I listen to her more than my own head. When I nip at the curve where her neck meets her shoulder, she makes a sound that’s half curse, half plea, and tilts her head to give me more. When my hand slips under her waistband, and I pause—“Like this?”—she answers with a hard push of her hips into my palm.
I get her jeans open, fingers clumsy with need, and she lifts her hips so I can peel them and her panties down in one go. The stiff denim catches at her calves; I have to work it over her ankles while she wriggles her feet, laughing a little breathlessly as she helps. When I look back up from the tangle of fabric, there’s nothing between us anymore—just the soft golden hair of her pubic mound and, every time she shifts her legs, quick, devastating flashes of slick pink that make my mouth go dry.
When I finally get rid of the jeans, I spread her legs, gliding my palms up her calves and over the soft insides of her thighs, opening her slowly. She lets her head fall back and moans aloud, trying to spread her legs faster, but I keep my hands firm on her,holding her in place. I force myself to take my time and enjoy the view as her slick, glazed pussy opens up for me inch by inch.
“That is a view to die for, Golden Girl,” I murmur and glide my hands up, my fingers slowly reaching for their prey. She’s lying on her back now, legs spread wide, hips rolling with helpless, needy circles.
When I slide one finger into her, her hips raise to meet my palm. I don’t need to move my finger, she grinds at my palm shamelessly. Her animal wildness is addictive. It’s the gondola all over again, like I’m the chance of a lifetime she’s decided to take. Of course, she’s not the first woman to treat me like a once-in-a-lifetime experience, as ridiculous as it sounds. But the other girls’ wildness usually ends when we leave the bar; they turn into pretense and performance when the bedroom door shuts. Not her, she’s all in, in sex, and probably in life. At least now.
I slide my finger out and enjoy the way her hips follow the movement. She reaches for me, but I catch her hand, kissing her palm.
“I hope you’re not so impatient when racing,” I grin and reach over the bed for a condom package on the nightstand. I toss the package to her so that I can work on my jeans and boxers. She rips it with her teeth, eye-fucking my body the whole time. When my dick springs free, she sits up to roll the condom over my length. I let her greedy hands guide me between her legs.
When I finally push into her, she sucks in a breath, eyes flying open. I still, for a second, every muscle straining.
“Is this what you want?” I ask, my voice hoarse, spreading her legs lightly so I can push even deeper.
“Fuck me, Fabio,” she purrs, eyes closed again, chasing the friction with her wriggling hips.
I obey. Slow at first, finding the rhythm her body wants. Her hands slide up my back, nails digging in when I hit the angle that makes her gasp.
“Fuck,” she breathes, in German, then loses the rest of the sentence in Czech. It spills out of her in a rush—syllables I don’t catch, just feel—and she clamps around me hard enough that I have to grit my teeth.
“Again,” I say, hips stuttering. “Say that again.”
“Hloub,” she groans, half laugh, half moan. “You don’t even know what it means.”
“I know what it does,” I say, driving in a little deeper. Her head thumps back against the pillow, braid sliding loose on the sheet. She keeps her eyes on mine, wide and dark and open. It undoes me more than anything she could do with her hands.
“Fabio,” she says, and from the way her walls close around my shaft, I know she’s close. The sound of my name hits like a fist to the solar plexus. My grip on her hip tightens; she just pulls me in harder.
“Look at me,” I say, and she does.
She comes with her fingers buried in my shoulder, a sharp, ripped-out sound that has nothing to do with being pretty and everything to do with being real. I feel it all the way through her, the way her whole body locks and then lets go, trusting me to hold the weight. That’s what finally drags me over the edge after her, hips jerking, forehead pressed to hers, breath punched out of my lungs.
We collapse into each other and the mess we’ve made of the bed—sheets twisted, one pillow on the floor, my knee hanging half off the mattress. For a while, all I can hear is our breathing and the faint creak of the bed protesting its life choices.
“Still think Pec would break me?” I ask eventually, voice rough, not moving.
She huffs against my chest. “It might,” she says. “But I’d enjoy watching.”
I chuckle, the sound rumbling under her ear. She doesn’t roll away. She just shifts enough to tuck herself more firmly against my side, leg thrown over mine, hand resting warm and open on my ribs like it claims them. I slide my arm around her, pull her in until there’s no polite distance left, and with my free hand, smooth a damp strand of golden hair back behind her ear.
She sighs, a small, honest sound, and lets her full weight sink into me. The room feels very small and very full, and for once I don’t want to be anywhere else.
***
She’s still lying half on me, tracing little nothings on my skin like the pattern hypnotizes her. For a while, it’s easy—just warmth and quiet, her breathing flattened against my chest. But then I feel it. The shift. Her body stiffens the tiniest bit, the one that always comes right before she starts building distance again.
“Don’t start,” I say, before I can stop myself.
Her fingers pause. “Start what?”
“Talk like you’re something people can just… pick up and put down.”
She stiffens more. “Well, that’s what this is, isn’t it? I’m not pretending it’s anything else.”
There it is—the wall, built fast and defensive. I let out a slow breath and stare up at the ceiling. “You say that like it’s a point of pride.”
