34. Cliff
Chapter 34
Cliff
H er lips part as she stares at me like I’m a stranger.
“Why would you say that?” she whispers.
I might be offended if I were a lesser man.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
I cup her cheek in my palm, and she leans into it.
The corner of her lips tilts up, and I return the lazy smile, bending down to press my lips against hers. I can feel her smile widening against my lips as she winds her arms up my shoulders to tie around my neck.
“I like you,” I murmur against her mouth.
She moans into it.
My hands roam over the waist of her velvet dress, up her spine, over her shoulders, holding her closer—as close as she can get. I’ve touched Michelle in quiet ways for weeks, little bumps or strokes along her knee and forearm, but the freedom to touch wherever I like is like carrying heaven in my palms.
And to be touched by her—to have her slender hands trail up my neck and dip into my hair—is all-consuming. The gentle thumb strokes over my temples, the way her lips open for me to sink my tongue into, the little breathy moans when I glide my palms back to her ribs …
I walk us backward. The back of my knees bump against the couch arm. I perch against it and tug her hips between my knees, my hand dipping down to palm the plump curve under her tight dress with my other resting behind her head.
I could kiss her forever. I could spend hours tasting her until our lips were sore. But I’d be lying if I said that’s all I want. I want her .
I try to push off the couch—to carry her to my bedroom—but we only walk a couple of steps before she pushes me backward. I topple, off-balance, landing on the couch cushions with her standing over me.
I’m stunned, pressing into the cushions as I look up at the woman before me. She’s so proper with her black tights and Mary Janes and that emerald dress, hugging her hips and hanging off her shoulders. She’s a gorgeous city girl, dressed more for a New Year’s party than being here in my living room with a quilt draped over the couch and photos of my family hanging on the walls. We’re from entirely different worlds, but she’s here. With me.
Michelle slowly climbs on top of me, straddling her knees on either side of my thighs. The skirt of her dress rises up, exposing the outline of her thong beneath sheer tights.
I run my palms over her legs, gripping tighter, rippling the fabric against my fingers as my thumb finds the crease of her hip. I trace along the deep line between her legs and the hem of her underwear.
She cups the back of my head and presses her hips down, grinding against my strained zipper. My head falls back against the couch headrest, but I keep my eyes locked on her. I’m breathing so heavily. I slip my thumb under her skirt, touching the warm, pulsing area in the center of her, only separated by her sheer black tights.
Her lips part, a small breath leaving her as I rub my thumb in a circle. My other palm holds her hip, coaxing her to roll over the hard length of me again, and she gifts me with a near-imperceptible whine.
The corner of my lips quirks into a smile, and very subtly, so does hers.
She dips her finger into the loop of my belt, slipping it through its hold and tugging to unhook it. The rattle of the buckle echoes through the quiet room, clanging as she guides the leather through.
I’ve wanted this for so long. Maybe as long as I’ve known her—as far back as noticing the absence of that ring on her fourth finger. Or maybe the first time our eyes crashed together back in Seattle.
I manage a half laugh at the thought and shake my head.
“God, I’d like to rip your beautiful clothes off.”
She gives me the most wicked grin. All for me.
“Would you?” she asks, half inquiry, half challenge.
“Would I?” I mock, bending up to kiss between her breasts, biting the velvet between my teeth and pulling the neckline of her dress lower.
I raise my eyebrows at her, peering up through my lashes. A breathy exhale leaves her. I place my thumb into the crease of her thighs, finding a taut section of the tights and tugging it toward me. It only takes a moment for the fabric to stretch, rip, and allow my finger through to the other side. She gasps.
“I would have double-checked whether you wanted to lose these, but …” My words trail off as I dip a few fingers into the new rip and tug, threads snapping and unstitching as the center of her tights are torn apart under my palm. “I’ll buy you more.”
Through the open rip is dark red satin. I murmur her name under my breath.
“Michelle, Michelle, Michelle …” I repeat low, as if I’m admonishing her for being so indiscreet.
My knuckles greedily trace along the lacy hem as she fiddles her fingers into the button of my jeans, sliding it through the slit, then tugging down my zipper. I’m practically busting through my boxers when she runs her beautifully painted nails over the outside of the fabric. They’re a mossy green today, and I want to see them everywhere.
My body tenses when she slides her hand into the slit of my boxers. My breath catches. I’ve never slept with anyone except Tracy, and the fact that I’m nervous at all is so ridiculous. I let out an exasperated laugh.
As if reading my mind, Michelle whispers, “Cliff.”
My head jerks up to meet her gaze.
Her stare feels like being dunked into warm water after so long in the cold. My nerves are almost shocked before melting, dissipating down my chest and to my hands. My palm winds up her neck and behind her head, burying my fingers into her hair.
I tuck my opposite thumb around the fabric of her underwear, tugging it to the side and tracing my middle finger along the outside of her. She’s warm. So wet already, practically dripping down my knuckles.
It’s been so long since I’ve made a woman come. I want it so bad that I can taste it. I want Michelle so bad that it hurts. I slowly curl two fingers inside her as her head falls back. The column of her neck is gorgeous against the dim light. A silhouette of beauty in the palm of my hand.
I pump my fingers inside, searching for every exhale, every tense movement, every piece of her she’ll allow me. And she grants me so many.
Her throat bobs in a swallow. Her knees on either side of me shake. She lifts up and rises down, grinding on my fingers, pushing down as I pulse in. I twist my thumb to trace over the outside of her, and she bucks against it, pulling her lower lip in.
She’s so close. I can feel her tightening, and, God, I want to watch. She’s quiet, whining through it all. Too quiet, but that’s a problem for later. With a hitched breath, her thighs tense around me, her palm grips my shoulder, and I can see her eyebrows pinch in the middle as her mouth opens as she releases.
Her chest is rising and falling. Her mouth, open wide and exhaling. When her eyes meet mine, I try to exist with her, stuck in space with her. Floating in her orgasm as long as she needs.
Steadily, shakily, she reaches out to pull down my boxers, releasing my already-weeping cock to bob against my thigh. I scoot up the couch. She rises onto her knees again, tremors running through each movement. I grip myself and position the tip directly against her, rubbing a line over her smooth center.
It’s sensuous. It’s hesitant.
“I haven’t been with anyone since Allen,” she says quietly.
My eyes shift up as a heavy breath leaves me. Our gazes catch.
“I’ve only been with Trace.”
“Then, don’t do something you think you’ll regret,” she whispers.
I shake my head with a crooked grin. “Oh, I wouldn’t regret this, Michelle.”
Her beautiful lips tip into a smile. “Me neither.”
On a single synchronous inhale, I sink into her.
It’s hard to explain the way my body tightens under her, how the rush of sensitivity tickles over my cock as she slides over me. It’s hard to explain how perfect we are together. She can’t take all of me at first, but it is so sweet as I watch myself slowly disappear inch by inch with each gradual thrust.
Her hands hold my biceps as our hips finally touch. I reach up to trace my thumb over her jaw. I can’t help but admire her. And for some reason I don’t deserve, she’s looking down at me in the same way, trailing her palms over my neck and down to my chest.
Then, we move. It’s slow at first. She’s pushing up on her knees, and I’m gripping her waist, slowly pumping up into her. But it’s also automatic, like we’re practiced. Like we’ve been doing this together for so long already. Maybe in a way, we have. I know she likes it when I touch her neck. She knows I like it when she strokes my arm. We haven’t been this sexually intimate, but, God, don’t we know each other just as personally?
We work into a rhythm. I hold her hips. She uses my chest as leverage. And I’m watching her fall onto me over and over.
I run my palms up her spine, around her ribs, over her stomach. In the area between her breasts, the arch of her shoulders, stroking my fingertips in the dip of her collarbone. I can’t get enough of her. I want to touch every curve of her body, hear every glorious sigh, and taste the amber perfume on her neck.
She bounces up and down. I grip her jaw between my hands and pull her down to kiss me again. She bites my bottom lip, and I groan against her, sliding down her sleeve and bra strap and tugging at the neckline until her breast is exposed, at mouth level so that I can break our kiss and take her nipple into my mouth. She sighs above me. Her breath catches if I run my tongue over it. It’s a whine if I nip it.
I roll my thumb at the area above where our hips meet, finding the one spot that has her breath instantly hitching. She’s so quiet. I don’t want that.
“Moan for me,” I command.
She blinks down at me. “Wh-what?”
“I want to hear you.”
“Why?”
I chuckle. “Because you’re stunning when you sigh. And I want to know those sweet noises are for me.” I hold her shoulder and pull her hips down to meet mine again. “So, moan for me.”
She’s quiet for a moment before whispering, “Nobody’s ever talked to me like this.”
Allen really was a sad excuse for a man, wasn’t he?
I grin. “Well, I am. Now, let me hear you.”
Slowly, hesitantly, she lets out a low, heady sigh.
“That’s right,” I say, the need rumbling in me.
The next one is more daring. Less of a sigh. More of a gasp.
“Just like that. There we go.”
My name leaves her lips on an exhale, and, God, my body tightens beneath her.
I thrust harder, groaning out a throaty, “Love it when you say my name.”
“Keep talking,” she sighs.
“You like it when I talk?”
“Yes.”
“God, you’re so wet for me.”
“Cliff, please?—”
“And you beg so good.”
Her head lolls back with a loud huff of air. I praise it with a bite on her shoulder.
With every noise, every additional thrust and slap of my body against hers, the tension in my stomach gets tighter. She takes control, pushing against my chest, grinding faster. My legs start to shake. I can feel my own pleasure building. And even though my mind is practically buzzing and I can almost see spots in my vision, I move to pull out. But Michelle tightens her knees around my thighs.
“I’m on birth control,” she breathes sharply.
And, God, the smile that explodes over my face must be wild because her matching grin is so fucking seductive.
“Lucky me.”
We both laugh, and I’m not sure I’ve ever had fun during sex like this, but I’m tied up in knots over her.
I roll my tongue over her nipple, pushing my thumb against the apex of her thighs. She exhales, and the sound is so sweet, so precious, that I’m moving faster. Rubbing small circles, burying my other palm into her hair …
Her head falls back. I tip it forward again.
“Look at me,” I demand.
Our gazes snap together. I watch her lips part, her eyebrows scrunch together, and I breathe in to savor every gorgeous piece of her crumbling apart in front of me.
I think she might moan out, “I’m close again,” but I’m not sure because the tail of it comes out in a whimper as she suddenly tightens around me and releases.
I’ve never orgasmed at the same time as someone else before, but now, as her hair cascades like a curtain around us, my orgasm floods over me like a tidal wave, sending my head rolling back on the couch headrest as I jerk into her, releasing every ounce of me with a low groan.
I might say her name. I might mumble something about how gorgeous she is. I don’t know what nonsense leaves my mouth, but I know that, one moment, I’m seeing stars, and the next, her bubbled-up laughter is tickling against my neck as she places kiss after kiss along my collarbone.
She rests her chin on my chest, smiling up at me like I’ve never seen Michelle smile before.
I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Hey,” I whisper.
I cup her cheek, and she leans into my palm.
“Hey,” she echoes.
“You are …” I start, but the words fade off. I press my lips to her forehead and murmur, “Spectacular.”
Her face, already flushed with pink, deepens to a red. I run a thumb over the color with a smile.
And it hits me.
I love this woman.
I don’t know when it happened. It slipped over me so softly, like the changing of seasons. The seeping scent of baked bread first thing in the morning. A wistful sigh on a perfect fall day.
I love Michelle. I’ve loved her for far too long.
She’s complicated. Difficult sometimes. She tastes like caramelized sugar and cinnamon and all the layers of flavors in between.
And suddenly, I know exactly what that is. She could never be something as simple as croissants or muffins or even cinnamon rolls. She’s something else entirely.
Michelle places her cheek against mine and nibbles my earlobe.
I chuckle, running my palms over her spine and up to her shoulders. “Careful there.”
But Michelle leans back and raises her eyebrows in challenge.
“Will you talk to me again?” she asks.
I laugh. “You really liked that, huh?”
She nods.
I bite the inside of my cheek and shake my head, grinning ear to ear. “You’re playing with fire, woman.”
Her hand slips over my chest, trailing back down between us. A wicked smile tips at the edge of her lips.
“Fine,” I say with a grin. “Have it your way.”