Chapter 6 #3
A nimble tongue twines with mine, urging me to investigate further as he sips at my lips with gentle tugs that draw a whine from my throat.
When we break apart, I hover over him, breath ragged, my head pleasantly fogged. Orien’s hands slip under the hem of my shirt, warm fingers on the bare skin at my waist, thumbs digging into the soft place above my hips.
I don’t pull back as the sensation sizzles through me, jaw clenched to keep from shuddering. I keep my eyes on his, open, refusing to close them and miss a single moment.
Orien pulls me across the bench, one muscular thigh sliding between mine until I straddle his lap in the narrow booth.
His leather jacket comes off in a fluid motion, and he drapes it around my shoulders, enveloping me in a heady mix of worn leather, pheromones, and the faintest hint of his sweat.
It’s large enough to cover me, concealing us from casual observation. His calloused hand slides down to my thigh, then traces up the seam of my pants with deliberate slowness, until he finds my dick, already hard and straining beneath my zipper.
He strokes me through the rough fabric with confidence, and I try to steady my breathing, but it hitches, betraying my desperation.
My fingers dig into his shirt, clutching at the taut muscle beneath as I rest my forehead on his.
The heat radiating from him is a furnace, consuming the cool air between us.
His free hand dives under my shirt, fingers splayed over my ribs, thumb circling my nipple until it hardens under his touch. I arch into him, chasing the friction, any pretense of self-control dissolving.
Beyond our shadowed sanctuary, the lounge pulses with life, the clink of glasses and the hum of conversation only a few yards away, but in this dim cocoon, there’s only Orien and the electric dance of nerve endings beneath my skin.
He tugs loose the arms of my cardigan from around my waist and pulls it free, unhurried, as if he’s unwrapping a present. Then, with a deft flick, he pops open the top button of my jeans and drags down my zipper.
His hand slides in slowly past the waistband of my boxer briefs, giving me time to stop this, but all I want is to urge him to go faster.
When his fingers finally wrap around my hard length, my hips instinctively jerk forward, chasing more friction, and he lets me have it, just barely, tightening his grip as a warning.
He strokes me slowly at first, almost lazily, as if he has all night and knows exactly what that does to me. My dick is already leaking, slick against his palm, and the slide of it makes my thighs tense.
My face tips toward his, our noses brushing, his breath warm against my parted lips.
For a moment, I breathe nothing but his exhales, my mouth open and wanting. But I don’t close the distance. Instead, I turn my face into his shoulder and struggle to hold what’s left of myself together.
He doesn’t let me.
His thumb drags over my sensitive head on each upstroke, slow and deliberate, and I feel it like a current running the length of my spine. I bite down on his shoulder through the fabric of his shirt to keep from making a sound, fingers knotting in his shirt.
He speeds up only when I start to shake, when my hips move without my permission, fucking up into his fist in short, desperate rolls.
The orgasm hits me like a fist to the sternum, my whole body locking up before it breaks open, and I come in long, shuddering pulses, gasping wetly against his shirt, my vision going white.
Orien waits for my breathing to slow before drawing his hand out from under my boxers, slick with evidence of my undoing.
He holds it up between us, glistening in what little light filters through to our booth.
And when he brings his fingers to my lips, I lean forward and lick every trace of me from his skin.
With a rumble of approval, he wipes away what remains on his pants leg in a gesture so filthy yet casual that I want him all over again.
Needing to return the favor, I hook a finger into his belt, but he stops me with one strong hand wrapped around my wrist.
My confusion must be plain, because he shakes his head, moving my hand away from the hard cock that strains the front of his pants.
The sting of rejection burns, followed by shame. Once again, I lost my reason around him.
I scramble off his lap, fix my clothes, and reach for my drink on the table, finishing it in two gulps to burn away the lingering taste of my own cum.
I search for a crack in his composure, some evidence this wasn’t just a transaction, some sort of payment for him looking into my tip.
Orien’s face remains closed off.
With a jerk of my chin, I grab my abandoned cardigan and slide out of the booth. I walk the length of the Blue Note without looking back, the friction of denim against my thighs a vivid, raw reminder. Petra grins at me as I pass, but I ignore her, not having it in me to pretend.
I do not think about the way every place Orien touched me still burns.
And I refuse to think about how next time will hurt more.