Chapter 14 After Hours
AFTER HOURS
Michelle
I expected we’d head to his place, that he’d own some swank high-rise apartment overlooking the park.
But that’s not where he took me. We were in the elevator at the Met Life Tower, shooting up nearly fifty flights.
He had a friend who owned the company that was converting the previously vacant landmark skyscraper into a new hotel.
The friend had called security, and security had waved us in.
Overlooking Madison Square Park, the building was eerie and shadowy at night, shrouded in secrets of the city after hours. I was about to become part of that after-hours New York and a thrill raced through me at the thought. When we reached the top floor, the elevator doors whooshed open.
Jack rested his hand on my lower back as we walked through the hall. The sizzling warmth from his palm spread through my body. Even the simplest touch from him melted me.
“You must think the Empire State Building is so passé, when you have a friend who owns this building,” I quipped as we neared the balcony.
“No. I’m thinking the balcony here is private, and you can see all of Manhattan when you come.”
I had no retort.
Hot sparks tore through me, lighting me up with more desire than I’d ever known.
While I’d dated and had lovers over the years, none had spoken to me like this.
None had talked to me as if my pleasure was vital to their happiness.
That’s how I felt with Jack. Hard to imagine he was a stranger twenty-four hours ago, yet now, he was a lover on a quest to bring me the best climax of my life.
The balcony circled the peak of the Met Life Tower with a spire above us, a clock right below. A high fence surrounded the perimeter, and the view of Manhattan was endless, stretching to the rivers and the towns that lay far beyond the city that never slept.
I felt a rush of tingles in my belly that had nothing to do with him at the moment, and everything to do with being this high above my city.
I wrapped my hands around the railing at the edge of the balcony, drinking in the view of Manhattan.
The headlights from the distant streets below streaked across the dark night; the sounds of horns and music and madness morphed into a quiet radio station din.
The dirt and grime was gone, and New York was aerial and beautiful—a darkly gorgeous nocturnal creature, lit up against the night sky.
Jack dropped his hands to my waist, his thumbs rubbing circles against the fabric of my dress at my hips.
I murmured something unintelligible, leaning my head back against him, stretching my neck.
But then he was gone—he was on his knees behind me, kissing the back of my bare legs, starting at my calves.
“Stay here. Like this,” he told me.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I managed to say.
“Don’t close your eyes. Watch the city as I touch you.”
No wonder he did what he did. He was a man in tune with pleasure. A man thoroughly connected to his senses, which was all the more unusual, given his background as a numbers and logic guy. But he also had some intuitive sense of the physical.
Or simply the physical of me. His tongue flicked against the back of my knee, and I felt my legs wobble.
He steadied me, his strong hands tight on my thighs as he kissed his way up my legs, pressing his lips against the back of my thighs now.
First one leg. Then the other. Higher and higher still, the fabric of my skirt rose in his hands as he exposed my flesh for him.
Soon he’d pushed the skirt above my butt, and his sinful mouth was leaving a hot, wet trail of kisses against the crease where my ass met my legs.
“Light blue,” he murmured as he slid his finger under the edge of my lacy panties. “Gorgeous, sexy, perfect sky blue.”
“Yes. You like?”
“So much I want to keep them,” he said as he returned his mouth to my skin.
Pleasure pulsed through my veins. I gripped the railing tighter as the sensations spread, starting deep in my belly, radiating to my fingertips, toes, the ends of my hair, as he brushed his soft lips against my body.
He kissed me with a kind of reverence, with a deep appreciation for my body.
He kissed me as if I were the most sensual person he’d ever touched.
As if I were made for passion, for pleasure, for this kind of bold desire that ran rampant through my cells.
Because everything he’d done so far had been a slice of heaven.
He ran his nose across my upper thigh, then pressed a kiss between my legs, his lips grazing the soaked panel of my panties. Useless thing. A completely useless piece of fabric, since the way he’d touched me had turned them hot and damp.
“Take them off,” he said roughly.
I obliged, sliding my panties down my legs, then lifting them over my ankles as I stepped out of them.
“Give them to me.”
I handed them to him, and he stuffed them into his pocket.
“You can have them back later. Or not,” he said with a glint in his blue eyes.
I suspected it would be a not.
He stood and gently placed his hand on my chin, turning my gaze back to the horizon. “Watch the city,” he told me, as he pressed his chest against my back, his long, tall body aligned with mine.
Anticipation built between us, the tantalizing wonder of what would come next. I was placing my pleasure in his hands, and that’s exactly where I wanted it to be.
A soft hum whirred through the air. At first, I wasn’t sure what it was. Then I recognized the noise. The way it signaled a response in my body. How the sound tapped into my deepest core, a reminder of something I loved.
Assistance.
One hand gripped my hip, and the other slid down my belly, dipping between my legs as he tugged me closer.
My breath fled my chest. The thrill of not knowing ignited me more, and I felt a rush of heat between my legs.
I wanted him to feel it too. To know what he was doing to me.
I was After-Hours Michelle with him, so I let go of my other self, allowing myself to fully be the sexy, alluring woman who appeared when Jack Sullivan was inches away.
“Touch me,” I said.
I felt it. The first press against my throbbing clit. The slide through my wet folds. The pressure from something that wasn’t his finger. Something that had been made. That had been created to bring me bliss.
“What is it?” I asked in between staccato breaths.
“It’s The Lola,” he said in a hot, husky voice, whispering in my ear as he rubbed a small toy against my aching pussy.
I looked down—he held a sleek circular device between two fingers, one finger through a silver hole in the middle.
The toy was like a large ring, made of the same soft material the world’s best pleasure toys came in.
Only this one didn’t just stimulate me with vibrations.
Somehow, the toy felt like a tongue against me.
Like fast, intense flicks from the most wonderful, amazing, fantastic tongue I’d ever felt. Like Jack today. Times ten.
It was that good.
“I don’t have this one,” I said, in between gasps and moans.
“I know. It’s new. They say it feels fantastic against the skin,” he said, rubbing the vibrator against me. “Tell me if it does.”
I cried out. “Oh, yes.”
I felt as if my body belonged to this toy, to the intensity of the pleasure strumming through my blood and bones. It owned me.
“Does it make you want more of me?”
“So much more,” I moaned.
“This part,” he said, slowing only to press the soft middle section to my clit, the beads beneath the surface rotating, simulating the intoxicating sensations of a tongue flicking against me.
“Does that feel like the way I licked your pussy earlier today?” he asked in a whisper, his breath hot against my skin.
“Yes. Oh, god. Yes.”
“I can make this feel like a soft swirl, or like I’m fucking you with my tongue,” he said, and began cycling through the levels of vibration. My vision blurred from the sweet intensity. I wasn’t sure how I was still standing. “I can show you worlds of pleasure.”
“I want it,” I said, now begging, because this was a new land of desire he’d taken me to, and I didn’t ever want to leave.
Working the toy expertly between my legs, he yanked my body closer, his erection hitting my backside. His voice was low and dirty as he growled in my ear. “This is what I can do to you for thirty nights.”
“I want it all. I want you,” I said in between pants and moans, my body arching into the toy.
“This is how you’ll be mine,” he said, gliding the toy across my clit that was so swollen I ached with the need to come.
I felt desperate in every pore of my body.
The intense need to climax was bearing down on me.
My world narrowed to this hot neon need as pleasure took over, spinning wildly out of control, blissfully into chaos as I leaned back into his chest, his arms holding me in place, his finger working me over and over with his toy as I shattered into endless erotic bliss, crying out his name into the skies above Manhattan.
Minutes later I turned around, looping my arms around his neck. “You win. That was the best orgasm of my life. I’m yours for thirty nights.”
He was right. He didn’t fuck me properly. Not one bit. Everything about the way he lifted my skirt and pressed a strong hand on my back, pushing me forward and forcing me to grasp the railing even harder, was thoroughly improper.
Rough. Demanding. Confident.
So was the slap on my ass and the bite on my shoulder blade—oh, the sweet sting of that bite, sure to leave marks. Then there was the way he shifted gears, running his hands down my back, layering kisses along my spine. As if he relished the transition from rough to tender.
“Now that I’ve won you over, I’m going to have you,” he said in a hungry voice.
He palmed my ass, digging his thumbs into my cheeks and spreading me open. For the briefest of moments, I tensed. He wasn’t going to do that now, was he?