Chapter Eleven — Sienna #2
His hands move under the hem of my robe.
His palms are warm against my thighs, broad hands with long fingers that press into my skin like he's memorizing the architecture of me.
I shift, straddle him properly, settling over his lap, and I can feel exactly how much he wants this.
Hard and insistent against me, even through his sweatpants.
"Sienna—"
"Don't talk," I say against his mouth. My lips brush his when I form the words.
He doesn't talk.
His hands push my robe up around my hips, fabric bunching at my waist. His fingers find the edge of my underwear, lace, barely there.
The kind I wear when I'm dressing for myself but also, maybe, for the possibility of exactly this.
I lift slightly, and he pulls them down and off in one motion, and they join the silk on the planks.
The night air touches me between my thighs, cool against the heat that's already building there.
The city is forty floors below and nothing can see us, and I'm past caring either way.
My hand finds him through the fabric of his sweatpants. Already hard, thick under my palm, and I drag my hand slowly along the length of him, feeling him flex and strain against the cotton. The shape of him, the heat of him, the way his breath stutters when I press down, I want all of it.
He exhales hard through his teeth, a sharp hiss, and his hips push up into my hand.
"Sienna—"
"Patience," I say, and do it again. Slower. Dragging my palm from base to tip, letting my fingers curl around him through the fabric.
"I don't have any left." His voice is low, almost raw, and it sends a pulse of heat straight through me.
I laugh against his mouth, a soft breathless sound, and finally hook my fingers into his waistband, pulling down.
He lifts his hips to help me, and the sweatpants slide low enough, and then there's nothing between us.
His cock is hot against my thigh, hard and thick, and I can feel the slickness already at the tip when I wrap my hand around him once, twice, before guiding him to where I need him.
I sink down onto him slowly.
The stretch of him fills me completely, and I groan before I can stop it.
A low, broken sound that comes from somewhere deep in my chest. He's thick and warm and so deep I feel it in my stomach, my body opening around him inch by inch until I've taken all of him.
I press my forehead to his and just breathe for a moment, adjusting, feeling every inch of him inside me, the way I clench and pulse around him, already trying to pull him deeper.
We both go still.
Then he pushes my robe off my shoulders.
It slides down my arms, catches at my elbows, and falls.
The night air hits my bare skin, and then his mouth finds my breast and I gasp.
His lips close around my nipple, his tongue working slow circles, wet and hot and relentless.
His teeth graze lightly when I arch into him, a sharp contrast that makes my breath catch.
He moves to the other breast, hungry, his hands at my hips dragging me down harder onto him, and I feel it everywhere.
Heat pooling low, my body clenching around his cock, my nipples peaked and wet from his mouth.
I start moving.
I find the rhythm that works, slow, grinding, deep, and he lets me have it.
His mouth stays at my breast, alternating, attentive, reading every sound I make.
When I gasp, he sucks harder. When I moan, his tongue moves faster.
The sounds he makes against my skin are low and unguarded, groans and murmurs that vibrate through me, and I feel them in my chest, in my stomach, between my legs where he's buried inside me.
I look at him. His eyes are dark, nearly black in the low light, the city behind him a blur of amber and rose.
His hair is completely undone from where my hands have been in it, falling across his forehead in disarray.
He looks like he's finally let go of something he'd been holding for a very long time.
The tension in his jaw, the controlled stillness that usually lives in his body, all of it has dissolved.
I move faster. My hips rise and fall, slick and hot, his cock sliding deep with every stroke. The wet sound of us is obscene and perfect, mixing with the distant hum of the city below.
His grip tightens on my hips. His head falls back against the sofa cushion, and I watch him.
The line of his throat, the way his jaw goes tight, the tendons in his neck standing out.
A fierce, consuming satisfaction floods through me, and it has nothing to do with anything other than this. Watching him come undone beneath me.
The pressure builds low and deep, tightening with every movement.
I can't think about anything except the feel of him inside me, thick and hard and hitting that spot that makes my vision blur.
His mouth is still warm against my breast, his tongue tracing lazy circles around my nipple, and the combination of sensations is unraveling me.
My thighs shake. I press my face into his shoulder, breathing in the scent of him, cedar and whiskey and skin, and chase it.
Harder. Faster. My hips grinding down, his cock buried deep, my clit pressed against him with every stroke.
It crests and breaks.
The orgasm rolls through me in long waves, my whole body clenching around him, pulsing, my back arching, my mouth open against his shirt. His name comes out broken — "Adrian" — half-gasp, half-plea, muffled against the fabric that smells like him.