sixteen #2
I was the one who reached for him again—hands bracketing his jaw as I kissed him, deeper, hungrier.
He let me lead.
For exactly three seconds.
Then his hands closed over my hips, and he walked me backward until my shoulder blades hit the nearest wall.
His mouth dragged down my throat, the scrape of his stubble making me shiver. He kissed the hollow between my breasts, the slope of my ribs, the place just above the waistband of my lace.
When he sank to his knees in front of me, I bit down on my lip to keep from making a sound.
His hands slid up the backs of my thighs, thumbs tracing the garters still clipped to my stockings. His gaze lifted to mine—dark, questioning.
I nodded once.
He didn't ask again.
He hooked his thumbs in the lace, tugged it down my legs. When he leaned in and pressed his mouth to the inside of my thigh, I braced a hand against the wall to steady myself.
"Brooks." My voice cracked.
I pressed my palm flat to his chest, guided him back one step, then another, until I had the space I needed.
And then—still watching his face—I dropped to my knees.
His breath left him in a sound that was almost a curse.
I dragged my hands up the insides of his thighs, slow, deliberate.
His eyes went half-lidded, a muscle ticking in his jaw. "Amira."
I didn't answer.
I just leaned in.
He let out a low, guttural sound the second my mouth closed around him—a sound I felt all the way to my core.
His hand came up, hovering near my jaw like he wasn't sure if he wanted to pull me closer or push me away. But he didn't do either. He just watched me, breath ragged, as I set my own rhythm—slow, unhurried, a deliberate torment.
My tongue traced the sensitive underside of him, the heat of it making his hips twitch. He swore under his breath, voice rougher than I'd ever heard it.
"Fuck—"
I didn't stop. Didn't look away.
I hollowed my cheeks and took him deeper, until the muscles in his thighs went tight under my palms. His hand finally settled against the side of my neck—just the barest pressure of his thumb under my jaw, like he needed the anchor as much as I did.
"Amira." My name came out on a strained exhale, more plea than command.
I pulled back just enough to look up at him. His pupils were blown wide, jaw clenched so tight it looked painful.
His hand flexed against my throat. "If you keep doing that-."
I swallowed, my throat working against the gentle pressure of his fingers.
His eyes darkened, something unguarded breaking through his composure.
Instead of answering, I took him in again—deeper this time, until the edge of a groan tore out of him. His hips rocked forward before he caught himself, a curse slipping between clenched teeth.
I set a steady pace, savoring every rough sound he tried—and failed—to hold back. My hands braced against his thighs, feeling the tension building there, the way he was fighting to keep from losing control.
When I pulled back again, letting my tongue trace a slow circle over the head of him, his hand closed tighter around my throat—not enough to hurt, just enough to claim.
His voice was low, wrecked. "Stand up."
I pretended not to hear him.
"Amira." The way he said my name—dark, frayed—sent a bolt of heat straight through me.
I lifted my gaze, met his eyes, and held them as I took him in one last time, slow and deliberate.
His jaw flexed. A shudder ran through him, every muscle locked tight. "Fuck."
Then his hand slid up to cup my cheek, his thumb brushing my lower lip. "Up."
This time, I listened.
I rose slowly, feeling the ache in my knees, the raw tremor of my own need pulsing low in my belly.
The second I was upright, his mouth was on mine. The kiss was deep, almost punishing—like he was determined to reclaim every last ounce of control I'd just stolen from him.
His hands found my hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise as he spun us, pressing me back into the nearest wall. My breath caught in my throat, but he didn't give me a chance to gather it.
He kissed me like he was trying to memorize me from the inside out. Like he needed to fill every place I'd left empty.
When he finally tore his mouth away, his forehead rested against mine, both of us breathing hard.
"I'm going to fuck you," he said, voice low, unsteady. "Right here."
My pulse stuttered, heat roaring in my veins.
"Do it," I whispered.
Something in his eyes went dark—hungry.
He hooked one of my legs up over his hip, his hand slipping between us to line himself up. The first press of him against me made my breath leave in a ragged gasp.
But he didn't push in.
His free hand slid up, curling gently around the side of my throat. Not squeezing—just there. Just claiming.
"Look at me."
I did.
"Tell me you want this."
"I want it." My voice didn't shake.
His gaze searched mine, like he was checking for something neither of us would ever say out loud.
Then he thrust into me in one smooth, relentless stroke.
My head fell back against the wall, a cry slipping out before I could catch it.
He didn't pause to savor it. He set a rhythm that was hard, unyielding—every thrust driving me deeper into the cool plaster behind me.
My hands scrabbled at his shoulders, nails digging into warm skin. His mouth found mine again, swallowing every ragged sound as he moved inside me.
When he pulled back to look at me, his pupils were blown wide, his jaw tight.
"You feel—" His voice broke off, rough. "—so fucking good."
I couldn't answer. Could barely think.
He shifted the angle, and I nearly sobbed, my leg tightening around his waist.
"Say it," he rasped against my ear. "Say you want this."
"I want it," I gasped.
His hand tightened on my throat—not to hurt, just to hold me there, exactly where he wanted me.
"Then take it."
I did.
And when he finally let me come apart, it felt like I was shattering in his arms.
He didn't stop.
Not until he'd wrung every last tremor from my body and followed me over the edge with a low, broken groan.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Then he pulled back, his forehead resting against mine, his breath ragged.
His hands were still on me—one splayed warm over my ribs, the other gentling at my hip, like he wasn't ready to let me go.
I could feel the heat of him everywhere—his hands still bracketing my hips, the slow, lingering twitch of him inside me.
He didn't move right away. Just held me there, like if he let go, we'd both unravel completely.
His thumb traced the edge of my jaw, slow and reverent.
He lifted me, letting my leg slide down from his hip, but his hands didn't leave me. One stayed wrapped around the back of my neck, the other low on my waist, guiding me away from the wall. He carried me up the stairs straight into his room that I'd never gone into before.
I tried not to look at him, but his gaze was impossible to escape. Dark. Steady. Like he'd already decided he wasn't letting me leave this time.
It looked like another penthouse tucked inside the one I'd already seen—an entire world of cool, deliberate minimalism.
A California king bed dominated the center of the space, the charcoal-gray duvet stretched tight and precise, like no one had ever actually slept there.
A low platform frame in matte black anchored it in place.
One wall was nothing but floor-to-ceiling glass, the skyline bleeding in through sheer curtains in muted shades of ivory and slate.
Built-in shelves held exactly three objects: a small sculpture that looked obscenely expensive, a thick book with no title on the spine, and a glass decanter half-full of something amber.
The rest was clean lines and pale wood floors that seemed to swallow sound. No clutter. No evidence of a life actually being lived—just the impression of one curated to perfection.
It was the kind of room that told you exactly who he was: controlled, understated, impossible to read.
He didn't push me back onto the mattress like I expected. He just stopped. Waited.
I turned to face him fully, chest still heaving. My hair was a mess over my shoulders, skin flushed. I was still wearing the garters and stockings and nothing else.