44. Sophie
FORTY-FOUR
SOPHIE
As Foster saunters toward me, butterflies travel through my bloodstream, tiny flutters of anticipation. He’s got a towel around his waist, but he may as well have nothing on as it doesn’t hide his arousal. And those tattoos are so much better than I ever expected. He’s all sharp lines and divots in all the right places. He looks airbrushed, for fuck’s sake.
“I’m not going to lie, I’m a tad disappointed I didn’t get to take that dress off you,” he says, crawling onto the bed. “I’d been imagining it since you took your coat off at the gala.” He dips and kisses me, my entire upper body arching off the bed to meet him.
“I can put it back on if you want? Then you can peel it off of me.”
He looks down at my body, his eyes traveling slowly over my skin and shakes his head. “Nah, I don’t want you to cover this masterpiece up.”
“What if it’s your only chance to take it off me?” I challenge and bite back the laugh that threatens when a look of panic appears. “Relax.” I slide my hand over his chest, studying the scene from Lord of the Rings permanently inked there. “I only mean that it may be ruined now. I definitely heard a rip. But if I’m being honest, I’ve never wanted to ruin a piece of clothing so badly.”
His muscles seem to flex involuntarily under my touch. “Me either, if you wanna know the truth,” he chuckles.
“I want to see you,” I say as my hand traces along the top of the towel.
He wastes no time reaching down, pulling the fabric away, tossing it on the floor and then lying back so I can get a good look at him.
“Now when your friends ask, you can confirm that I am indeed a ginger everywhere,” he jokes.
I love the fact he’s making me laugh while we’re both naked for the first time together. He’s still so, I don’t know, Foster.
I have never been one who likes giving head all that much, but I’m starting to realize that a lot of what I think I don’t like is because of the person I was with rather than a personal preference. I’m curious now, so without a word I roll onto him and begin to kiss down his body. I take in the way his breathing changes and his body flexes. The way he touches me so softly I’m not sure if I’m imagining it.
“You don’t have—” The words die as I wrap my lips around him. “Oh god, just like that.” He keens, and I smile knowing that I’m the one making him react this way.
He doesn’t let me spend too much time on him before he’s hauling me up his body, flipping me onto my back and kissing me until I’m convinced I don’t require air to survive. I just need this.
“Need,” he pants, “to be”—his lips return to mine, stealing more breath—“inside you.” And I nod because yes, I need that too. Everything with Foster, things that I thought were wants have morphed into needs.
I’ve never been so turned on by the sound of a condom wrapper before, but when I hear him fumbling with it all I want to do is pull him back to me, protection be damned.
Watching him settle between my legs is almost an out-of-body experience. Like I’m watching from the other side of the room. His lips meet mine a half-second before I feel him press against me, and when I tilt my hips he slides in. We both suck in a breath, not releasing it until he’s fully seated.
“Fuck.” The word is so quiet that I’m not even sure I hear him properly.
He’s watching me, studying my reaction, and when I nod the tiniest bit he starts to move, one arm holding him up while the other hooks under my knee. He drops a kiss to my knee before his eyes are on mine again. “You feel so damn good, Soph.”
“Kiss me,” I beg and he acquiesces instantly. His tongue matching pace with his cock, overwhelming me in the most sensational way.
He pulls his lips from me and drops his forehead to mine. “You feel like you were fucking made for me,” he breathes out, as he eases my leg down.
His hands slide up my arms, guiding them above my head, and he holds my wrists in place as his thrusts become more forceful. This. This is what I’ve been missing out on. When I lift my hips, changing the angle, his head drops to my neck, a gasp seizing his body.
“Fucking do that again,” he demands, and so I do, relishing in his unbridled reaction.
Once he appears to gain control of himself again, his hands release my wrists to grip my hips as he sits back on his heels.
Foster’s gaze drops to where he’s fucking me, a look of awe crossing his face. “Sophie?”
“Mm-hmm?” I barely manage to say.
“Touch yourself.”
I slip my hand down my body, enjoying how he watches me, practically losing it when I apply the tiniest amount of pressure. I’ve never come this much in a week, let alone in a day, and my body feels about ready to detonate again.
Those sharp eyes of his don’t miss the slight hitch in my breath or how my thighs tense. A cocky grin appears as he releases my hip in order to pull my hand away, raising my fingers to lips.
Seeing my fingers in his mouth is all I need apparently because a scream from somewhere deep inside explodes out of me and my hand falls onto the bed as he pulls my hips tighter against him, his muscles straining beneath his skin.
He falls forward, panting against my chest. I could die like this, I think. The weight of him, his breath on my skin, the feel of him still inside me.
This is the happiest I’ve ever been.
“It’s blasphemous.” Foster levels me with a look that does not make me think he’s joking.
“It’s delicious,” I argue, dipping my mild buffalo chicken wing into the ranch I had to beg him to add to the order.
“The fact that it’s the default is blasphemous. I’ve come to terms with the fact that people have terrible taste. What I cannot get on board with is that I have to ask for blue cheese, otherwise wings will come with ranch now.”
“Are you from Buffalo?” I ask, licking the ranch off the wing I’m holding so I can distract him from his little rant. His eyes widen, but my efforts are wasted.
“You know I’m not, but I did work with a guy from Buffalo in Korea, and he was as annoyed by it as I was. It’s actually how we became friends,” he says as he dunks his wing into the vat of blue cheese dressing he requested.
Foster’s wearing the hot man’s uniform of only gray sweatpants, and I’m in a pair of his running shorts and the shirt he’d never gotten around to buttoning up. When I’d said it was a poor choice to have me wear it due to my ability to stain any article of clothing with whatever I was eating, he’d said the idea of me staining this shirt while wearing it was too much of a turn-on not to partake in.
So far, I haven’t gotten a speck of anything on it, which is some kind of post-sex miracle.
“Do you have other opinions on buffalo wing-related things, or is it just the dip?”
He lets out a deep sigh. “Don’t even get me started on breaded wings.”
“Oh, they are the worst,” I agree.
“I knew I liked you.”