Chapter 12
Aida
Years in the field have honed the skill of split-second decision making. Of assessing risk-reward. Right now is no different.
I shouldn’t be doing this. Not like this—not here, in a crowded club, before Callum and I have even worked out the parameters of this arrangement. Even through my fog of arousal, I know that much.
That said, I’ve been over-thinking this, spiralling about it, for months now, and I barely slept last night for worrying about how it would be with him. Whether he’d want it. Whether I’d freeze. Whether I’d be able to come up with the goods.
And here we are, and he’s hot as fuck, and he’s done a good job of convincing me he’s attracted to me. And I am so fucking turned on. I’m so close to coming up with the goods as he slides the ice cube up and down my inner thigh.
Up and down.
This is the perfect opportunity to push through the huge barrier I’ve erected in my head and just get back on that sex horse, for want of a better metaphor.
Besides, I want it. He’s gotten me all hot and bothered, and I’m ready to come. I need it.
‘Show me,’ I manage, and he lets out a low, rough noise in my ear that sounds like he’s struggling with his own levels of restraint.
‘That’s my girl,’ he groans. ‘Open wide for me. I know how badly you need it. Trust me—I’m gonna show you the tiniest glimpse of what I’ve got in store for you.’
I manoeuvre my legs as far apart as I can get them, tugging blindly at the tablecloth to ensure we’re still fully concealed. Callum’s kissing my neck, licking it, his beard a dangerously good combination of soft and scratchy. I arch my neck sideways to give him more room.
‘You smell incredible,’ he murmurs, sliding the melting ice cube up my inner thigh in a glacial trail.
He swirls it right at the top of my thigh, and I dig my fingers into his shoulder in anticipation, and then it’s right there.
Holy fuck—he’s swiping it through my centre, and the flash of cold through the ineffectual fabric of the thong I’ve already soaked through is like nothing else.
‘Holy shit,’ I say in a strangled voice, digging my fingernails into his shoulder.
‘If I thought I could get away with it, I’d get under that fucking tablecloth and tongue-fuck you with it, like he did,’ he tells me.
His tone is heated. Intentional. There is no doubt in my mind that he’d do it, too.
An image of Callum under the table, eating me, brands my brain, but it’s way too risky. Way too exhibitionist for my liking.
Besides, I need his huge body here, blocking me from these nice people enjoying their evening while I lose my fucking mind here on this bench.
Although—if he’s this good with his hands, imagine what the man can do with his tongue. My brain’s practically exploding just thinking of it.
He doesn’t seem to expect a response from me, which is good, because I’m out of practice where dirty talk is concerned.
Instead, he resumes his commentary as he uses his cold, slippery little toy to wreak havoc on my lady parts.
He hasn’t touched my clit with it yet, and it’s throbbing with need.
There’s no way I’m comfortable telling this guy what I need yet, but I’m confident he’ll get to it when he’s done teasing.
I already know for sure Callum Sinclair doesn’t leave women unsatisfied.
‘So, get this: my other mate is kissing her, and I’m playing with her tits,’ he continues.
He languidly rolls the ice cube over my swollen clit as he whispers in my ear, and I jolt at the freezing flash of pleasure, opening my legs even wider for him.
‘It’s so fucking full-on for her. Can you imagine, sweetheart?
We’re crawling all over her, and we’re so desperate to get closer, but we have to keep her underwear on so we don’t freak her out. ’
Out of sight of the rest of the patrons, he lets the hand on my neck trail back to my breast, flicking my taut nipple with his fingertip, and I groan as much at the pleasure of it as at his words.
His mouth moves, beard tickling, kissing a line along my jaw as he puts a finger to the side of my thong. ‘But you’re not scared, are you?’ he murmurs. ‘Because you’re a beautiful, carnal woman who knows what the fuck she needs. Right? Are you going to let me in?’
‘God—yes,’ I pant. He can have whatever he wants, because I’m gonna take as much as I can get from him. I’ll take whatever he’s offering—ice cubes. Fingers. The lot.
Then he’s hooking the scrap of fabric to one side, and it feels like he’s ditched the ice cube, because all I can sense are his ice-cold fingers, and god, are they better.
‘Fucking hell, sweetheart,’ he groans. ‘You are slippery as fuck for me. Bloody hell, you feel amazing.’
As does he. Those icy fingers slide and probe.
They part my soaking flesh, and I arch my back to give them as much access as possible.
Then he sinks two fingers deep inside me as his thumb finds my clit, and he practically detonates me like that.
Yeah, I’m slippery, like he said, but his fingers are calloused, and his strokes are deliberately rough, and the friction and the cold are such an excellent combination that I might shoot off this bench in pleasure.
I turn my head right as his mouth leaves my jaw to search for mine, and then he’s kissing me.
He’s kissing me hard, hand abandoning my breast so he can shove his fingers through my hair and grab roughly at my neck.
His tongue is just as decisive and probing as his fingers.
He tastes like the Old Fashioned he’s drinking, smoky and aromatic, and he may just be the best thing I’ve ever tasted.
I writhe in his arms, both my hands going to that thick, glorious hair of his as I hold him as close to me as I can.
And still, he works me. He ramps up the pace.
The pressure. The friction. I’m in a total state from his dirty storytelling, but in this moment I’m not thinking of that mystery virgin and her three admirers, because this reality I’ve found myself in is so fucking glorious that I wouldn’t be anywhere else.
God, I’ve missed this. I can’t recall a time I felt like this. I can’t recall it being so heady, so urgent, so carnal. Like I’ll die if this guy stops. Like I want him to swallow me whole.
I wish I were in a bed with him. I wish we were naked, and those epic fucking shoulders of his were bare, his biceps flexing as he ranged that huge body over me and fucked me into oblivion. His kisses are that of a man who’s desperate, and I wish I could undo him right here, like he’s undoing me.
Our teeth crash. Our lips slide. His tongue rampages, and I hang on for dear life.
His magical fingers thrust and rub and twist until I don’t know which way is up.
Until I don’t know my own name, conscious only of my orgasm building in me like the sweetest swell of heat.
He seems to tell I’m close—probably because I’m pushing against his fingers and moaning into his sinful mouth—because he kisses harder. Rubs harder. Thrusts harder.
As he holds my head in a vice and tongue-fucks me like an animal, the heat grows molten, and I break. I come shockingly hard, violently even, bucking against the protective shield of his body and grinding my greedy pussy against his fingers to take every last drop.
And he kisses me through it all.