“Hands above your head.”
I obeyed. She liked that. She dragged herself across my chest, leaned down, and bit the side of my neck—hard enough to bruise—before soothing the mark with a slow slide of her tongue that pulled an unplanned groan from me.
“You stay right there,” she murmured, her voice a low rasp against my skin. “You’re mine until I come; after that, you can finish anywhere but inside me. Deal?”
“Deal.”
She tore the condom packet open with her teeth, rolled it down with two efficient fingers—pausing once at the base towatch my stomach tighten—then reached down, lined me up, and dropped her hips in one long, slick motion.
Fuck.
Tight. Hot. So wet I could hear it. There was no time to adjust. Simply sharp, rolling thrusts, hips snapping forward. She set a punishing pace, the sound of her slick skin against mine cutting through the noise she made taking what she wanted. Her palms ground into my chest, nails dragging deliberate lines every time she bottomed out. When I bucked up into her without thinking, she dropped her full weight onto my hips and went completely still, holding me there, letting me feel exactly how close she was. “I said, ‘Stay still.’”
So I stayed still.
Her rhythm built—faster, harder—the bed frame knocking against the wall in a way that would have embarrassed me under other circumstances. She leaned forward, chasing something, adjusting until she found it—and when she did, she didn’t share it with me, just took it, her breath going sharp and irregular. Her hand dropped between us. I watched her face and couldn’t tell if she’d forgotten I was there or if that was exactly the point.
She started clenching around me in rhythmic pulses that nearly broke my discipline entirely.
“Fuck—don’t move—don’t youfuckingmove,”
I didn’t.
She came with a low, broken sound—shuddering through it in slow, grinding circles, her thighs trembling against my hips, fingers finding my shoulders and digging in as if she needed an anchor.
When the last pulse faded, she lifted off me, peeled the condom away, and wrapped her hand around me—still slick, still throbbing. Two firm strokes, then she took me into her mouth for three slow, deliberate pulls.
That was it.
I spilled over her tongue in thick, hot pulses, my whole body locking up. She swallowed unhurried, as if finishing a drink she’d ordered for herself. What she didn’t swallow, she let trace her chin, a slow, deliberate spill. She released me with one last lick, dragged flat across the head, that made my hips buck off the mattress. She sat back on her heels and surveyed her work with an expression that had nothing to do with me—the smile of someone tallying a private score.
The only sounds were my own ragged breathing and the rustle of denim as she stood to collect her clothes. I lay flat on my back, chest heaving, my skin tingling where her nails had scored me, the taste of copper sharp on my tongue.
“You’re not staying,” I said. Not really a question.
She glanced over her shoulder, already stepping into her skirt. “You thought I might?”
Fair.
She zipped her boots, checked her phone.
“Solid nine out of ten.” She wasn’t talking to me. “Would fuck again if I’m ever back in town.”
The door clicked shut behind her, and that was that.
I stared at the ceiling, pulse still thudding, and thought:
Yeah. Worth every second of the hangover.
* * *
I woke to the phone buzzing against the nightstand, head full of wet concrete, mouth a mixture whiskey and her. The sheets still carried the smell of sex and whatever she’d been wearing.
I grabbed the phone. Fiona’s name on the screen.
“Yeah?”
My jaw went slack the second I heard her.
