Chapter Seven — Sienna #2
His hands slide up my thighs, pushing them apart, and he settles between them and looks at me. Silk around my wrists, cheeks flushed, breathing gone uneven, like I'm the most interesting thing he's seen in three years.
Which, apparently, I am.
"Tell me what you want," he says.
"You know what I want."
"I want to hear you say it."
I hold his gaze. "I want your mouth on me. And then I want you inside me. And I want you to stop being so—"
He hooks his fingers in my underwear. I lift my hips without being asked, and it's gone before I finish the sentence at all.
His tongue finds exactly the right place immediately, which is either very good instinct or three years of thinking about this. I don't much care which. My hips jerk forward. His hands press flat on my thighs and hold me where he wants me and the pressure of that alone makes me gasp.
Two fingers push inside me and my head drops back against nothing.
"Oh God." The words come out wrecked. "Don't stop. Don't you dare—"
He doesn't stop. He adds a third finger, curls them and I stop caring about staying quiet completely. My fingers grip his hair hard enough that he makes a low sound against me that vibrates through every nerve in my body.
I come apart fast and hard, his name torn out of me, my thighs shaking against his shoulders. He stays with me through every second of it, his mouth and his hands not letting up until there's nothing left of me to give.
When I come back down I'm breathing like I ran here.
He straightens up, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and looks at me.
"Hi," he says.
I laugh. I don't mean to. "Don't be charming right now."
"Too late."
He reaches for me again, and I grab the front of his shirt and pull him in.
"This is a terrible idea," I tell him, working the buttons of his shirt.
"The worst," he agrees, and doesn't stop me.
"I want you to make me forget every single—"
"I intend to," he says, and he means all of it.
His shirt is open. I push it off his shoulders and run my hands over his chest, his stomach, the lines of him that I've been not-looking-at for two weeks, and the sound he makes when I drag my nails lightly down his abs makes something hot and satisfied curl through me.
He reaches between us. His fingers find me again and I gasp.
"Still good?" he asks.
"If you stop I will end you."
He doesn't stop.
I reach for his belt, but he stops me. With one hand his trousers dealt with in the time it takes me to catch my breath.
By the time he finally steps between my thighs and looks at me, I am desperate in a way I haven't been in years, maybe ever, the silk loose around my wrists and my whole body wound tight.
He pauses with his forehead against mine. His breathing is ragged, so is mine.
"Look at me," he says.
The echo lands somewhere in the center of my chest. My studio. Tribeca. Three years ago.
I look at him.
He pushes inside me slowly and I feel every single inch of it. The stretch, the fullness, the sharp relief of finally. The sound I make is embarrassing. I don't care.
"Okay?" he says, his forehead still against mine, not moving.
"More than." My voice is wrecked. "Adrian. Move."
He moves.
It's not gentle. I don't want gentle. He sets a pace that makes thinking impossible.
Deep and steady. Each thrust rocking me back against the workbench with a force I feel all the way up my spine.
His hands grip my hips hard enough that I'll feel the marks tomorrow and I am already looking forward to that.
I wrap my legs around him and pull him deeper. He groans against my throat, low and rough, the sound of a man who has been waiting three years for exactly this and is done waiting.
The workbench scrapes against the floor. Neither of us cares.
"You feel—" he starts.
"Don't." I pull him down harder. "Don't talk. Just—"
He drives deeper and I forget what I was saying.
"Don't stop," I breathe. "Don't—"
"I've got you." Against my ear. Low. The real version of his voice.
One hand stays on my hip, holding my rhythm steady. The other slides between us, his thumb finding me, circling slowly and certainly while he keeps moving inside me.
I actually cry out. Full-throated, unguarded, his name coming out broken.
"Adrian—"
"Let go." His mouth finds my jaw, my cheek, the corner of my mouth. "Let go, Sienna."
The second orgasm hits harder than the first. Deeper and longer, my whole body locking around him as it crests. I shake with it, my fingers white-knuckled in his hair, the red silk bright against both of us in the low light.
He doesn't stop moving.
"Tell me this isn't over when the contract ends," he says, rough, close to my ear.
"Ask me later."
"I'm asking now."
"Adrian—"
"Sienna." His pace doesn't change. His eyes don't leave mine. "Tell me."
I look at him. Nothing managed. Eyes dark. The man underneath everything he shows the world.
"It's not over," I say.
He kisses me like he's trying to make a point.
He comes apart a moment later. My name in his mouth, his arms locked around me, his whole body shuddering against mine. I hold on and let it happen. I feel something loosen in my chest that has been tight for three years.
We stay there.
My cheek against his shoulder. His breathing slowing. The silk loose and warm between us.
Neither of us moves.
"The bodice," I say, eventually. Because if I don't say something practical, I'm going to say something I'm not ready to say.
"It'll keep."
"The left panel seam—"
"Sienna." He pulls back just enough to look at me. His thumb moves across my cheekbone, one slow line. "The bodice will keep. Stay here a minute longer."
I look at him.
I think about kept passwords and locked drawers and a scarf that still smells like me.
"You're going to be a problem," I say.
The real smile. The rare one that changes his whole face.
"I've been a problem since the gala," he says. "You kept the card."
He's right. I did. I look away before he can see what that means. But I don't get down from the workbench.
Not yet.