26. Silas #2
Her breathing goes unsteady when I begin applying pressure with my fingers. On instinct, my body presses forward against hers, every line of me crowding closer, and I force myself to swallow once, keeping the last thread of reason from leaving me entirely.
Her hands move to my throat and pull me closer to her mouth.
“What’s a Straight Flush?” she asks, a small smirk on her face, at which point I increase the pressure of my fingers.
“A sequence of consecutive cards, all the same suit.”
Something close to a purr leaves her throat, and then her fingers are moving, trailing lightly over my chest, down my stomach, lower still.
There is nothing uncertain about the way she touches me.
No hesitation, no second-guessing, just her hands moving like she’s already decided exactly what she wants, and that boldness alone is enough to make my breath go shallow.
“Amalia...”
“Silas…,” she mimics, and I can’t hide my smile.
Where is the Amalia who constantly doubts herself? Where is the sweet Amalia who hides behind her famous mathematicians when she gets nervous? Where is the woman who doesn’t have the courage to defend herself?
Her fingers find the button of my jeans and work it open, the zipper sliding down a moment later.
When she pushes past the fabric and wraps her hand around my length, the softness of her skin is enough to make me lose my footing entirely.
She sets a rhythm in sync with my fingers, and when her thumb grazes the moisture at the tip, a groan tears out of me.
Every explanation I was forming is long gone.
“And four of a kind?” she asks, perfectly innocent, and I have to swallow hard because my control is sitting entirely in her hands and she knows it.
“Four cards of the same rank,” I tell her, nearly breathless, because the image of her like this, cheeks flushed, lips parted, that hair that should only ever be spread across my pillows, is a fantasy I didn’t know I’d been building until right now.
I feel her beginning to tremble, but I know that if she doesn’t stop, I’m going to come before she does. So I catch her wrist, and with my free hand I pull her pants down.
Her underwear hits the floor in seconds, and all I manage to say is, “Lie back on the table, Amalia. Hold on to the edges.”
She just nods, and the way she does exactly what I ask without hesitation, without question, makes my cock spill more precum.
The image of her in only a sweater and those lavender socks, completely open for me on my poker table, is something I try to commit to memory for every moment she won’t be with me. And that’s when it hits me: I want her with me always. In my bed, on my couch, in my life.
Dropping to my knees in front of her, I take each of her legs and place them over my shoulders.
I let my hands slide slowly up the inside of her thighs first, spreading her open for me, taking my time just to watch the way her breath catches.
Then I lean in and kiss her, gently at first, a soft press of my lips, letting her adjust to the sensation because I know from the sounds she makes that I’m the first man who has ever had her like this.
And the last.
I drag my tongue slowly through her center, and the helpless whimper that breaks open in her throat goes straight through me. One hand moves toward my cock, already hard and pulsing, knowing I want nothing more than to be inside her, to feel her close around me, but this moment is for her.
For the woman in front of me, brave enough to touch me without waiting to be asked, yet who constantly doubts the very mind that leaves me in awe of her.
For the woman I’m still discovering and never grow tired of, so I set every other thought aside and just feel her. Learn her. The way her thighs tighten when I find the right spot, the way her fingers curl around the edges of the table like she’s holding on for her life.
I want to find the formula that makes her happy, so I can make sure she always is.
I close my mouth over her wet heat and suck, one finger pressing at her entrance, easing in just enough to feel her stretch around me, curling forward until I feel her walls begin to flutter.
“Fuck, you’re so tight.”
My eyes move to her face, where that adorable blush is raging, and understanding settles over me.
“Yeah, so about that,” she starts, breathless between moans, but I don’t need her to finish.
“There will never be another man touching you, Amalia.” I press my lips to her inner thigh and bite down, wanting to mark her, wanting her to feel it for days, months, fuck, years.
“If you were worried about my well-being for doing business with men like Silvio, you should be far more worried about what happens to anyone who dares to so much as think about having you like this.”
Her hips roll toward me instinctively, chasing more, and I give her exactly what she’s asking for. When she cries my name, her back arching clean off the table, I don’t stop. I work her through every last tremor until she has nothing left to give.
I keep touching her through it, even as I feel I’ll come apart if I don’t find my way inside her, because the small sounds she makes while she comes back to herself are going to be my undoing.
She pushes herself up from the table, and when her feet find the floor she sways slightly, legs unsteady beneath her.
My hand finds her hip before I’ve made a conscious decision to move, fingers curling around the curve of it, pulling her close, holding her there like she belongs in that exact spot.
She does.
She rises onto her toes slightly and begins to touch me with one hand. When her eyes drop to where her hand is about to bring me to my knees a second time, she wets her lips, an endearing flush spreading across her chest.
“Harder, Amalia.” The sound of my own voice surprises even me with how low it is.
Her hand picks up the pace, slowing near the end, drawing her fingertip lightly through the moisture that gathered simply from having her in front of me.
Her eyes lift to mine, and she wets her lips again.
“Don’t do that, baby. I’m begging you.”
“Do what?” But the barely there curve of her mouth doesn’t escape me, because she knows exactly how much power she has over me right now.
That image alone is all I need. The flush on her chest, her lip caught between her teeth, her hand working me like she’s done this a thousand times.
In seconds the tension that had been coiling at the base of my spine snaps, and I come hard, one hand braced against the table, my grip on her hip tightening to the point I know I’ll leave a mark.
I let myself because I’m a bastard and I want her to feel it tomorrow.
I drop my head back, trying to get oxygen to my lungs that for the last half an hour lived only on her smell.
When I come back from it, I find her looking at me with awe, and I don’t grasp how I lived until I met her.
My life was a black and white sequence of scenes until she came around and made me see colors.
“You have a strange look on your face,” she tells me, slightly shy, trying to cover herself.
Oh, baby, you have no idea!
I want to tell her how she has my heart in a damn grip, how I get this ache whenever she’s away from me, how I count the seconds until I’ll get to see her again. But I’m afraid I’ll scare her, so I settle for kissing her and hoping my lips tell her what my voice fails to.