Chapter 4
ELISA
His palm is rough against my jaw, warm enough to make my pulse trip.
I lean into it before I can stop myself, my cheek fitting the cradle of his hand like it has been waiting there.
The quiet between us vibrates, thick with something neither of us can name.
My lips part but no words come.
He tilts his head and his mouth finds mine.
The kiss hits like a match to dry paper.
Hot, fast, and immediate.
His lips are hard, his tongue sliding against mine, slow at first then deeper, coaxing, tasting.
My fingers claw into his shirt.
I want him closer.
I want the scrape of his stubble against my skin, the weight of him against me.
I want the ache to become something I can touch.
A hand on his forehead tells me the fever has broken.
He pulls me into his lap with a strength that leaves me trembling.
My knees hit the edge of the mattress, and I climb him without thinking, straddling his hips, my skirt bunched high around my thighs.
The air feels hot and close, thick with the scents of flour and soap and his cologne.
He drags me forward until I'm pressed flush against him.
The hard line of his body sits perfectly under me and when I move against it, I gasp into his mouth.
“Tell me to stop,” he repeats, his forehead resting against mine.
“No,” I whisper, hands sliding up the back of his neck. “Don’t.”
His grip tightens at my waist.
He moves me against him once, slowly and deliberately, and the friction pulls a sound from me that I have never made before.
His hands climb under my blouse, palms rough on bare skin, rising higher until they cup the soft weight of my breasts.
The contact steals my breath.
My nipples peak instantly under his touch, aching for more.
He kneads once, slow, then harder, his thumbs circling until I arch against him.
He breaks the kiss just enough to watch me.
His eyes are dark, hungry, fixed on my face as I grind down against him.
He bends to my throat, mouth open, tongue and teeth dragging over the pulse that hammers there.
He sucks until the sting blooms and I moan, my fingers fisting in his hair.
“Good girl,” he murmurs into my skin, the words a shiver. “Move on me. Let me feel you.”
I roll my hips, a slow grind that makes him groan, a low sound that vibrates against my collarbone.
His hands slide down to grip my hips and guide me, lifting and pulling until I'm moving exactly how he wants.
Heat coils low in my belly.
The scent of us fills the small room, salt and sweat and something rawer than hunger.
His hands are everywhere now, sure and searching, dragging heat across my skin with every pass.
He pulls my blouse over my head without ceremony, the fabric catching for half a second before it’s gone.
My bra slips off next, fast and practiced, and suddenly, I'm bare above him, chest heaving, skin flushed, his eyes locked on mine like he’s never seen anything he wasn’t willing to survive for.
“Beautiful,” he says, rough and almost reluctant, like the word costs him.
His hands come back to my breasts, fingers splaying wide, thumbs brushing over my nipples until they stiffen under the pressure.
He rolls them between his fingers, watching my face as he does.
My breath catches, my thighs tightening around his hips.
I can’t hide anything from him.
Every tremble, every stuttered breath, every soft, helpless sound, it’s all his now.
He leans in and takes one nipple into his mouth, tongue hot and wet, lips sealing around it before he sucks, hard enough to make me cry out.
I grab his shoulders to stay upright, my nails digging into the fabric of his shirt.
He groans at the sound I make, and I feel it everywhere.
In my chest. In my spine. In the wet ache between my legs.
When he switches to the other breast, his teeth graze the peak first, then his tongue soothes the sting, slowly and reverently.
My hips grind down again, unthinking, and this time, he meets me halfway, thrusting up with just enough pressure to send a shock of pleasure through me.
I whimper into the space between us, forehead falling against his.
“You like that,” he says, voice dark velvet against my skin. “The way I use my mouth. You want more?”
I nod, breathless. “Yes. Don’t stop.”
His hands slide under my thighs, lifting me like I weigh nothing, turning us so I’m on my back across the mattress and he’s above me, braced on his elbows.
The shift in weight feels like surrender.
It feels like inevitability.
His mouth returns to mine, but now it’s slower, deeper, like he’s taking his time to learn me inside and out.
He kisses like a man who understands that foreplay isn’t a stage.
It’s a language.
He moves lower, mouth trailing a wet, open path down my throat, along my collarbone, between the curve of my breasts.
His stubble leaves behind the faintest scrape, not enough to hurt, just enough to make my skin hum with sensation.
He stops just below my ribs, looks up at me with eyes that are all heat and control, and then keeps going.
Lower. Slower.
His hands slide under my skirt again, this time with intent, fingers grazing the insides of my thighs, coaxing them open.
I tremble as he kisses the soft skin there, the heat of his breath ghosting over the damp center of me.
His mouth is close, so close, and the anticipation is unbearable. “Look at you,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the inside of my thigh. “Already soaked for me. You’ve been wanting this.”
I swallow hard.
He slides my panties down in one slow motion, baring me completely.
The air hits me and I shiver, not from cold, but from the sheer exposure.
His eyes flick over every inch of me, and the way he looks at me makes me feel high.
“Stay just like this,” he says, his voice nothing but gravel and heat. “Let me taste you.”
The room narrows to the space between my thighs.
His breath ghosts over me, hot and humid, a whisper of what’s coming.
I’m bare beneath him, thighs parted, slick and pulsing, and there is nothing between his mouth and the place I need him most.
I feel his breath first, then the slow drag of his tongue, a single stroke from bottom to top that leaves me gasping, spine arching off the mattress.
My body shivers like its been charged by the sound of his groan as he presses in again, slower, firmer, taking his time.
His tongue moves like he knows my body better than I do, like he’s following a map etched into my skin.
I can’t stay still.
My hips buck helplessly, chasing each movement, and his hands come down to hold me in place, thumbs pressing into the crease of my thighs.
His grip is firm, grounding.
It doesn’t stop me from trembling.
I feel every pass of his mouth like it’s a chord strummed low in my belly, and when he flicks the tip of his tongue over my clit once, then again, just a little harder, I cry out.
“Jesus—” My voice breaks around the name.
He hums in response, a deep vibration that sends a jolt of heat straight through me.
His tongue circles again, slower this time, then flattens and licks hard.
I jerk beneath him, thighs shaking.
I’m so wet now, I can hear the soft, obscene sounds of his mouth working me open, tongue greedy, relentless.
He pulls back just far enough to speak, his lips slick.
“You’re shaking.”
“I can’t help it.”
“You don’t have to.” His voice is dips lower, full of hunger. “Let me feel you fall apart.”
Then he dives back in, mouth sealing over me, tongue flicking in tight, precise strokes that make my legs quake.
His hand slips between us and two fingers slide inside me, slow and deep, and I cry out again, head thrown back, mouth open in an O of pure sensation.
My body clenches hard around him, and he groans into me like he feels it in his chest.
He sets a rhythm—fingers pumping, tongue circling, sucking, licking, relentless—and I'm nothing but heat and pulse and want.
My thighs clamp around his head and he growls, low and rough, like he likes being caught there, like it only drives him harder.
He twists his fingers just right, crooked against that spot that makes my vision blur, and I cry out, loud and aching, the sound bouncing off the walls.
“Please,” I gasp, not even sure what I’m begging for.
More. Closer. Forever.
He lifts his head just enough to meet my eyes, mouth glistening, his voice dark and reverent.
“You’re so fucking beautiful like this. You’re going to come for me, aren’t you?”
I nod, frantic, the pressure unbearable now, coiled tight in my spine, my belly, my thighs.
He leans back in, lips closing over my clit, and sucks hard.
My body bows up off the mattress, hands fisting the sheets, and the orgasm crashes through me like a wave, raw and helpless and endless.
I moan his name as I come, trembling all over.
He doesn’t stop.
He keeps licking me through it, soft and slow now, almost worshipful, like he’s tasting the best thing he’s ever had and can’t bring himself to let go.
I’m still trembling when he kisses his way back up my body.
Every nerve is awake, oversensitive, raw in the most exquisite way.
He moves slowly, carefully, like he knows I’m stretched thin and pulsing everywhere, like he’s proud of what he’s done to me.
When he reaches my mouth again, he doesn’t rush it.
His lips are warm, tasting faintly of me, and the kiss is slow, grounding.
I melt into it, my hands finding his face, his jaw, the back of his neck.
His body presses into mine, heavier now, solid between my legs, and I feel him—hot, thick, straining against the rough fabric of his pants.
I shift beneath him and he groans, low and hoarse, forehead dropping to mine.
“Elisa,” he says, my name like a warning and a prayer all at once. “Tell me you want this.”
My legs wrap around him.
I drag his hips into mine and tilt up so he can feel how ready I still am.
The ache hasn’t gone anywhere.
It’s changed shape, sharper now, an opening instead of a build.
“I want you,” I whisper. “Now. Don’t make me wait.”
He curses softly, something reverent in another language, and rises up just enough to strip off his shirt.