and my heart hammered a frantic counter-rhythm to his steady, sure steps.
He didn’t take me to the bedroom.
He carried me to the dining room, setting me on the edge of the solid oak table. His hands slid down my arms to grasp my wrists.
“Off,” he said. “Now.”
It wasn’t a request, and the authority in it sent fresh heat pooling low in my belly. My fingers fumbled with the hem of my sweater, but he was faster. He grabbed the fabric and pulled it over my head. My bra followed seconds later.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he breathed.
His own clothes hit the floor. Then his hands were at my waistband, peeling away the rest. I lifted my hips to help. He knelt, pulling my panties over my feet, discarding everything. I was completely bare on the table.
He dropped to his knees between my thighs, his hands running up my calves, over my knees, settling on the inside of my thighs. His touch was firm. Possessive as he spread me wider for him.
“Look at you,” he murmured. “All for me.”
He leaned forward, and the heat of his breath hit me first, a teasing promise against my aching flesh. My hips jerked involuntarily, seeking contact.
He denied me. Nuzzled, nose brushing through soft skin, inhaling deeply. “You smell like you’re mine,” he growled. Then his tongue touched me.
Not a tentative flick, but a long, slow stroke from my entrance to my clit. My back arched off the table, a broken crytearing from my throat. The sensation was blinding. He did it again, lapping at me like I was the only thing he’d ever needed to taste.
“Owen…”
He hummed against me, the vibration shooting sparks through me. His tongue circled my clit, firm and insistent, then dipped lower to delve inside me before returning to that aching, swollen nub.
One hand remained splayed on my inner thigh, holding me open. The other came up, fingers sliding through my wetness before two pushed inside. I cried out, hips bucking against his hand and mouth. The penetration of his fingers, curling just right, and the relentless friction of his tongue.
“You taste so fucking good,” he muttered against my flesh, his words muffled and hot. “So sweet. I could do this for hours.”
He punctuated the statement by sucking my clit into his mouth, applying pressure that had my toes curling, my fingers scrambling to grip the tabletop. His fingers pumped in and out, matching the pace of his mouth.
The coil inside me tightened, a spring wound to its absolute limit. Pleasure radiated from my core, a burning, tingling wave that consumed every thought. There was only this: the sound of his hungry mouth on me, the feel of his fingers filling me, the sight of his head between my thighs.
