26. Anna #3
It doesn’t make sense that I would like this, but the confusion of my senses from the last time has me chasing the high, grinding against him as his hold tightens.
I want to whimper as he pulls his hand away, but I don’t have the air.
Damon’s mouth crashes over mine just as two fingers slide inside of me and his thumb goes to my clit.
I can’t help but stare at the devastatingly beautiful face, even as I develop tunnel vision.
Everything but him begins to darken, and the pressure in my lungs is bordering on unbearable.
My instinct wants me to tap out, but the rhythm he sets, the way he curls his fingers has me simultaneously exploding and contracting just as that darkness overwhelms my vision entirely.
The high and orgasm collide, leaving me weightless but also collapsing towards the floor.
The only reason I don’t melt into a puddle on the ground is because Damon still anchors me to the wall, his grip on my throat loose and his fingers still inside of me.
He teases me with slow pumps, relishing the way I squeeze him with the last remnants of my orgasm, but he doesn’t give me time to recover.
I’m greedily taking in oxygen, and the relief somehow creates its own euphoria.
Everywhere from my fingers to my toes tingles, hyper aware of every cell in my body.
I faintly register the fabric of my thong snapping, and I can’t care less.
Not when his hands grip my ass, having me straddle him at the waist. I draw my leg up to give him the best access, and he has to cover my mouth with his as he lets my weight drop just enough so that I slam down on his length.
Holy fucking shit!
Thank God Damon’s lips muffle my cry, because the sound that still escapes me would be enough for anyone passing by the gallery to overhear even if they’re not actually in the room.
Honestly, I don’t know how anyone doesn ’ t hear us as Damon begins to fuck me, because that’s exactly what it is.
Fucking. It’s primal and raw and unforgiving.
He pounds me against the wall with such a hard, unrelenting rhythm that I wouldn’t be surprised if the paintings on the other side of it rattle off.
And it’s exactly what I need. I’m so pent up from not having him these past two days that anything less couldn’t satiate this craving.
He awakens every nerve ending in me with every thrust, and I meet the pace he sets, riding him into oblivion, and I’m not prepared for it.
The orgasm hits so hard that I go deaf, the music and chatter and Damon’s groans silenced temporarily until I finally come down.
“Fuck.” He’s trembling ever so slightly, and his voice is nearly breathless. “I fucking missed you, canary.”
The very idea that I can reduce such a man to this state has me sharing his smile as he sets me back on my feet.
He still braces his weight against mine, and I’m grateful, given that I’m less than steady.
Even Damon needs a moment to recover, and he spends it rebuilding that craving in me as his lips and tongue stroke my own.
I writhe against him even as my knees threaten to buckle, because fucking hell, I need this.
Whether it’s with his hand or his dick or his mouth, I don’t care.
I just need him inside of me again. And again.
I don’t even have to say it. My tormented whimpers and moans into his mouth are indication enough.
And the fact that I’m so needy, so addicted to this—to him —it fuels something primitive in Damon that it has him damn near growling.
The way the low rumble of it somehow works its way from the back of his throat down into my core leaves me clinging to him, but he pries my hands away, pinning them above my head.
“Don’t fucking move,” he orders, lowering himself down my body.
His lips go from my chin to my neck to my collarbone and take their time admiring the cleavage now spilling out from the top of my dress before traveling down to right where I need him.
Damon scrapes his teeth over the base of my exposed thigh, nipping it—a silent promise of what he’ll no doubt do to my clit.
But just as he skims his fingers along the slit of my gown, ready to pull the fabric aside again, does a loud, manufactured cough sound off from no more than twenty feet away.
Shit!
Someone’s in the gallery.
I scramble to turn away, readjusting my dress and tucking “the girls” back in before my nipples can greet everyone. Thankfully, when footsteps make their way closer to the entrance of the hallway, Damon immediately rises to his feet and blocks my body from sight with his own.
And I quickly realize that I was wrong. Someone didn’t just overhear us. People—as in plural —overheard us; they were simply being polite by not interrupting. That much is clear when we exit the gallery with a few sets of eyes already looking at the entrance, obviously waiting to see who emerges.
I should be embarrassed, but I can’t bring myself to care.
Besides, it’s not like we’re the only ones enjoying ourselves.
Someone was giving another person a blowjob when I was in the bathroom earlier, and I’ve been to enough of these kinds of events to recognize who’s going to be hooking up over the course of the night.
The safest bet is always the number of middle-aged and geriatric men with ladies who aren’t wearing wedding rings like they are.
And if it isn’t the sugar daddy and his companion getting down and dirty, you can still expect that being in a room full of alcohol and attractive people will inevitably lead to some drunken escapades.
I actually spot Mia from the jewelry store seated at one of the banquet tables beside a man with an aristocratic face, and I immediately doubt she’ll be sharing in the fun with him if her discreet eye-rolling is any indication.
The poor girl looks equally bored and annoyed, and as we get closer to the table, I can see her mouthing the words to whatever her male companion is saying to the rest of the table from behind her champagne flute.
Whatever story he’s telling, she’s already heard it a few times. I keep my eye on her as Damon and I head to the buffet, wondering if I should go over and say something, maybe offer her an excuse to leave the table, even if only for a short while.
The only time her eyes don’t look like they’re one step away from rolling clear out of her head is when they keep snagging on a very tall and very attractive server.
She’s so distracted, in fact, that her clutch falls out of her hand when she goes to stand.
He’s walking right past the table and he doesn’t hesitate to grab it for her.
But as she takes it back, I notice a small slip of white paper also pressing into her palm.
The move is so smooth that it wouldn’t catch your attention unless you were already looking at them, and she appears startled when she feels it in her hand, enough that she’s almost tempted to look at it right then and there.
Mia manages to contain the impulse long enough to make her way over to the buffet before discreetly unfolding the note.
Whatever she reads has her dropping her guard, because she whirls around, her eyes locking with the server. I may be grinning like an idiot at the exchange, but I look over at Damon to find him scowling.