20
Owen
It’s two more blocks to Amelia’s apartment. Two blocks that feel like running towards the edge of a cliff.
My hands are on her hips as she unlocks her building’s front door, the smooth satin of her dress running like water between my fingertips. We step into the hallway, turn the corner, approach her apartment door and I’m impatient. My arms wrap around her from behind as I taste down her neck.
“Owen,” she sighs, leaning into me, melting under my grasp. “Stop distracting me.”
“Mmm… I don’t want to,” I say, sucking on the soft skin where her neck meets her shoulder.
“The sooner I unlock this door, the sooner you can fuck me.”
I groan as I pull my lips away, dropping my forehead to her shoulder as she fiddles with the lock. “Are you trying to kill me, woman?”
There’s a click, then a creak.
Slowly, Amelia turns to face me in the frame of the open door.
She’s Venus in her clamshell, divinity and temptation and a pure work of art.
Big brown eyes full of mischief and seduction, silken curls cascading behind her, and a thin green dress hinting at every inch of skin I want to taste and touch and know.
She steps backwards, into the apartment, eyes never leaving mine. We aren’t touching, but I might as well be leashed for how willingly I follow, step for step, into the center of the room, shutting the door behind me. Archie is asleep in the dog bed in the corner, bless him.
There’s nothing in our way.
She halts me with a hand in the center of my chest. “I believe you wanted to see my rosary collection?”
My eyes don’t leave hers. “There are other things I want more.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Like what?” she asks, hands moving to my biceps as mine find her waist.
“Like you,” I say, hovering my mouth over hers.
We’re so close, but not yet. Each warm exhale teases my skin, begging me forward, drawing me in.
At first, our lips barely touch—a momentary brush of pink on red, whisper-thin and desperate.
Then again, a moment more, enough to linger, but not enough.
The air is thick between us, a cloud of whiskey and lust in each shared breath. I press my mouth to hers again, more insistent this time, trapping her bottom lip between my own, pushing and taking until finally.
She throws her arms around my neck, twining her fingers into my hair as I crush my lips to hers. She tastes like cinnamon and feels like heaven—soft, lithe, strong. Her pillowy lips, her slender waist. I want her to know how badly I need her, to see what she does to me.
My hands roam greedily over her hips before grabbing her ass and pressing her against my body, letting her feel exactly how hard I am.
Being the woman she is—all passion and fire—she meets every motion, every tease and bite and moan with her own. I lick into her mouth and she gasps into mine, arms encircling my neck as our bodies crush together, grinding against my growing need.
I’ve wanted her for so long. Far longer than I’ve even liked her. Her legs, her tits, her sharp nails and wicked mouth. She’s a siren who lured me in from the first notes of her call.
And I would’ve expected my need to plateau—a physical desire burning steady in the back of my mind each time I see her.
But it’s the opposite. With every day we spend together, every sliver of herself she chooses to reveal, I feel more ensnared.
More awed. I’ve never felt like this before.
Desperate for anything she's willing to offer me, savoring the moments I’m near her, begging time to slow before she realizes she could have anyone in the world and doesn’t need me. Before she changes her mind.
Amelia’s hands make their way to my chest, pulling at the buttons on my shirt with a messiness I’ve never seen from her. And maybe—God, maybe—she feels a bit of this desperation, too.
I wait for all of two buttons before I need the damn thing off.
I break our kiss, reaching behind my neck to tug the shirt over my head.
When I come back to her, my hands immediately reach for the smooth fabric at her hips, fingers twisting urgently in the satin.
My lips find the place where her neck meets her shoulder, sucking and biting and whispering, “Take this off. I have to see you.”
She steps back, a foot of space between us, and I think she’s going to comply—going to finally let me see her.
But her eyes travel down my exposed chest, meandering over the scattered tattoos until they land elsewhere, lower.
Then she reaches forward, two elegant fingertips dipping beneath the waistband of my pants.
“Not yet.” She smirks up at me, and I’m such a fucking goner. “First take these off.”
My hands find my belt without dropping her gaze, loosening it and letting my pants fall to the floor, left in only my boxer briefs.
She takes a half step towards me, then nods over my shoulder. “Lie back on the bed.”
A smile crawls across my lips.
Because of course.
Of course this is how this is going to go.
I’m used to calling the shots, telling my partner exactly what I want, and what a good job she’s doing when she gives it to me. But that’s not Amelia. Of course she would be the one in charge. And I’ll gladly do whatever she tells me.
Obediently, eyes never leaving hers, I sit at the edge of her double bed, then shift back until my head rests on a pillow.
“Good,” she praises. “Now hold onto the headboard and don’t let go.”
Her expression is wicked and lovely—the corners of her mouth resisting a smile, her eyes narrowed to seductive slits. Slowly, I reach my arms over my head, clutching the wooden bars of her headboard like the reins of my self-control.
Finally, Amelia reaches behind herself to unzip the dress. The air is lava-thick as she lowers one strap, then the second, until the green satin is held up by nothing more than a single hand across her chest.
Then she lets it fall.
“Fuuuuuck,” I rasp.
I mean Jesus Christ.
This is unfair.
She’s perfect. She’s fucking perfect.
Ever since that day on the Cape, when she’d bested me in our game of wills outside the shower, I’ve imagined this. And it’s so, so much better than even my filthiest dreams.
Amelia Mercado is sex personified.
I’m rock hard and there’s no hiding it. Her eyes lock on the front of my boxer briefs.
“Like the view, Owen?”
“You know I do,” I rumble low in my chest.
“Really?” she asks as her hands start to trail up her supple stomach, then higher, until she’s clasping her own breasts, teasing her nipples, shameless and confident.
I’m white-knuckling the headboard, control pushed to its limits. “Jesus, Amelia. Get over here. Let me touch you. Please.”
“No,” she smirks, fingers meandering in lazy circles over her nipples as they tighten into stiff buds. “Tonight, I touch, you watch.”
“Fuck,” I hiss, painfully hard, desperate for relief that isn’t coming—at least not yet.
She takes her time, letting the pleasure of her own ministrations fall across her face. One hand remains on her breast while the other moves lower, dipping under the edge of her underwear and drawing out slow circles of pleasure there.
“Amelia, baby. Please.” I’m not above begging. Not at a time like this. “Take them off. I need to see you.”
“What, these?” she teases, trailing her fingers over the lacy edge of her thong.
“Yes.”
“Well, since you asked so nicely.”
Slowly, she lowers the lace to the floor, baring herself entirely.
She’s graceful, almost serpentine, as she stands upright again, continuing to trace nimble fingertips across her body, guiding my eyes exactly where she wants them.
Her deep red nails trail up over her hips, her waist, her ribs, circling her breasts once before dragging down over the taut plane of her stomach.
One hand travels lower still and she closes her eyes with the pleasure of it, no trace of self-consciousness as her fingers work their slow circles again.
I would give anything to replace her fingers with my own. I’d give my apartment. My career. My first born child. Fuck that kid—I don’t want kids anyway. I just want Amelia.
When her eyes flutter closed, head tilting back in sinful abandon, it’s all I can do not to come in my pants.
“Amelia,” I growl. It’s all I can say. There are no other words. My brain is a jumbled mess of desire and restraint. The headboard groans under my grip but I can’t loosen it—it’s my only tether to this mortal coil. I’m all raw desperation as I beg, “Please, gorgeous. I need you. Lia, please.”
The words have her slowing her motions, cracking open her eyes with a knowing glint. Then finally, she makes her way onto the bed, crawling over me and caging me in a prison of my deepest desire.
“Did you just call me Lia?” she asks, and her grin is triumph.
“I’ll call you whatever you want. Just let me touch you.”
Her naked body straddles me, fingers spinning paths between the tattoos on my chest. “Well, you have been good. Maybe you deserve a reward.”
“Yes,” I breathe, trying not to sound as desperate as I feel.
Gently, she tucks her fingertips beneath the waistband of my boxer briefs, pulling them down my legs and freeing me entirely. I’m rigid against my stomach—so close to the edge without her even touching me yet.
She takes her time, trailing those red nails gently over my thighs, my stomach, circling closer in to where I need her but never quite reaching it. Every time she seems prepared to finally touch me, she pulls away again. I twitch in anticipation.
“God, you drive me fucking crazy.”
The smile on her lips says that that’s exactly what she’s going for.
“What is it you want, Owen?” she asks, lowering herself closer and closer to me. “Do you want my mouth on your dick?”
I can feel her breath caressing me as I choke out a desperate, “Yes.”
Then she does it. Her tongue drags up my length, slow and wet. Then she’s taking me into her mouth and I can’t stop my moan, clinging to the headboard with all my strength. “Oh, God.”