“Armen,” I say. It comes out half plea, half question.
He pulls back, just enough to look at me. “You’re upset.”
“I want to fuck,” I say. “There’s a difference.”
His hands tighten on my hips, pulling me closer, letting me feel how hard he is, his thumb still circling my nipple. His other hand slides to the base of my spine, pressing me into him.
Then he lifts my shirt over my head, unhurried, folds it, and sets it on the arm of the couch on top of his book. He unclasps my bra, eases it off, and takes my breast in his mouth. His tongue is warm, slow, and thorough.
My head falls back. “Armen,” I say. “Please.”
“I’m getting there.”
“Get there faster.”
He looks up at me. Almost smiles. “No.”
God, this man. He’s going to kill me with his patience.
He lifts me off his lap, stands me up, and removes what’s left of my clothing. I’m naked in the Skylight Room with Armen fully clothed.
“You’re staring,” I say.
“Yup,” he says. “I am.”
He pulls his own shirt off, undoes his belt, and pushes his pants down. Then he reaches for me, pulling me back onto his lap.
“You ready?” he asks.
“Armen. I have been since I sat down on this couch.”
He guides me down onto his cock, slow, inch by inch, watching my face the entire time. When he’s all the way inside, I stop breathing for a second.
“Okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I murmur, grabbing his shoulders for purchase.
I start to move and he lets me set the pace at first. I ride him, feeling every inch, my forehead against his.
Then his grip tightens, one hand on my ass and the other tangled in my hair. He takes over, not rough but firm, pulling me down onto him harder, deeper, his rhythm steady and relentless.
“Right there,” I gasp. “Don’t stop.”
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
The combination of him inside me, filling me, his mouth on my throat, is perfect. I’m climbing toward something enormous.
“Armen. I’m going to?—”
“I know.” He pulls back to look at my face and even with his cock inside me, his eyes are calm. “Go ahead.”
So I do. Hard. An orgasm rolls through me in waves, my whole body vibrating around him, my fingers digging into his shoulders. He holds me through it, steady, not stopping until I’m writhing with pleasure.
Then he goes for it. His rhythm breaks, his hips driving up into me, his breath ragged against my ear. He comes with a low groan, his arms tightening around me, his face pressed into my shoulder.
We catch our breath, still connected, with my arms around his neck, his around my waist, breathing together. After a while, he eases me off him and settles me beside him. His arm around me, my head against his shoulder.
“So Sting read the papers,” I say into Armen’s shoulder.
