Chapter 16 Mila
Chapter 16
Mila
“You’re a good dancer.”
Dancing. That perpendicular expression of a horizontal desire, so obvious in the hypnotic sway of our hips.
“You know what they say about good dancers.” My husband presses his answer into the soft skin below my ear, the sound waves causing a ripple of Yes please through me.
“No, but you can tell me.” My answer sounds thick with suggestion.
“They practice.” His voice is deep, his intent clear as he takes my hand, twirling me before him. My dress flares outward from my knees, the long train held like a bracelet to my wrist. I’m dressed like a princess, held in my prince’s arms as he pulls me back, our bodies flush.
I remember now. It’s my wedding day. My Prince Charming is a husband.
“Practice,” I whisper, smiling secretly. “I see.”
“Now feel.”
Oh, I do. The hard press of his body and our hips swaying in time to the music.
“Dancers are also flexible.” I give a small sigh as his lips caress the sensitive spot where my neck and shoulder meet. “They have exceptional stamina.”
“Lucky them.”
He makes a husky sound of agreement. “But it’s a double-edged sword, because they’ll work their partner so hard. Get them so ... hot .” His words are a heated burst in my ear that is somehow connected to my core.
“Sounds terrible,” I answer as we move, oblivious to everything around us.
“A good dancer starts slow, finds his partner’s rhythm. He discovers what you like, and the more time you spend dancing together, the more proficient you’ll become.”
I suck in a sharp breath, his whisper like a sensory trip wire as my body floods with a liquid heat. I know he senses my reaction as his arm tightens around my middle, his body so hot and so ready.
We’re going to have sex.
“Yes, yes we are.”
I smile to myself. I’m almost giddy with want.
But then the landscape around us changes, and it’s suddenly dark. Or almost dark, as my eyes adjust to the lack of light. The noise of the door closing registers distantly in my brain, the sound of Fin’s breath and his footsteps a little more so.
“Fancy meeting you here,” he purrs in a change of tone.
I chuckle, the sound low and sort of sexual as his hands capture my hips.
“Yes, fancy,” I whisper as he moves me backward and my bare shoulders meet a cool wall. Yes, please. Yes, more of that. My insides heat with longing, my silly gel nails catching his shirt as I reach for him, every inch of my skin alive and wanting.
Fin palms my breast, almost as though to hold me in place.
I arch, silently begging him with my body as I whisper breathless-sounding encouragements. “God, I want you. I’ve thought about you so, so much.”
“Tell me.”
“Like this. I imagined you just like this. The room dark, you on your knees, getting me off.”
“Just like old times,” he murmurs. “Did you touch yourself while you thought of me? Did you make yourself come for me, Mila?”
I reach for his neck, seeking to pull his mouth closer to mine. “ Always. ”
“You’re such a good girl.” His words—his praise—light me up inside. His words dance across my lips. We’re not quite kissing; more like sharing air. “Do you know I have a thing for good girls?”
I hear the smile in his words as my hand glides down his chest, and over the demarcation of his leather belt. “I wonder what that thing could be.”
He makes a rough masculine sound as I wrap my fingers around his hard length.
“Please say it’s this,” I whisper, adding brazen to wanton and not caring one jot.
“Would you like me to give it to you?”
“I thought only girls could be a cocktease.”
His chuckle vibrates across my skin, but any further response is cut off by his kiss. Slow and thorough, he devours me little by little. My jaw, my neck, my breast as he palms again. Clasping it tight, his strong fingers slip into my neckline.
“Too tight. My dress is too tight.”
But my nipple is already free and at the mercy of his mouth. A throb of pleasure radiates from my core as his tongue swirls the hardened tip. I moan as he sucks, the noise changing in length and depth as his cheek, rough with stubble, brushes my breast. It seems only moments ago that his face was as smooth as silk.
He shaved for me. Made sure I’d want to kiss him.
The realization is heady. Powerful. I want him to mark me. To bite. To suck. To leave some lasting sign that I was his. That he wanted me. Even if just for a little while.
The sudden wave of melancholy recedes as he takes my face in his hands.
“Look at my hands, Mila. They’re shaking, I want you so much. Let me take you to the room.”
“Let’s stay here.” My eyes fill with silly tears. This man makes me want things I shouldn’t. The wedding of a lifetime was enough. I can’t allow myself a perfect wedding night.
“You’re sure?” He pushes my hair from my face.
I nod. You can be mine for a little while.
His kiss is pure perfection, his tongue licking into me, rich and clever. My pleasure quickly spirals, my need along with it. I whimper as he begins to pull away.
“Hush now. Just a taste,” he whispers as he begins to lower.
I gasp at a sudden loud noise—something scraping over stone. Then something begins to topple, a metallic sound ringing out. Moments later, a broom handle falls and wallops Fin across the back.
I giggle. He makes a frustrated huff, but it doesn’t stop him from beginning to gather my dress, pushing it up my legs.
Amusement dies, and I gasp as his hand slides between my knees, his rough fingertips tender against my skin. My body bows, my thoughts wild as I arch and meet his touch. There. Yes, there. Aching, pulsing, I’m reduced to nothing but sensation, no longer skin and bone.
But then the backdrop changes, the light suddenly so very bright against my eyelids. I inhale deeply, because this smells right. It feels real and heavenly as I run my fingers along his neck. His stubbled cheek.
I must’ve been dreaming, or maybe it was a memory. Outwardly, things have changed. Internally, my body is still crying out for him.
“You’re here,” I whisper, sliding up Fin’s body to reach his ear.
“Mila?”
I purr and run my hands over him, unable to touch enough to meet my satisfaction. It was a dream. It was a memory. But I’m so ready to make it real.
“You’re so warm,” I whisper, pressing my teeth into the corded muscles of his neck.
“ Fuck. ”
I smile, biting my lips as though to contain it.
“Mila, are you—”
Fin’s voice is husky with sleep, and his skin smells so damned delicious. Warm and musky and like lemon verbena. Which is oddly specific. Is it his cologne? Whatever it is, it makes me want to lick his skin. So I do.
I deserve this. I want this. He is such a good man—and he wants this too.
“You smell amazing,” I whisper, spanning my hand across his chest. Smooth skin. Hot man. “You taste so good.”
“Mila, love.”
I’ve never loved the sound of my name as much as I do right now. Full of aching want. I could bottle the sound, stock up on his masculine moans, and huff them like a gateway drug when I’m alone.
Because I will be alone, I know. But I don’t have to be now. I can take what he offered. It doesn’t feel as though he’s changed his mind ...
His hand curls around my shoulder, moving me, and ...
We give a joint groan. I’m so slick, and he’s so hard. And I appear to be riding him. Not full penetration, but enough to feel how hot and hard he is. Enough to make me pulse and ache for relief. It’s good— so good. And so tempting as I adjust my position, and—
“ Oh! ” The wet slide of him, the bump of his crown against my clit. “I need you,” I whisper, pushing my hand between us as I suck the salt from the skin, as I undulate, seeking relief. “So, so much.”
This is what I wanted. My wedding night. What I wanted to remember, to feel him beneath me, shaking with desire.
His arms come around me, and he’s panting so hard, I’m pretty sure his breaths could blow a little pig’s house down.
“ Fuck. ” The ache in his words. A pleasured hum in my response. “Please, please tell me you’re not asleep. That I’m not dreaming.”
“I’m not asleep, but it feels like a dream.”
“It feels like heaven.”
“I want you, Fin. Can’t you feel it?”
His thick swallow. “You’re the only thing I can feel right now. I can’t believe I slept on the couch when we could’ve been doing this.”
Finally, his hands find my hips, and he rocks into me.
But. But.
He was on the couch, making a phone call. I fell asleep. I had pajamas on.
Baba. The nursing home. The loan. I can’t have sex with him—it would muddy the waters!
I jerk upright; only, that’s not quite right, as Fin’s hands tighten. How come he’s naked too? Why’s he underneath me? Hell, how come he’s in this bed!
“What ... what are you doing here?”
His sleepy expression firms, arousal replaced with confusion. “What?”
“What are you doing in this bed?” I repeat. I sound a little shriller the second time.
“I don’t rightly know. But Mila, I’m not the top in this situation.”
The top. I’m on top . My hand is on his hard chest, my thighs spread wide over his, my intimate bits touching his. Soaking his.
“I don’t know what you’re doing here—in this bed.” A wobbling panic fills my voice as I grapple for the sheet, but it’s wrapped around his legs. As are his cotton sleep shorts. I—we—didn’t even pause to take them fully off. And that’s the crux of my panic. I might not know how or what he’s doing here, I just know I can’t be here too.
Not given what I was about to do.
He’s loaning me money. He said we could be friends.
I can’t do this. I shouldn’t.
I yank the sheet again, the movement causing a wave of contact between us. Fin groans, and I gasp, between my legs pounding like footsteps on pavement.
“I went to bed alone and woke up dry humping you!” Only I’m not dry. I’m wet. So wet. And my heart is banging against my ribs like it’s trying to crack them. “How? How did this happen?”
He swallows audibly, his expression sort of tortured. “I can’t concentrate when your nipples are staring at me.”
I immediately give up on the sheet and cover them with my hands.
Fin groans, angling his head so his gaze is on the ceiling. “I can’t believe you thought that might help.” His words are like a whispered prayer for deliverance.
I slide from his body, another wave of Oh my God, do that again washing through me. My cheeks are burning hotter than a thousand suns as I tumble from this bed, dragging the sheet with me a second time. I slam the bathroom door behind me, but I can’t even do that right because the sheet is caught in it.
“Mila, please,” Fin calls after me. I fancy I can hear the quick pad of his feet against the tile. I yank the sheet, slamming it shut properly as his hand hits the wood.
Hands pressed to the cool vanity, I stare at my wild reflection as I try very hard to ignore the gnawing sensation the ache in his voice causes me.
I almost screwed my husband. And the worst of it is, out of the five words in that sentence, I regret only one of them.