Not tentative. Not testing. Full fucking tilt.
I make a sound I don’t recognise, something raw. Because Christ… She’s on me like she’s been dying to do this as badly as I have.
And I have it bad for her.
She twists her fingers in the fabric and yanks me closer. Not bossy – needy. Her mouth is hot, parted, eager, and when her tongue brushes mine, something inside me breaks. Another low, guttural sound rips out. Me or her? Don’t know. Don’t care.
I dig my fingers into her hips, and I feel it. Her gasp, the way her body tenses and yields in the same sharp second. I’m already so hard it’s painful. My balls are drawn up tight, heavy with that aching build of pressure that’s only got one way out.
She tastes like salt and gin, but it’s the fire of her that’s got me fucking gone. Her mouth’s soft and open, head angling just right. She’s rising onto her toes, pressing in hard, closing every last inch between us. Like she knows exactly how hard I am for her.
Like sheneedsto feel it.
I drag my hands down from her waist, greedy for the shape of her thighs, the burn where her dress has hitched up. My grip tightens as I haul her into me, back bumping the door with a muffled thud – and that sigh… That fucking sigh. It strikes down my spine like a match.
I need more. More Charlie. I deepen the kiss and swallow the sounds she makes when I take what she’s giving.
Goddammit.
I’ve kissed a lot of women.
But never like this.
Never like her.
Blood pounds thick and insistent. If I don’t stop this, if I don’t stop her, I’ll end up dry-humping her like some desperate fucker who can’t control himself. Could already be happening – because she tilts her hips against mine and a white-hot rush lances straight through me.
‘Yes, Brodie. Yes, yes!’ she hitches out between kisses.
I groan into her mouth. Because it’s not enough. The friction of her core against mine isn’t enough. The grip I have on her isn’t enough. Not when she’s clinging to me like that, tugging my shirt, dragging me closer.
It’s all fucking not enough.
I could come from this, clothes on and all. From her mouth on mine, from the way she grinds as if she owns every pulse in my cock. As if she already knows I’d let her have it. All of it. Everything.
She lets her fingers slip from my shirt and trails them down. ‘Brodie. Touch me. Here…right here…’
And before I can think, before I can fuckingbreathe, she grabs my wrist and tugs my hand between her thighs.
My brain flatlines. Static. White noise.
Heat. Heat so scalding it punches the air from my lungs. My fingers skim the soft stretch of… Not tights. A lace band. Bare skin above it. Nothing underneath. And my cock jerks so hard it hurts.
‘Stockings, Charlie? My fucking god.’
She shifts, pushes my palm harder against her, and fuck, fuck, fuck – she’s so soaked it’s insane. The damp lace has turned to nothing. Does fuck all to hide how badly she wants me. I feel everything. The frantic throb under my fingertips. The lush swell of her sex, and I can’t help it, my fingers slip past the seam, once, enough to feel how…
I press. Just a little. Just to see.
A tremor pulses against my fingers. And the sound she makes? I’m a dead man.
It’s not a moan, not yet. A whimper, a sharp little inhale. As if she wasn’t ready for how good it felt.
And I wasn’t ready for what it does to me.
No.
Fuck.
