Colin
The dark pares everything down to bursts of sensation. Takes away the trappings of civilization. Leaves me wild. Out of control and more animalistic than I’ve ever let myself be.
My hands fist her soft hair, calluses snag as I twist and pull close. Rough cheek to smooth. Our noses bump, hard enough to bring tears to my eyes, but even the tears are right.
I want to make it last, to feel every moment of this kiss, this first connection, but I can’t. I need this. Her. Like air, like light.
“Come here,” I mutter, tightening my fingers in her long curls, gratified by the answering twist of her hands in my shirt, dragging me closer while I fight to do the same.
And it’s not fast enough. Not deep enough when our lips meet, not hot enough from our tongues twirling, not wet enough, not…
enough. Not nearly. Not even fucking close.
She’s an experience. Kissing her isn’t the sickly sweet thing I’d imagined. It’s not stuffing my face with spun sugar, it’s a deep, luxurious dive that is so right, it’s almost familiar.
This one, my brain chants as I change my angle and lick inside her mouth. This. This.
The sounds I’m making don’t come from me. Or at least not the part of myself I show the world, not the part I control. In the shadows, something else has taken over—the snarling, feral creature I keep chained deep inside the basement of my soul. Now that it’s out, I’m ruined. We both are.
My hands are everywhere, sliding the coat off her shoulders, pulling our bodies tight together and then pushing, pushing her hard against the metal wall.
Her back connects with a clang and a gasp.
She twists closer, grasps my face and holds it still.
Our heads tilt, our teeth connect in a movement that should be awkward, but resounds in my bones like the clash of swords on the battlefield. A necessary destruction.
There’s nothing to see in the dark. Nothing to hide behind.
Cold lips, hot tongue, her smell close up a warm, sweet secret just for me.
I manage to pull away and catch a breath, barely. “Christ.”
“What? Am I too—”
I don’t let her finish. I need more. Fuck me, I’ll never come down from this.
I’d better not. I want the edgy urgency, the heedless disregard for comfort.
I bite her lip, she returns the favor with a moan.
I tug her hair so hard she whimpers, her hands snaking down my back to slide into my waistband.
In retaliation, I press my hips to hers, the hard bar of my cock a threat and a promise. “Stop bloody squirming,” I say. “Or I’ll lose it.”
I will anyway. Her lips are much too soft, too plush. When she pulls at me with just the right amount of pressure, I thank God there’s no light. Actually seeing her on top of all this sensation would be too much.
“What happens then?” She sounds as if she’s run one of those bloody fell races where you’re as likely to lose an eye as finish the damned thing. “If you lose it?”
I give her pelvis another thrust, but it’s not enough, God damn it. I need more. Closer, harder, harsher. Both hands skim down the lush, round body I think of all too often, cup her arse to get her as tight against me as I can, encounter only bare skin, and go still.
“What…” With her soft, naked cheeks in my hands, I can barely breathe, can barely think, aside from this strobe-flashing need to taste, take, have.
Nothing moves but our heaving chests. “…the fuck are you wearing, little girl?” I ask, the last two words scratched out from that dark place I’ve unwisely unlocked inside me.
“Shorts,” she says, her voice only half there. The rest has been scratched away, the shavings of it left on the floor of this free-hanging metal box, along with every one of my inhibitions.
With the little control I’ve got left, I slide my hands up, then back down and under her waistband, slow enough to give her time to protest. She doesn’t, of course. Judging from the rhythmic pulsing of her hips, she wants this as much as I do.
“Where,” I ask, as careful and controlled as I can. “Are your fucking knickers?”
“Is that another word for underwear? How many—”
I let out an impatient growl.
Her response is a whispered rush. “I’m not wearing any.”
“You mean to tell me you’ve been bare arsed under those tiny shorts this whole time?”
Her sigh is a long, drawn out exhalation. “Maybe.”
With another uncontrolled noise, I drop to the floor so fast I’ve got to pin her flank to the wall to keep her from collapsing on top of me. The way the lift shudders should be frightening, but my rational brain’s nowhere to be found.
Who gives a fuck when you’re about to get a taste of the pussy you’ve been dreaming of for months?
The pajama bottoms are tiny, loose, stretchy things and, rather than yank them down the way my inner monster would like, I urge her legs open and bury my face in the front.
“My god, your smell.” Made for me. I breathe her in like the finest, rarest whisky.
Something to be savored with every sense before consuming, one slow sip at a time.
But I can’t do slow. Not now when she’s here, smelling like sweetness and spice and sin combined and it just so happens to be the chemical compound of my dreams. “I’ve got to taste you, love. ”
“Yes,” she whispers. “Okay. Yes. Yes.”
My hand grasps the crotch of her ridiculous garment, yanks it to the side, and before it’s cleared her pussy, I dive in, sinking my whole face into her, coating myself with her, marking myself, consuming. Fuck, fuck me.
I’m lost to that part of me that wants to take and take. The part that’s wanted to push her up against the letterboxes and rut since the very moment she walked into the building.
That part knew what it wanted, even if my working brain denied it. That part felt the pull. The hunger.
Even tongue-deep inside her, I’m afraid that inner beast will never get enough.
Worse, though, I’m afraid it doesn’t want to be sated. It wants more. More of this heavenly taste, more of her almost pained whimpers filling the lift. More of the hunger itself.
I swipe up, flick her stiff little clit with the tip of my tongue, and allow myself a slow, side to side journey back down.
“More,” I groan, tugging at her lip with my teeth, twisting my head to the side to lick inside her.
She’s thrown one of her thick thighs over my shoulder and I want every bit of her on top of me, I want to soak up her weight, smother in all this hot, tender flesh.
Above me, her whimper turns to a squeal as I yank the shorts down and tug at her legs.
“What are you doing?” She smacks my hand. “Stop it.”
I freeze. “Shit. You all right?”
“We’re in an elevator.”
“I need to get my face in your gorgeous pussy, Jules. Please.”
“You do?”
“So badly."
“Oh, God,” she whimpers. “Yeah. I want that.”
The moment she grabs my shoulders, I shove her tighter to the wall, grip her stupendous arse and lift, so I’m holding her up as she rides me, her sweet pussy spread wide for the taking.
“Shit, shit, watch out,” she shrieks which, once I get my tongue back to where it belongs, turns to a high, breathless, “Oh, God, oh God, oh God,” and, with my next bite, “fuck, Colin. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I want… Oh, God.”
I hum against her flesh, actually smiling now.
Can’t help it, can I? I’ve just found the one thing that makes this woman curse.
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