She gives me a look that says I’m insufferable, and I want to kiss that look right off her face.
Instead, I reach behind her, unhook the bra, and pull it away.
Her breasts spill into my hands warm and soft and absolutely perfect, and for a second I just look at her. The way her skin glows in the low suite light. The way her nipples tighten under my gaze. The way her breathing goes shallow when she realizes I’m not touching her yet.
“Don’t just stare,” she says, mortified and aroused in equal measure.
I grin despite myself. “You want my mouth?”
“Yes.”
So I give it to her.
I cup one breast and lower my head, licking a slow circle around her nipple before closing my mouth over it. She cries out, head falling back, hands flying to my shoulders as I suck hard enough to make her hips jerk.
“Fuck,” she whispers.
I switch to the other breast, giving it the same attention, tonguing, sucking, biting lightly until she’s panting and writhingunder me, her fingers digging into my skin like she doesn’t know what to do with how much she’s feeling.
Every sound she makes goes straight to my cock.
Every twitch of her body makes me harder.
I drag my mouth back up her chest to her throat, kissing and licking the flushed skin there while my hands move lower, pushing the dress down over her hips until it catches.
She lifts just enough for me to strip it the rest of the way off.
Now she’s in nothing but a scrap of lace at her thighs and those stockings that should be illegal.
I sit back on my heels for one second and just look at her.
She’s breathing hard, hair mussed, lips swollen, nipples pink from my mouth, and she’s looking at me like she wants to devour me whole.
It nearly finishes me.
“You are staring again,” she says, voice shaky.
“Because I like what I see.”
My hand slides up her thigh, over stocking and skin, inch by inch. She parts her legs for me without having to be asked, and that small surrender is hotter than almost anything.
I kiss her again while my fingers move between her thighs, finding the damp lace there.
“So wet,” I murmur into her mouth.
She bites my lower lip. “Your fault.”
“Yes,” I say, and push the lace aside just enough to feel her directly. “It is.”
She jolts, a moan tearing out of her as my fingers stroke through her slick heat.
I swallow the sound with my mouth.
The kiss turns messy, desperate. She’s tugging at my belt now, my trousers, trying to get me out of as many clothes as she can reach while I work her open with my hand.
Her frustration is beautiful. Her need is worse.
When I press two fingers inside her, she breaks the kiss and cries out against my throat, body arching hard into my hand. I curse under my breath and pump slowly, then harder, kissing her neck, her mouth, her tits again, unable to decide where I want to taste her most.
