THIRTY-EIGHT Neevah
THIRTY-EIGHT
Neevah
I turn a slow circle in the grand entrance of the house Canon rented for us, taking in the magnificent chandelier and the spiral staircase leading to the next floor. Marble floors, discreetly lit paintings and unique sculptures lend the entrance a cool elegance.
“It’s gorgeous, Canon.”
He walks up beside me, bringing in our luggage, and places his hand at the small of my back. “A guy I met at Cannes a few years ago told me about it, and I’ve come here each year at least once ever since. Usually alone, of course. I haven’t brought anyone with me before.”
“Never?” I turn to look at him.
He smiles and kisses the top of my hair. “Come on. I’ll show you the rest.”
The rest turns out to be a gourmet kitchen, fully equipped with every imaginable modern convenience, a living room with a fireplace big enough for me to hibernate in, luxurious bathrooms outfitted with sunken tubs and waterfall shower heads, and a balcony that juts out over an infinity pool and spa. The tour ends at the bedrooms, two directly across from each other, both the height of luxury.
“And there’s two bedrooms,” Canon tells me in the hall bisecting the floor.
I walk into what is obviously the main suite and sit on the bed, leaning back and letting him see that we could do this right now. “Well, that seems redundant.”
He walks over and stands between my legs, nudging them wider, caressing the sides with his palms, moving to touch my inner thigh, stroking down to the curve of my knee. Even through the fabric of my pants, the contact burns. He could take me this second. I would like that very much, please and thank you. He must know by the way my breaths jerk, pushing my breasts into a rough rhythm. He’s heavy-lidded, his full lips parting as he looks down at me. My crop top rides up, showing him my skin. He traces one index finger down the shallow valley running between the muscles of my stomach, which quiver under his touch. I gulp, trying to regulate my breathing.
“Canon.”
He steps back abruptly, taking the heat, the provocative touch with him. “You want to shower? Did you bring a dress?”
The rapid change from sensual to pragmatic gives me whiplash. “Um, I have a dress, yeah.”
“Wear it for me.” He bends to take my lips in a much-too-brief kiss. I reach up to caress his neck, but he pulls away, his smile down at me a tantalizing taunt. “I’ll go get dinner started.”
“You’re cooking?” I sit up, breathing a little easier without this big man standing between my legs.
“I’m full of surprises,” he calls from the hall. “Come down when you’re ready.”
I’m tempted to masturbate in the shower because the desire is so keen, but I want to save it all for him. I’m surprised I don’t sizzle as soon as the water hits my skin. I’m pretty sure this is the most turned on I’ve been in my life.
I’m still soaked between my legs from imagination and my nipples are so tight, they’re stiff beneath the bright yellow sundress when it melts over my body. I don’t bother with a bra, tying the halter dress behind my neck and letting my breasts peak beneath the silk. I also forego panties because that just seems like a waste of time. The dress is muslin-thin, clinging to my ass and hips. I sincerely hope he can see the shadow of my pussy in the right light. I refuse to be hornier than he is, dammit.
When I come down the steps, he’s in the kitchen and dressed in a button-up and slacks.
“When did you change?” I ask, coming up behind him and slipping my arms around his waist.
He turns, leaning against the counter and splaying his hands low on my hips, brushing against my ass. He stiffens when there’s obviously nothing beneath the dress. When he looks back to me, the glow of desire in his eyes is worth all the trouble I’ve taken not only with my appearance tonight, but yesterday’s beauty triathlon. I’ve been waxed, scrubbed, and exfoliated more than a season’s worth of Bacherlorettes. If he likes to lick toes, mine have been buffed and manicured. When he wants the cat, I’m slick as a Slip ’N Slide down there. And should he feel so inclined to eat ass, nary a hair survived that Brutal Brunhilda wax-a-thon I endured on all fours at the spa. I’m ready for anything . I’ve practically been in training for this.
“When did you change?” I repeat, since he seems to have lost his train of thought as soon as he saw my nipples headlighting and realized I’m wearing zero panties.
“Oh.” He clears his throat, tightening his grip at my waist. “There’s a shower down here, so I changed while I put the food on.”
“I didn’t know you could cook.” I force myself to step out of his arms, though I could stay there all night, and look at the salad with its vividly colored vegetables on the counter.
“My mother would not send me out into the world unable to cook at least a li’l something. I know my way around a grill.”
“Oh.” It occurs to me that we have never talked much about food. “I don’t eat red meat.”
“I know. They always make sure to have an alternative for you with our crafts foods order.”
“Oh. Yeah.”
“That night on the roof, you got shrimp, and on Thanksgiving, you ordered fish.” He looks over his shoulder to the patio and the grill. “I hope salmon is okay? You had the salmon crepes so…”
I’m awed that a man as busy as he is, working on the movie of a lifetime, would pay attention to such fine details and my preferences.
“Uh, salmon is great. Thank you.”
“You hungry?”
I nod, and he takes my hand, leading me out to the balcony. The sun hasn’t quite set, still deciding between day and night. We’re at that golden hour—a photographer’s dream.
“You’ve been busy down here,” I say, smiling at the table on the balcony, set with beautiful china and glassware, lit by candles. Soft music pipes in from invisible speakers.
“It didn’t take much.” He pulls my chair out.
“What a gentleman,” I say, glancing up at him over my shoulder when I sit.
“We’ll see if you still think so by the end of the night,” he says at my ear, kissing my neck where the dress is secured.
I catch his hand, hold him in place. “I’m not that hungry. We don’t have to wait.”
“I told you I have plans.” He chuckles, pulling away and sitting across from me. “We’ll get there.”
I want to go all Willy Wonka Veruca Salt and tell him I want it now, but that didn’t end so good for her. I can be a little patient a little while longer. I pick up my fork and slice into the food he prepared. Canon Holt cooked dinner for me.
Chewing, he points his fork at my face. “What’s that smile about?”
“I was just thinking that I’ve never had a famous director cook for me.” I take a bite of the salmon and groan. “And it’s actually delicious.”
“I am a man of many talents. Most of them behind a camera, but I can burn a little when pressed.”
“And you were pressed?” I smile at him through the candlelight. “I’m actually pretty easy to please. You didn’t have to go to all this trouble.”
“I wanted tonight to be—”
“Special. I know.”
The humor fades from his expression, and his face grows serious. “You have to be sure before we do this, Neevah. Even now, it’s not too late to change your mind.”
“We can skip dinner, as far as I’m concerned.” I lay my fork down. “I’m not afraid of coming off as too eager, Canon. I am eager. You said you can read me easily anyway, so I can’t hide that. You know I want you.”
His stare doesn’t waver, but darkens, the long lashes dropping as desire stirs behind his eyes.
“But I want more than sex,” I confess. “I’m not saying it has to be serious, but I do want you to know this means something to me. You called me generous, and I am, onstage, when I perform, but I’ve never slept with anyone I worked for. I do hold myself back in this. I’m careful about who I share my body with, so when I do this with you, it will already be special to me.”
Even through the soft beard, I see the muscle in his jaw flexing. His fists clench on the table by his plate. He looks like a man on the verge of losing control, and I want to push him over the edge. Before I can, the music changes and the low throb of bass ushers in Luther’s opening lyrics of “If This World Were Mine,” temporarily distracting me. Canon smiles, standing from the table and holding out his hand. Did he remember our conversation on the balcony? Arrange this?
“Is this a coincidence?” I ask, standing on shaky legs.
“I’m a director,” he says, pulling me into his arms to sway with the languid chorus. “Things are rarely coincidental with me.”
I laugh up at him, my heart a turnstile in my chest, and link my wrists behind his neck. The night has grown cooler, and I can’t discern if the goose bumps splattering my arms are from the air or his hands moving on my bare skin, kneading the muscles into languor. Or the soft caress of him at my neck when he dips to breathe in the scent behind my ear. The sky has darkened, smudged into nightfall, lit by stars like lanterns. With the pool below glimmering like a jewel, these minutes in his arms, held close, are the most perfect I can remember.
I frame his face, the distinctive bone structure hard beneath my hands.
“And you say you’re not a romantic,” I whisper.
“I’m not. I just like you .”
“Then I’m one lucky girl.” I try to laugh, but what’s happening tonight, now, means too much. I can’t play it off or make it any less. It feels like the universe has come down to these seconds under a watching sky. It’s come down to the contact between our bodies and our breaths, growing more ragged the longer we sway together. To our eyes, melded by passion and something subtly stronger.
He takes my chin between his thumb and forefinger and tugs until I open for him. The kiss, when it comes, starts tender with nibbles and brushes, but it soon consumes, our tongues sliding together, our hands searching, seeking, gripping, and squeezing.
“Upstairs,” he gasps against the curve of my shoulder.
I nod, twining my fingers with his when he takes my hand, and he leads me up the steps. Lamps glow on either side of the bed, and the soft music has followed us, playing faintly in here, too.
He touches my face, running his knuckle over my cheekbone. “You’re beautiful, Neevah. It wasn’t the first thing I noticed about you, and it’s not the most important, but I want you to know.”
I reach up and brush my fingertips across the fullness of his lips. “And every time I make you smile, I feel like I’ve conquered the world.”
His eyes, heated and hungry, slide over me, from the crown of my head to my open-toe shoes. “Then make me smile.”
I’ve been waiting for this moment, but now that it’s here, I’m unsure where to start.
Does she hold nothing back?
Canon said he asked himself that question when he saw me perform in Splendor , and I know. The first thing I’ll do is give him everything.
My fingers find the tie of the halter at my neck, tugging until the top of the dress loosens and falls. The swell of my hips and ass anchors the dress on my body, but my torso—shoulders, stomach, breasts—is naked in the dim light.
With his bottom lip trapped between his teeth, Canon drags a finger across my collarbone, over the curve of my shoulder, down my arm to link our fingers. Tugging me closer, he looks down at me for long seconds. Not at my breasts, tight and heaving with anticipation, but into my eyes, and it makes me feel more exposed than the coolness of the air kissing my skin. I’m glass to him, he said, and he searches my eyes like he’s peering into my head, turning my soul over in his hands. I don’t even want to think about what he sees in my heart.
Just as I’m not sure I can bear the scrutiny anymore without his touch, he dips to kiss one nipple. My head drops back, exposing the line of my neck. He still holds one hand, and I tighten my grip on his fingers, needing the support to stand as his lips close around the tip, his teeth scraping gently. We are connected at only two points, our joined fingers and his mouth at my breast, but it feels like every inch of me is pressed to the length of him. My eyes are closed, but the air shifts in front of me when he drops to his knees. He releases my hand to grip my hips. I look down, and his eyes climb over me, starting with my belly button, skimming my stomach, and up my breasts until he reaches my face. His motions haven’t been hurried, and his hands haven’t been swift, so the wild hunger in his eyes startles me, and I realize he’s controlling it. He’s reined it in, and more than anything, I want to snap it like a twig.
I push at the silk puddled at my hips, coaxing the dress down my legs to pool around my shoes. I wind my fingers into the rough waves of his hair and subtly coax his head toward my bare pussy.
He breathes deeply and then rests his mouth against the lips, not opening me, or tasting.
“Jesus, Neev,” he says, his whisper a caress over my sensitive skin.
I want to push him so far over the edge of his restraint, there is no going back. I step out of my shoes and slip trembling fingers between my legs, passing over my clit and through the wetness dripping down my inner thighs.
His breaths grow labored as he follows the motion of my fingers with his eyes. When I pull my hand away, the air cools my fingertips. With deliberate boldness, I hold his stare and glaze his lips with my fingers, adorning his mouth with my wetness. He growls against my pussy, the vibration of it playing over my nerves like a timpani.
“Spread your legs,” he orders hoarsely.
I obey, widening my stance and waiting for his next move.
The breath stutters in my chest when his big fingers peel back the lips like petals, exposing the throbbing hood.
At first, he just licks it once.
I shudder, my knees almost failing me.
He pulls my whole clit into his mouth, sending an arrow of pleasure shooting through my body. His head bobs, his mouth moving against me with great force, with growing hunger. He cups my ass and nudges me back the few feet to the bed. With a gentle shove, I’m down, laid out on my back, completely nude while he is fully clothed, my legs dangling over the side of the bed, spread for him.
He wastes no time.
The sounds he makes when he feasts on my pussy will visit me in my dreams. Like a ravenous animal, he grunts and pants into the slick strip of nerves and flesh. He coaxes my legs up, sets my heels on the edge of the bed until my knees are bent and wide. His fingers push into me and I sit up on my elbows, unable to lay back any longer and desperate to see.
Three big fingers spear in and out, shiny with my wetness. He looks at me while he does it, and it is the most intimate act I’ve ever known. His beard gleams with my juices and he licks his lips, closing his eyes like the taste of me mesmerizes him. He shifts his hand, pushing his thumb inside and using all four fingers to squeeze and caress my clit, alternating the two touches until my breath huffs through my mouth. Spots appear before my eyes and I fall back again on the coolness of the comforter, helpless as the orgasm clenches the muscles in my legs and burns up my thighs until my pussy contracts around his fingers, gripping and flexing compulsively. I cover my eyes and scream, my release echoing in the room, slamming into the walls.
“Oh, God, Canon.” It comes out as a broken sob, my body weeping for him in every way. Pouring out my desire like an offering, and wrenching tears from my eyes. His mouth slows, less urgent, licking, tasting, savoring.
When he stands, my knees are still bent, my legs pushed up. There’s no dignity to it, and I don’t give a damn. I ache for him. As my orgasm crests and falls, the emptiness where he should be yawns and yells.
“Canon, please,” I whisper, careless of the tears slipping from the corners of my eyes. The ache is so strong, a creature demanding to be fed. “Right now.”
He stands over me, still fully clothed, eyes blazing, nostrils flaring. I’ve never seen him like this. Canon has always been careful when and how he looks at me, reducing our contact to the minimum, so this unfiltered, unchecked force of his attention flies like sparks across my skin. There’s something primitive and possessive in the stare that sweeps my body. The way he looms over me makes me feel small and powerful in the same breath.
I raise to my knees and reach for him. Lashes lowered, he watches me slide the buttons loose and spread the shirt open over his broad chest.
I feel, in some ways, like he was at an advantage. I’ve done sex scenes and been nearly nude on set. He’s seen almost everything even before tonight, but I’ve only fantasized about the sculpted heat of his body. I tug at his belt, freeing it from the loops of his pants, and with deceptively steady fingers, unbutton and unzip, pushing them to the floor.
He’s such a beautiful specimen and, under my hungry eyes, completely immobile. Still and waiting for my next move. It makes me feel even more powerful, this man, so completely in charge of everything all the time, at my mercy. Awaiting my pleasure and his. I slip my fingers beneath the waistband of his briefs and push them to the floor, too.
Big dick energy, indeed.
With one hand, I grip his neck, urge his head down, and crash our lips together. The kiss, spiced with my essence, spins my head and sends pinpricks of sensation through my body. While our tongues and breaths tangle, I reach between us and grip his cock, tugging at first tentatively and then with confidence. His breath grows ragged over my lips until our kiss dissolves altogether and his mouth opens on a groan.
My hand looks so small wrapped around him. I rub my thumb over the glistening head, spreading the slickness. I sit on the bed, wanting to take him into my mouth, but he stops me, his hand gripping my hair and holding my head back.
“Next time,” he rasps.
Wordlessly, he climbs onto the bed, pulling me with him until his back rests against the headboard. Taking me by the hips, he guides me up and over his thighs until I’m straddling him. My pussy throbs with the promise of finally being filled, and I whimper at the delay when he reaches over to the bedside table, grabs a condom, and slides it over himself.
He runs his palms down my back, skimming my spine and spreading my ass.
“You okay?” he asks, searching my face in the warm light.
I nod. “I want this, Canon.”
“Me too.” He leans in to kiss me, and it’s passionate, rough, and searching and demanding, his tongue plundering my mouth. All the while, he’s shifting me forward until I’m poised over him. I spread my legs wider and guide him inside.
We gasp, pressing our foreheads together as our bodies break this seal. There is a little bit of a burning stretch as I become accustomed, but it feels right. It feels like my body was molded for this moment, for this man. With my knees on either side of his legs, I rock forward, driving him deeper, and his jaw clenches. His grip on my ass tightens, and he lifts me a little to reach my breast, pulling it into the cavern of his mouth. He reaches between us to the nexus of our bodies, and his finger slips over my clit, the rough pad caressing it with each roll of my hips. I’ve come once, but with his tongue and teeth at my nipple, his finger on my clit, and his hard dick filling me up, the orgasm builds again. He flips our positions, pressing me into the bed and pushing back inside before I can catch my breath.
“Canon,” I pant into the sweat-slick crook of his neck, sliding my hands down his back to clutch his ass. “Fuck me.”
He chokes out a laugh. “I am. Shit, Neevah.”
He thrusts so deep, I stop breathing for a second and relish the shock of it. I wrap my arms around his neck and link my ankles behind his back as the pace of our lovemaking changes, shifting from long, deep, smooth strokes to a desperate cadence too frantic for me to control. Trying to is like riding the wind, like swimming in a tsunami. I’m tossed high and hard, helpless, weightless. When he comes with a deep growl, one hand clawed in my hair, the other gripping my thigh, I follow with a sob and a possessive kiss that marks him as mine as surely as I’m branded his however he wants me.