My hands find the hem of my shirt on her body and I slide them underneath. Her skin is warm. Smooth under my palms,the curve of her waist, the ridge of her ribs, the soft plane of her stomach that tenses under my touch. She inhales. Sharp. I stop.
"Don't stop," she says. "That wasn't a bad sound."
I drag my hands higher. She lifts her arms and I pull the shirt over her head and she's bare underneath, no bra, just skin and the dark room and the silver light from the window painting lines across her body.
She's beautiful. Not in the polished, constructed way I've been seeing for six days. In the raw way. The real way. The way that makes my chest ache and my hands shake and my brain go quiet for the first time in longer than I can remember.
I put my mouth on her collarbone. She tips her head back. A sound escapes her, low and open, and I chase it with my tongue. Down her throat. Across the ridge of bone. The hollow between her breasts where her heart is hammering fast enough that I can feel it against my lips.
Her hands pull at my shirt. I lean back enough to strip it off and she looks at me the way I looked at her. Taking inventory. Not the cold kind. The hungry kind. Her fingers trace the tattoo on my forearm, then move up to my shoulder, across the scar from a knife fight four years ago, down to my chest.
"You're warm," she murmurs, like she's surprised by it.
"What did you expect?"
"I don't know. Something colder."
I almost laugh. "I've been told."
She puts her mouth on the scar on my shoulder. A kiss. Soft. Precise. Like she's mapping the history of my body with her lips. She moves to the next scar, the one on my ribs from a bullet graze, and kisses that too, and the tenderness of it is so at odds with everything we are that it makes my throat close up.
I pull her into my lap. She comes, straddling me, knees on either side of my hips. The contact is immediate and devastating. Her pussy against my cock, nothing between us but her underwear and my boxers, and when she shifts her weight and presses down I grunt and grip her hips hard enough to bruise.
"Sorry," I manage.
"Don't apologize." She rolls her hips. Deliberate. My vision goes white at the edges. "I want to feel you."
I kiss her. Deep. My tongue in her mouth and my hands on her ass and her hips moving against me in a rhythm that's going to kill me if she doesn't stop. She doesn't stop. She grinds against me with a focused intensity that I recognize because it's mine, it's the same single-minded precision I bring to everything, and feeling it reflected back at me through her body is the most disorienting thing I've ever experienced.
My mouth finds her breast. She gasps when I close my lips around her nipple, her fingers tightening in my hair, her backarching into me. I suck, and she moans, and the sound goes straight to my cock. I switch to the other side, tongue circling, teeth grazing, and her hips jerk against me.
"Claudio." My name in her mouth sounds like a different word. Something sacred. Something profane. "I need more."
I flip her onto her back. Not rough. Controlled, my hand behind her head so she doesn't hit the headboard. She lands on the pillows and I'm over her, and her legs wrap around my waist and pull me down against her.
I kiss down her body. Throat. Chest. The space between her ribs where I can feel every breath she takes. Her stomach, where the muscles flutter under my mouth. The jut of her hip bone. The edge of her underwear, plain black cotton, nothing fancy.
I look up at her. She's propped on her elbows, watching me. Her hair is wrecked and her lips are swollen and her chest is flushed and she's watching me with those blue eyes that see everything, and I need her to see this.
"I want to taste you," I say.
"Fuck. Yes. God, please."
I pull her underwear down her legs and she lets me. I settle between her thighs and put my mouth on her, and the sound she makes is worth every sleepless night, every cold motel, every mile of highway that led to this room.
She's wet. Soaked. I lick through her lips with the flat of my tongue, and her hips buck off the bed, and her hand finds my hair and grips. I find her clit and circle it, slow, learning the pressure she needs, the rhythm that makes her thighs clench against my ears. I slide two fingers inside her and she clenches around them, tight and hot, and the noise she makes is somewhere between a curse and a prayer.
"Fuck." Her voice is raspy. "Right there. Don't stop."
That didn’t even cross my mind. A smirk spreads over my face as I work her with my mouth and my fingers as her eyes flutter shut. But mine are wide open. Watching. The way her brow furrows. The way her lips part. The way her composure dismantles piece by piece until there's nothing left but the woman underneath, gasping and shaking and gripping my hair like I'm the only thing keeping her from flying apart.
She comes with my name on her lips. Not a scream. A whisper. Broken and breathless and so quiet I almost miss it. Her body arches off the bed and her thighs clamp against my head and I feel every pulse of her orgasm against my tongue, and I lick her through it until she pushes my head away with a trembling hand.
I crawl back up her body. She's shaking, flushed, breathing hard. Her eyes are glazed and her hair is everywhere and she looks absolutely wrecked and pride rips through me. I did that. I put that expression on her face.
"Hi," she says. Drunk on it. Dazed.
"Hi."
