4. Kit
KIT
Ilowered my face to hers.
The space between us had been shrinking for hours—since the gallery, through dinner, in the car, in every quiet step through my condo—but now it vanished completely. My mouth met hers with a slow, deliberate pressure. Not rushing, not testing. Just claiming.
Her lips were soft, warm from the July heat, and they parted on a quiet inhale that I felt more than heard. I tasted the faint salt of her skin and the lingering spice from the noodles, but mostly I tasted her—Lark, unfiltered, real.
The kiss deepened. I angled my head, sliding one hand up to cup the back of her neck, thumb brushing the delicate gold chain at her throat. She made a small sound against my mouth, something between surprise and surrender, and I drank it in.
My tongue traced the seam of her lips before slipping inside, slow and thorough, learning the shape of her. She kissed like she curated. Intentional, responsive, finding the rhythm that made everything else fall away. Heat pooled low in my gut, heavy and insistent.
My other hand began to wander. The pale blue top was thin, gauzy, the kind of fabric that whispered against skin rather than hid it. I traced the curve of her waist, feeling the warmth of her through the material, then up along her ribs to the soft swell of her breast.
Every line of her was worth memorizing—the gentle dip at her collarbone, the way her breath hitched when my thumb brushed the side of her breast, the subtle shift of her body pressing closer.
I mapped her the way I mapped light in a room.
Where it caught, where it deepened, where it made the ordinary transcendent.
She broke the kiss first, breathing hard, eyes bright. Without a word, she reached for the hem of my T-shirt and tugged it upward. I lifted my arms, letting her pull it over my head.
The cool air hit my skin, but her hands followed immediately, warm and curious, spreading across my chest. Her fingers traced the lines of muscle, the ink that disappeared beneath my waistband, exploring every ridge and plane with the same focused attention she gave to art.
The appreciation in her touch made my pulse kick harder.
I didn’t wait. I caught the hem of her blouse and lifted it slowly, revealing inches of smooth skin, the lace edge of her bra, the soft curve of her stomach.
Off it went. I kissed her again as my fingers found the clasp of her bra, unhooking it with one smooth motion. The straps slid down her shoulders.
“Wait,” she whispered against my mouth.
I stilled instantly, pulling back just enough to see her face. Her cheeks were flushed, lips kiss-swollen, but her eyes were steady.
“I’m a virgin, Kit.”
The words landed like a sudden shift in gravity. I hesitated, my hands still resting lightly on her waist, thumbs brushing the bare skin there. Everything in me wanted to keep going—needed it—but this changed the weight of it.
“Lark…”
She shook her head, reaching up to frame my face with her hands. “I want this. I’m sure. I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
I searched her eyes and found only clarity. No fear. Just want. I kissed her again, slower this time, pouring reassurance into it.
My hands helped her out of the rest of her clothes as we moved toward the bed—her skirt, her underwear—each piece discarded without breaking contact more than necessary. The last of the sunlight filtered through the steel-frame windows, casting her skin in soft golds and shadows.
She lay back on the white linens, hair fanning across the pillow, watching me. I shoved my pants and underwear down in one motion, kicking them aside. Her eyes widened when she saw me—hard, heavy, thick. A flicker of nerves crossed her face, but it melted into something hotter.
I retrieved a condom from the nightstand drawer, tore it open, but set it aside for now. Climbing over her, I started at her lips, kissing my way down. I lingered at each breast, drawing a nipple into my mouth, sucking and flicking with my tongue until she arched and gasped.
Lower still, across her stomach, the crease of her hip, down to her thighs. I settled between them, spreading her gently, and licked into her with long, deliberate strokes. She tasted like heat and need.
I found her clit and worked it with focused attention, circling, sucking, learning exactly what made her hips jerk. Her hands fisted in my hair as she writhed beneath me, thighs trembling. When she came, it was with a broken cry, body tightening and then shuddering apart.
I moved up, positioning myself between her legs, but she shook her head and pressed a hand to my chest, nudging me. I let her guide me onto my back. She straddled me with surprising confidence, settling over my hips.
“I’ve wanted this,” she said, voice low and husky.
Her hand wrapped around my cock, stroking with tentative wonder. Then she lowered her mouth.
She was awkward at first—eager but unsure, tongue exploring, lips sliding. But she learned fast, taking more of me, finding a rhythm that had my jaw clenching and my fingers threading through her hair. The wet heat, the sight of her lips stretched around me—it was almost too much.
“Lark,” I groaned, gently stopping her. “Wait.”
I grabbed the condom packet. She took it from me, and I talked her through it—voice rough—my hands steadying hers as she rolled it down my length.
Then she straddled me again, positioning herself.
She sank down slowly, inch by inch, breath catching at the stretch.
Her face was a map of concentration and pleasure.
She sank down the final inch with a trembling breath, and the feeling hit me like nothing I’d designed for.
She was impossibly tight—velvet heat gripping every inch of me, slick and pulsing as she adjusted to the stretch.
She was so wet, I could feel it at the base of me, her inner walls fluttering and squeezing in instinctive little ripples that made my jaw clench.
It took everything I had not to thrust up into her immediately.
“Fuck, Lark,” I groaned, my hands sliding up her thighs to grip her hips. “You feel incredible. So damn tight around me.”
Her eyes fluttered open at my words, dark with arousal, and she let out a soft, needy whimper that went straight through me.
She started to ride me—slow at first, rolling her hips in experimental circles, then finding a rhythm that had her rising and sinking with growing confidence.
One of her hands cupped her own breast, fingers teasing the nipple into a stiff peak.
The other slid down her stomach to her clit, stroking in slick circles in time with her movements.
I couldn’t look away. The sight of her was devastating. Her head tipped back, exposing the long line of her throat and the gold chain that caught the city light with every motion. Her breasts were full and flushed, moving gently as she rode me.
Lower, I could see everything—her fingers working herself, the glistening stretch of her body taking me in again and again. Her stomach flexed with each roll of her hips, and the way her thighs trembled against mine made my blood run hotter.
“God, look at you,” I rasped. “Keep going. I want to feel you come.”
She moaned louder at that, a broken, breathy sound that made her walls clench even tighter around me. Her pace quickened, hips snapping down harder, taking me deeper. The wet, rhythmic sound of her body meeting mine filled the room alongside our gasps—hers high and desperate, mine low and guttural.
“Yes—Kit—” she gasped, eyes squeezing shut as pleasure overtook her.
“That’s it,” I said, my thumbs stroking her hipbones. “Let go, Lark.”
Her breathing turned ragged, little cries escaping with every downward stroke. I watched, transfixed, as her fingers moved faster, her breasts heaving, her whole body chasing release so openly, it was the most honest thing I’d ever seen.
She came first, her rhythm faltering as her whole body tensed. Her walls clamped down hard, pulsing around me in powerful waves. A shattered moan tore from her throat, raw and beautiful, her head falling forward as she rode it out.
The feeling of her coming undone was too much. “Lark—fuck?—”
I groaned, hips bucking up once, twice, before release crashed through me in intense, shuddering waves. I spilled into the condom, buried deep inside her, my hands gripping her hips hard enough to leave marks.
She collapsed onto my chest, both of us breathing hard, skin slick. I wrapped my arms around her, holding her close as the aftershocks faded. For a long moment, there was only the sound of our breathing slowing and the distant hum of the city.
Eventually, she lifted her head, a soft, sated smile curving her lips. “So…where should the painting go?”
I brushed damp strands of hair from her flushed face, glancing toward the unhung piece still leaning against the far wall. “Next to the bed,” I murmured. “Where the morning light hits first. So I see it every time I wake up next to you.”
Her smile deepened, and she settled back against me, content. For once, I didn’t need a blueprint.