3. Ego #2
“Tell me you don’t want this.” His voice is nearly breathless, almost pained, like he’s doing everything in his power to keep his shit together.
And it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever heard.
The heat of his breath only invites my hip to rise, allowing my thigh to skim ever so gently over the head of his cock.
Any restraint left in him snaps, and I’m not sure who makes the first move. Our lips crash into one another’s, and there’s nothing remotely gentle or poetic in our actions. His tongue pushes between my lips, devouring me, as my fingers fist into the back of his hair. It’s savage. Wanton.
I can’t help it. My hips thrust upward, demanding.
I tease my thigh along his length again to drive home my point, and Michael answers by repositioning his other leg so it’s between both of mine.
My thighs can wrap around him, inviting his hands to grip my hips.
In one fluid movement, he pulls us both up into a sitting position at the end of the bench, all the while never breaking our kiss.
He cups my ass, and the tempo he sets as he rocks my hips creates the perfect amount of friction between us. This man is claiming my body, and he’s not even inside me yet.
But two can play at that game. Now seated in his lap, feeling him twitch against my center, I can’t resist taunting Michael right back, opting to straddle him. He doesn’t seem to mind my dominance at the moment. Not one bit. Not as I return the favor.
I don’t all-out grind against him, circling only the head of his cock with my center.
His hips instinctively thrust upward, demanding more, and the groans I expel from him may very well be the sexiest things I’ve ever heard.
They grow louder with every movement I make, the leash on his control slipping, slipping, slipping.
I concede, rubbing myself up his entire length, but each stroke is achingly soft. Again, and again, and again, I move in time with the pulse that throbs between us.
“You’re fucking killing me here, kitten.” The sentence tears out of him on barely more than a breath, and I swear the look on his face, to know I brought him to this brink, is ruinous.
He started this game. If he wants to round the bases to home plate, he’s the one who will have to make the move. I pull his bottom lip between my teeth, nipping it just hard enough to punctuate my point.
His grip on my ass tightens in response, thrusting me all out against him. Dear God, bless this man, because the position hits me right where I need it.
Fuck ‘savage.’
This is primal .
There’s no logic to our actions. No teasing.
No pretenses. Just two bodies hungry and desperate to satiate this appetite.
I’m not exactly a prude, but never have I hooked up with a complete stranger.
The mere idea—the complete unfamiliarity of it all—had always been too scary for me to consider, so much so that I couldn’t rationalize how other people could do it, how you could trust a stranger with the most intimate parts of yourself.
But I get it now.
Oh, holy shit, do I get it.
Because a bomb could go off beside us, and I still wouldn’t want him to stop. Our hands grip and yank at everything from hair to clothing, and even with his pants still firmly in place, the rhythm we’re building together threatens to push me over the edge all by itself.
But I need more. I need him to hit every pleasure point on and in my body. I begin drawing down the zipper of his pants, only for Michael to go still. If the expression he had a moment ago was one of pain, this must be complete and utter torture.
“I don’t have anything on me,” he admits with a groan, and the dawning realization has me sharing in the sentiment.
Considering the monkey suit he’s wearing and the fact he never wanted to come here, he apparently didn’t see the need to grab a condom, and the clutch I’m using is from Maggie.
Sure, there were some in it when she lent it to me, but like an idiot, I also assumed I wouldn’t need any and gave them back to her.
Fuck. My. Life.
A squeal escapes me as I’m suddenly lifted off Michael’s lap, only to be turned around and deposited down onto his thigh. My legs straddle him on either side, and before I can ask what he’s doing, an arm envelops my middle, pulling me back until I’m flush against the left side of his chest.
Michael’s lips form into a smile as they press against my ear. “That doesn’t mean we still can’t have fun, and I’m nothing if not generous.”
He begins to guide my hips back and forth into a steady rhythm, and the sheer amount of muscles adorning his thigh makes it impossible to resist all-out grinding against him. Lips crash against my neck, and his other hand reached around to—
Holy Mary, Mother of God!
He works my clit, the stimulation enough that it has me outright whimpering. This only seems to please him more, if his mouth is any indicator. He suckles at the skin, harder and harder, damn near growling, “Come for me, love.”
I reach behind me, seizing hold of his hair, so, so, so close to the brink…
…until glass smashes in front of us on the cobblestone courtyard.
What the hell?
The broken remnants, particularly the long, clear stem, suggest it’s from a wine glass or champagne flute, and we both freeze as howling fits of laughter come from overhead.
Hearing those voices get closer as their owners no doubt make their way down the stairs to the courtyard sends Michael and I scrambling for the side of the alcove.
The absence of his fingers leaves me throbbing and close to delirium, but I muzzle down my frustration enough that I straighten out my dress and run a hand over my hair just in case we’re spotted.
I relax almost instantly as the drunken couple comes stumbling into the courtyard.
Honestly, I’m surprised they made it down here at all.
Between their blood alcohol level and the fact they’re completely preoccupied with sucking each other’s faces, I’m pretty sure Michael and I could walk out doing the Funky Chicken in front of them, and they wouldn’t notice, even as they’re within ten feet of us.
Neither sees the broken glass on the ground until it cracks under their feet. Yet, they’re still contemplating if the spilled liquid on the cobblestone is still salvageable. Trying not to laugh, Michael snatches up his suit jacket as I grab my shoes, and we tiptoe right past them.
Only once we’ve made it back up to the terrace doors of the banquet hall do I chuckle, but the sound is immediately eaten by Michael’s lips as they recapture mine. As easily as butter on a hot pan, I melt into him, my fingers brushing the nape of his neck.
I go still instantly at the contact.
His skin is perfectly smooth, save for a thin two-inch line of puckered flesh.
He must know where my attention has gone, because he grimaces, trying and failing to hide the expression with a thinly veiled smile.
All I want at this moment is to hear that it’s fresh, that he just got it from a broken beer bottle during a bar fight last year or from falling off his motorcycle or something. Anything but—
“I got it as a kid, when I tried sneaking beneath a chain link fence. There was a tear, and it caught me pretty good.”
Recognition hits me like a roaring freight train, and it takes everything in me not to stumble back as I take in the sight of him, because he doesn’t need to elaborate.
I may not have known where it came from, but I sure as hell have felt that scar before. From the last time I kissed him.
Michael.
Michael Jason Rivers.
Jase.
My high school tormentor.
Son of a motherfucking bitch!