Manicure and a Fun Idea #2
Something trembles behind my breastbone.
Not now, Sloane. Focus.
I climb onto him.
No trace of shyness. No hesitation. I settle onto him, slow and precise, exactly where I feel him hard against me. The heat bounces back down, I swallow a moan.
I tilt my head back for a second, breathe. Then I don't give him any breath myself: my mouth descends onto his neck, the gloss stains him on purpose, my teeth lightly scrape.
He grips my face—thumb under my chin, decisive. He tilts me toward him.
“Angel,” he murmurs like a prayer. His eyes are glazed over. He is definitively mine.
I’m certain he will never forget me.
“Lucifer,” I smile against his mouth.
I kiss him.
Nothing polite. It’s fire against fire: his mouth opens to mine, he drinks me up as if he’d been without water for weeks. A small noise escapes me, but I try to cover it up.
I hate him for how much I like him.
He puts a hand on my waist. The lace is too thin, I feel the heat of his touch, and it enters me, possessing me. I can’t do anything but increase the tension in my hips as they move against him, slow, precise.
I keep moving on top of him, finding the exact pressure where I want him desperately, and I feel his grip tighten.
“Fuck,” he mutters against my lips.
“Mmm,” I reply, satisfied.
He grabs my ass and pulls me closer.
God… I love how he squeezes it. I was right, he knows what he’s doing. I don't understand why he was so nervous…
I bite his lower lip and feel him groan—dirty, perfect. I do it again, just to hear him react a second time.
“You like control, huh?” he whispers.
“Were you expecting a shy little angel from Heaven?” I retort, slow, venomous.
God, is he going to kill me? No. I'm going to kill him.
“Hands up,” he says softly.
Fuck, no, he’s going to kill me…
I’m sure my eyes are glittering right now.
If there’s one thing I love more than being in charge, it’s the fight, or someone who knows how to take command instead of me.
I raise my arms without protesting.
His hands slide along my hips, up to my waist, up to my ribs. The lace is so thin he feels everything—and I feel his every caress.
He’s in no hurry. He’s not the typical man who gets carried away by the rush of not knowing where to put his hands or eyes first.
He takes all his time to worship every part of me.
When his thumbs brush the edge of my breast, I gasp as if he'd shocked me. Actually, he has shocked me, that's for sure.
There.
He holds my gaze. He wants to see me give in.
“Tell me if I need to stop,” he murmurs low.
I stare at him.
How the hell can he even think that? Of course, I don't want him to stop. “Don't.”
His fingers slide under the lace and free me.
My breast falls into his hands—I don't have particularly large breasts… but he doesn't seem to notice.
Does he like them?
Okay, maybe I can still work on that. I swore to myself I would stop asking myself questions like that.
I am who I am, just as I am. Take it or leave it.
My nipples are already taut, already reddened, and when he brushes them with his thumbs, a desperate moan catches in my throat, and my vision flashes white for a second.
“Fuck, Angel,” he groans.
I rock against him, harder now, chasing the friction. I throw my head back; my wings spread, the feathers stroking his shoulders, throat, and jaw as if they were real.
He bends down and takes a breast into his mouth.
He rips a desperate cry from me. His tongue and that wet heat, the perfect pressure: I thread my fingers into his hair and hold him there as if I might fly away if I didn’t cling on.
My hips jump as his fingers find me. I bury my face in his neck, breathing hot and fast, my hands clenched in his hair as if I were holding myself together.
I’m already wet.
Soaked.
I feel his dick kicking against his zipper.
“Oh my God,” I pant.
“Wrong side, Angel.”
I laugh—that was genuinely cute—and he groans as he slowly strokes my clitoris, the perfect pressure that makes my thighs tremble.
“Tell me what you want,” he whispers in my ear.
I like this. No, I'm going crazy.
“You. I want you inside.” The answer comes out instantly, confident.
That's all he needs.
I hear the buckle, a click, the fabric sliding; he rolls on a condom, quick and sure. He guides my hips, he aligns me.
I blink—almost sober for a millisecond.
“Are you ready for me?” his voice low and husky.
“Yes.” Twice. “Yes.”
I push myself down onto him.
The world flips over, and then it explodes in my chest. It’s too much, right, now. His hands grip my hips because otherwise I lose control entirely—and I can’t promise I’d mind.
“Jesus Christ,” I hear him grit out, his head falling back.
I lower myself slowly, taking all of him, inch by inch, until I’m seated on him and he is buried in me and my brain just stops thinking.
We stay there. One second.
Just breathing. That’s all.
Forehead against forehead. His lashes brush mine. My lips swollen from his kisses.
Then I move.
It’s over.
Goodbye, self-control.
I find the rhythm immediately—greedy, precise—I grind against him as if I’d been waiting for him all night and didn’t want to waste a single second.
Spoiler: yes, I was waiting for him all night.
The room fills with wet, obscene, wonderful sounds. My breath breaks into gasps. My breasts bounce against his face; he takes a nipple in his mouth again, and I melt onto him.
“…oh God, I—”
“Yes, Angel,” he murmurs against my skin. His hand slides between us again and rubs me exactly where I need it: tight circles, pressure and rhythm, without stopping.
I shatter.
There’s no other word.
My body contracts, then shakes; my wings spread wide, the feathers brushing his shoulders, throat, jaw. My moan breaks in his mouth when he kisses me, swallowing the sound.
I feel him—every pulse, every squeeze—and I drag him with me.
He thrusts into me, harder now, chasing me, holding me tight as if we should never let go. The sofa creaks.
He gives in with a moan that I will probably remember forever; his hands dig into my hips as if he could anchor us to this precise moment forever.
And we stay like that.
Breathing.
Shaking.
Alive.
I rest my head on his shoulder. My lips against his throat. I feel his heartbeat racing with mine. I run my hand along his back, over the curve, to the base of my wings.
I'm still trembling.
The problem comes a little later.
When my brain returns to slight lucidity. I blink to better focus on the card in his wallet, which was left open probably since he took the condom.
Cohen Becker.
Oh fuck, that’s where I’d seen him before.
I just had sex with an athlete coached by my father.
Damn.
He's about to say something to me, I take a step back.
I read the confusion in his gaze.
What do I do now?
Does he know me? Does he know who I am?
I have to disappear from here.
Okay, Sloane, breathe.
Confident look back on. I hope my voice comes out just as seductive. “Good night, Lucifer.”
I leave.
He tries to stop me, I think he tells me to wait. But I’m already past the door.
I hide in a niche so he can’t see me when, in about a minute, the time it takes him to at least put on his pants, he'll come out looking for me.
And he does, exactly 40 seconds later.
Fuck.
Luckily, I’m well hidden.