20. Joni
Joni
As soon as I saw him standing at my door with wine and roses, I knew inviting him over for dinner had been a mistake.
It was selfish. I’d told myself I was doing it as thanks for the great job he did on my remodel, but his work on my kitchen wasn’t a charity project.
His invoices got paid, and I’d already verbally expressed my appreciation. Leaving it at that would’ve been fine.
The truth is I wanted so desperately to see him again I would’ve accepted any excuse my brain came up with. It’s also true that this dinner was a bad idea, and we can’t keep putting off the inevitable.
But when he kisses me in the kitchen after dinner, I tell myself another convenient lie: there’s no harm in putting it off for one more night.
I kiss him back like we’ve slipped into an alternate reality where nothing we do tonight will have any impact on tomorrow, where there are no sliding doors moments and the butterfly effect doesn’t exist. Just one more night . . . free from consequences.
I know what I’m hoping for is a fantasy, but recognizing that doesn’t make me want it less, doesn’t prompt me to deny this kiss or step away from his touch, doesn’t keep my feet from following when he pulls me toward my bedroom.
His shirt is on my bedroom floor in a matter of seconds, the chair in the corner catches my dress, his jeans join his shirt on the rug, and our underwear fly, landing who-knows-where.
All I can track now is the warmth of his hands on my body .
. . his mouth on my skin as he kisses his way down my neck.
We stumble to the bed with our legs practically intertwined.
He suddenly pushes against my shoulders with force—not hard enough to hurt me, just enough to surprise me as I fall back onto the mattress.
My breath catches in my chest, and I hardly have time to regulate it before his smiling mouth is on mine again, his entire body blanketing me, guiding us farther up the bed with the shifting of his legs and arms.
He’s never been reserved in bed, but never quite this aggressive either. I’m not complaining, too busy trying to keep up with his physical cues and trying to remember to breathe through this ravenous kiss.
When he has us where he wants us on the bed, he begins to slide down my body, pausing to kiss and nibble on my neck, my chest, my nipples, the dip where my ribcage parts.
Each touch of his lips spawns a new layer of goosebumps over my skin, but his warm hands follow to soothe away the excited chill.
He plants gentle kisses along the small, faint scar from my appendix surgery. It’s low and angled downward on my abdomen, inching him closer to more tender places. The way I’m anticipating his mouth on my pussy has my thighs trembling on his shoulders.
I can’t tell if it’s just an internal vibration or if he can feel it, too.
His tongue meets my clit and removes all doubt.
My thighs shake unmistakably as he flattens his tongue and lavishes attention across my swelling, tingling nerve endings, pressing and circling, pulling me into a near frenzied state.
He only allows me to experience the building pleasure for a few seconds before he takes his tongue away to lick through my seam, taking his time tasting me.
He’s really going to tease me when it’s been this long since we’ve seen each other? I’m not proud to admit it, but he has a hell of a lot more restraint right now than I do.
My head sinks lower into the pillow, and I try to relax my shoulders. I want nothing more than to luxuriate in everything he’s doing, to get blissfully lost in this encounter.
When the first scream reaches my ears, it’s nothing more than an unwelcome distraction, and I press the back of my head down, hoping the sides of the pillow will rise up to muffle the screech.
Enzo’s warm mouth doesn’t slow down, so he must not hear it at all.
I’m grateful because I don’t want anything to distract him right now.
Seconds pass, and the scream comes again, too loud to ignore this time. It doesn’t sound far off in the distance this time. It’s close . . . too close. I sit straight up and look around the room, my brain struggling to catch up with reality.
Enzo cocks his head toward the window. “Is that—”
“Oliver!” I jump out of bed and throw open a dresser drawer, grabbing the first option I find.
As I’m scrambling into a pair of shorts, Enzo hops on one foot to pull up his other pants leg. He tosses me his shirt, and then shoves his sockless feet into his boots. I slip my sandals back on and we run.