20. Bianca
BIANCA
Gideon kisses me the way he does everything else. With intent. Both hands on my jaw, thumbs along the line of my cheekbones.
His coat is still on. So is mine.
He pulls back an inch. His thumb passes once across my bottom lip. “I should tell you something before we keep going.”
“Okay.”
“I’m not gentle.”
I wait.
He keeps his eyes on mine. “I leave marks. I like it rough. If that’s not what you want, tell me now. You’ll get exactly what you want.”
The fire crackles. His thumb hasn’t moved from my lip.
My thighs are already pressing together. I want his mouth on me. I want his teeth on me. I want him to stop asking.
“I can take it.”
His pupils blow wide. That is the only warning I get.
He kisses me again, and this kiss is not the same kiss. His hand slides into my hair at the back of my skull and closes, and he tips my head exactly where he wants it, and his tongue is in my mouth before I remember how to breathe.
My coat hits the floor. So does his.
His mouth drops to the side of my throat. He bites. Not hard enough to draw a sound out of me, but hard enough that I have to grab the front of his shirt to stay upright.
“Off.” He pulls the hem of my sweater up.
I lift my arms.
He gets the sweater over my head and drops it on the floor on top of my coat. My bra and his shirt go next.
His hands are on my back, both of them, dragging from my shoulders to my ass and pulling me into him hard.
His chest is hot against mine. The hair on his chest catches on my nipples, and the friction shoots straight down to my center.
His length is a thick line against my stomach through his jeans.
He’s so hard, I feel like he might burst through his pants.
I rock my hips against him without thinking, and he grabs my ass tighter.
My pussy is soaked. I need more of him.
He walks me backward.
I don’t know what he is walking me toward until the back of the couch hits the small of my back. He keeps walking. My hips press into the leather, and then he leans his weight into me, and there is no question what he wants.
His mouth drops to my ear. “Hands.”
I lift them.
“Behind you.”
I put my hands behind me, palms flat on the back of the couch.
“Stay.”
He steps back half a foot and looks at me. Just looks. My jeans are still on. My hair is falling loose around my shoulders. The fireplace is at my back, and his face is in shadow except for the line of his jaw and his mouth, which is wet.
I have been looked at by Theo. I have been looked at by Ander. This is its own thing.
The leather is cool under my palms. The fire is hot down my back. My belly is so tight it is shaking. Between my legs, a slow pulse matches the one in my throat. I have never wanted to be touched this badly in my life. I would beg if he asked me to.
He steps back in. One hand goes to the button of my jeans. The other goes flat against my sternum, between my breasts, holding me to the back of the couch like he is making sure I don’t move while he works.
The button gives, followed by the zipper. He hooks his thumbs into my waistband and drags everything down at once, jeans and underwear together, and goes to one knee in front of me long enough to pull them off my ankles.
He stands and looks at me again, dragging his gaze from my lips to my chest to my pussy. Then back up to my lips.
“Turn around.”
I turn around.
The back of the couch is suddenly under my forearms. He puts a palm between my shoulder blades and presses, and I rest my head on my forearms, pushing my ass toward him. The leather is cool against my skin.
His hand is on my hip.
“Tell me if it stops being okay.”
“Okay.”
His hand slides off my hip and around. Down. He drags two fingers through me, between my folds, and makes a sound. Low.
“Fuck.”
He pushes both fingers inside me without warning. I make a muffled noise into the cushion.
He doesn’t start slow. He doesn’t work up. He starts at the pace he wants and stays there. His other hand remains on the small of my back, and the leather creaks under my forearms as my body rocks forward with every thrust of his hand.
His fingers are long. He pushes them in to the last knuckle on every thrust, and he is dragging wetness out of me on every pull.
I can hear it. The wet sound of his hand fucking me fills the cabin over the crack of the fire.
My clit is pulsing where his thumb has not reached yet.
The waiting is its own torture. I push back against him to chase the friction, and he makes a sound behind me that is almost a laugh.
His thumb finds my clit on the next pass and stays.
The sound that comes out of me is loud. I don’t try to hide it. He told me he wasn’t holding back. Neither am I.
My arousal has run down the inside of my thighs. My pussy clenches around his fingers, and that just makes me wetter, which makes more sound, which makes him grunt against the back of my neck and curl his fingers harder. His other hand has started gripping the meat of my hip.
His thumb strokes harder. His fingers curl, find the spot, and stay there.
“Louder,” he commands.
I give him louder.
And he moves faster, rougher. He is not going to stop until I come for him. And I’m going to come for him, embarrassingly soon.
He fucks me with his hand, and his thumb doesn’t change rhythm. His fingers do. They speed up. They slow. They go deeper when I push back. The leather of the couch groans every time he drives his hand into me.
My thighs are shaking against the front of it.
His teeth find the back of my shoulder.
He bites down.
The sting cracks through me, and the heat that has been building between my legs tightens to a point, and I push back against him harder.
“Gideon,” I cry out.
His thumb keeps its rhythm. His mouth is at the bite mark, working it with his tongue now, soothing what he did, and the contrast is what tips me over the edge.
“Come for me.”
I do.
I shake apart over the back of the couch with my palm flat on the leather and his fingers inside me.
He works me through it. His mouth is at my ear the whole time.
He doesn’t say a word. He keeps his hand exactly where it is until I’m done shuddering, and then a little longer, until my noises slow, and then he slows.
He pulls his fingers out of me carefully.
I hear, behind me, the wet sound of him putting them in his mouth.
“Bianca, look at me.”
I push up onto my elbows. My hair is in my face. I turn my head, looking at him over my shoulder. He is standing behind me, shirtless, jeans still on but undone, his hand still wet, his eyes on mine.
“I’m clean. I had a test the week after I met you, and I haven’t been with anyone since. I want to fuck you without anything between us. Yes or no.”
The week after he met me?
“Yes.”
His hand goes to his belt.
I drop my forehead back onto the cushion and listen to the sound of his jeans hitting the floor.
His hand is on the small of my back again. The other hand drags down the curve of my hip. He isn’t in a hurry now.
He lines himself up. He pushes in slow.
It is the only slow thing he has done since we started. He keeps a hand on my hip and presses inside me an inch at a time.
I’m wet enough that he slides in easily. I am tight enough that he has to stop halfway and breathe.
He gets all the way in and stops.
“Fuck,” he grunts.
He is so deep I feel him in places I didn’t know I had. My pussy is gripping and releasing around him, and every pulse of it makes his cock twitch inside me. His forehead is on the back of my neck, and his breath drags in and out, hot against my hair.
I do not move. I let him have the second.
Then he fucks me.
The pace he sets is exactly what he warned me about.
He drives in hard. He pulls almost all the way out and drives back in harder.
His hand stays on my hip, fingers digging in. His other hand finds my open palm on the seat cushion and covers it. Presses it flat. Threads his fingers through mine and pins my hand to the leather.
His mouth is against my ear. “This pussy is mine.”
“Yes.”
I make a sound he likes. He fucks me harder.
The angle changes when he shifts his weight forward, and the new angle has me biting the inside of my own cheek.
“So fucking tight.” His chest is against my back now, his weight pressing me into the leather.
His other hand leaves my hip.
He drags his thumb down between us, gathering my slick arousal from where he’s buried inside me. He slides his thumb back, wet and warm, until it presses against my asshole.
He pushes his thumb inside.
Everything that has been climbing in me for the last twenty minutes hits the top of the wall and goes over.
I come around him so hard I bite the cushion. My whole body goes tight. My hand under his squeezes his fingers white.
He fucks me, pressing his thumb in and out of me. His cock is buried as deep as he can get, and his forehead presses against the back of my neck.
Somewhere in the middle of it, his rhythm breaks.
“Bianca, fuck.”
He comes inside me with his hand still locked around mine on the couch.
He thrusts at an erratic, relentless pace, emptying every last drop into me.
Then he slows and eventually stops.
His weight is heavy against my back. His chest is heaving. Mine is too. His thumb withdraws first. Carefully.
He doesn’t pull out of me right away. He stays inside me with his forehead against my hair, and his fingers still threaded through mine on the leather.
I’m the one who stops shaking first.
He pulls out, and he kisses the back of my neck. He stays bent over me. His mouth moves to my shoulder, where he bit me. He kisses that too.
“Up.”
I push up onto my elbows.
He turns me by the hips. Both hands.
The same hands that just held me down are gentle now. He guides me to the front of the couch, sits, and pulls me into his lap.
I land sideways across his thighs with my cheek against his bare chest and his arms around me.
His heart is hammering under my ear loud enough that I close my eyes to listen to it.
He brings one of my hands up to his mouth and kisses the inside of my wrist. He kisses the heart-shaped birthmark there.
He kisses the other wrist. Then the back of each hand.
Then my knuckles. Then my palm. He works his way up my arm with his mouth and stops at my shoulder, and kisses the bite mark there, and then he kisses my jaw, and then he kisses both of my cheeks.
I tip my chin up. He kisses me on the mouth, slow.
When he pulls back, his hand is in my hair, smoothing it down where he made a mess of it.
“You are not what I planned for.”
I huff out a laugh against his throat. “Sorry about that.”
“Don’t be.”
The fire pops. I rearrange myself in his lap so I can look at him.
His mouth is pink. His hair is, for the first time in the history of me knowing him, not where it should be.
He looks at me for a long beat.
“Should I invite my brothers up here?”
The question is so quiet I almost miss it.
I run my thumb along his bottom lip the way he did to mine an hour ago. “Yes.”
His shoulders give half an inch. “I think so, too.”
“But not today,” I say.
He waits.
“Today is yours. I want today to be yours.”
He doesn’t say anything. He pulls me against him, and his arms come around me.
“And I want you to be mine.”