Chapter 16
Roni
Afull bottle of wine courses through my veins, creating a pleasant hum beneath my skin.
Not enough to warrant a taxi, but enough to make the ten-minute walk home feel like an adventure.
As we stroll along under faint and infrequent streetlights, our shoulders jostle together, sparking bursts of laughter which clamor in the night air, a testament to how free and uninhibited we both feel.
I gesture toward the familiar brick building, my finger swaying slightly in the air. “My place is just there,” I say, though I don’t really need to, as he's driven me here before.
He suggested we should get a ride to his, but mine was so close it made no sense.
It’s tiny. Especially when compared the luxury of a penthouse.
But the familiarity should keep my nerves at bay.
I never let other visit me at home. I prefer to spare myself the judgment.
But I’m anxious to share this small slice of my life away from work with him.
We stumble and sway. Phoenix reaches out to open the heavy metal door, but it won’t budge until I enter the code.
“Shit. What is it again?” I blurt my inebriated thought and squint at the keypad, where the numbers seem to dance and blur. “Right. 5-8-3-2,” I finally recall, and the lock clicks open with a satisfying sound. As we step inside, his hand lightly grazes the small of my back, a reassuring presence.
At my apartment door, I fumble with the key, missing its infuriatingly tiny hole once, then twice, my hands trembling slightly from the mixture of grape juice and nerves.
Phoenix leans closer, his fingers steady and warm as they wrap over mine.
“Here, let me,” he murmurs, his breath a gentle tickle against my ear.
I step aside, watching his focused profile in the murky glow of the hallway light, feeling a blend of gratitude and anticipation.
Inside, I brush past him, my arm grazing his chest. The door clicks shut.
My living room feels smaller than it did this morning.
The ticking of the wall clock fills the silence.
I start to freak out when I see the two bras I tried on laying over the back of the couch, along with various other garments here and there.
I reflexively scoop them up and hurl them into the nearest closet.
I wasn’t thinking about the state of my little apartment.
About the books strewn across the coffee table or the pairs of shoes scattered—fucking everywhere.
“I am so sorry about—the mess.” The best I can do is offer a cringey grimace and pray he’s not fixated on it. Or, I could change the subject. “You want something to drink?” He shakes his head, eyes locked on mine, pupils dilated in the soft lighting of the lamp I left on.
“No, thank you, My Little Temptress.” His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows.
“I think I've had quite enough for tonight. Booze, that is.” My keys hit the side table with a metallic clink when he drops them. Three steps separate us. I count them with my eyes. He runs his thumb across his bottom lip. “Since the first time I saw you—” his voice drops to a whisper, rough at the edges, “—I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. About… the things I want to do to you.”
I wet my lips. “Thinking isn't doing,” I say, raising my chin slightly, holding his gaze.
His eyes darken, pupils dilating to black pools.
In one fluid motion, he closes the distance between us, and his hands find my waist, fingers pressing into the fabric of my dress.
Our lips collide before I register him moving.
The whiskey lingers on his tongue as it slides against mine, hot and insistent.
My fingers curl into his shirt, bunching the material between my knuckles.
His hand cradles my neck, thumb pressing just below my ear while his fingers tangle in my hair, tugging just enough to tilt my head back.
My spine arches, pressing my chest against his.
The wall meets my back, though I don’t remember moving, as his hips pin mine in place.
When we break apart, my lungs burn for air.
His forehead touches mine, our breath mingling in the narrow space between us.
“Are you sure about this?” His words vibrate against my skin as his thumb traces the edge of my jaw.
Instead of answering with words, I reach for the waistline of his pants, my fingers curling over the top of his leather belt. I gently tug him toward me, feeling the cool metal of the buckle under my fingertips, as I slowly take steps backward down my narrow unlit hallway.
“Little Temptress,” he croons, his voice soft and reverent, like a prayer on his lips, lingering in the charged air between us.
“Where are we going?” His eyes search mine, filled with curiosity and a hint of anticipation.
I place a finger over my own lips, urging him to remain silent, a playful smile hinting at my intentions.
“Just come with me.” I guide him toward my room, my movements a mixture of playful allure and the unsteady sway of intoxication.
As we near the foot of my bed, I release him, our fingers reluctantly parting, and I throw him a look—part question, part invitation—seeking his approval.
He responds by pressing his warm, steady hand against my chest, his touch firm yet gentle, and with a tender push, I stumble backward onto my bed, the soft mattress giving way beneath me.
I sense him before I see him, the mattress giving a gentle sigh under his weight.
His hands are firm and confident, slipping beneath my calves, his palms gliding up the back of my skirt with an assured ease.
His fingers stretch wide, pressing gently against my skin.
He rotates his wrists, his fingertips delicately following the curves of my hips.
With a gentle but insistent tug, he draws me closer, my body whispering across the smooth, cool sheets.
His fingers linger at the waistband of my skirt, and with a fluid, almost lyrical motion, he slides it off, leaving a whisper of fabric in the air.
“How did you—” My words dissolve as his finger presses against my lips.
The vibration of his “Shh” travels from his chest into mine.
His eyes hold mine captive as he lowers himself, knees hitting the hardwood with a dull thud.
The mattress dips and sighs beneath me. My shirt tightens across my chest as he grips the hem, his knuckles brushing against my hip bones.
Goosebumps ripple across my skin as his left hand finds the sensitive bend behind my knee, his touch so light I might have imagined it if not for the electricity shooting up my leg.
My head falls back, eyes fluttering closed.
Not to be outdone, his right arm wraps around my left leg, his fingertips leaving goosebumps in their wake.
The mattress creaks beneath me as I shift my weight.
He kneels at the edge of the bed, eyes dark and fixed on mine, his breath warm against my skin.
The anticipating is killing me as his hand slides up my inner thigh, the calluses on his hand catching slightly against my skin.
My muscles tense, then relax as he reaches the soft hollow where my leg meets my body.
I bite my lip, tasting salt and fermented fruit.
My hips, rebellious under the influence of too much wine, tremble with eagerness and nerves.
His arm is a determined vine climbing a trellis when he snakes it around my leg, drawing it towards his face with gentle insistence.
His tongue, warm and smooth like velvet, ignites a scorching path along the sensitive skin of my inner thigh, hesitating at the delicate line where my leg meets the lace of my underwear.
He delivers a playful nip, a sweet sting sending jolts of pleasure through me, followed by a deep suck sure to leave a mark, a declaration of his possession.
I melt while he kneads my flesh, before hovering his lips and exhaling a gentle warmth across my panties.
A soft and yielding sigh breaks any resolve I might have when his tongue traces up my inner thigh, ceasing where his fingers, curious and adventurous, slip beneath the elastic edge.
His hands glide back and forth, expertly charting the unexplored landscape from my waist to the growing heat between my legs, as if mapping every inch of this newfound territory.
I quiver with fresh awareness, a hum of energy propelling me into motion.
A hand grapples the barrier of my shirt like an eager explorer setting out on an uncharted path, and it takes me a second to realize it’s my own.
Beneath the thin cotton, my nipples, like tiny rebels ready to rise, become firm, pushing against the material as if casting off the constraints of influence.
Phoenix, driven by purpose, removes his hands from my sides and wraps both arms around my legs, then rests them in the bend of his elbows, cradled securely.
With his hands dangling and ready, his tongue, firm and wet, traces a line from the curve of my backside to starving mound.
He pauses, withdrawing slightly. His fingers grip the edges of my underwear, and pull the fabric tight, forcing it to pinch my clit between the lace.
I gasp and bite down on my lip, as a burst of heat courses through me.
He presses his tongue harder and laps at the clit like a cat with a bowl of cream, the intensity increasing with every stroke.
I moan, the sound escaping from somewhere deep in my throat as my fingers twist into the cotton of my shirt.
His thumbs trace slow, deliberate circles making my skin prickle.
Teeth scrape against lace before a soft rip gives way.
Cool air hits my newly exposed sex. Phoenix’s arms are steel bands locked around my thighs, with thumbs digging into the soft hollows of my hips.