Chapter April #2
He worked her with the same focused patience he'd used on her breasts—circling, flicking, sucking—until her hips lifted off the counter chasing pressure, friction.
Her hands gripped the marble edge so hard her knuckles went white.
The warmth pooling low in her stomach tightened, sharpened, started climbing toward release she could almost reach—
He pulled back. Blew directly on her clit.
"Mateo—"
It came out broken, pleading.
He wiped his mouth, eyes satisfied as he watched her squirm.
"Not yet, cara."
His fingers dipped into the sorbet again and returned to her, painting gold in steady strokes while she trembled.
When his mouth closed over her clit again it was hotter than before, or maybe she was just more desperate.
She heard herself make sounds she didn't recognize.
Small, needy whimpers she would have hated in any other room.
The pressure built between her legs, heat spreading through her thighs as his tongue moved with intent, pushing her faster than before.
That low warmth from before had banked, but it hadn't faded. Mateo stoked the flames. It spread higher layered under new pressure. Her breath fractured. One hand left the marble and twisted in his hair, holding him there.
He made a hungry moan against her and the vibration jolted through her, pulling everything tight at once. She was close. So close. Her thighs shook against his shoulders, her back arched—
He pulled back.
"No—" The word came out as a sob. "Please—"
"I know," he murmured, his voice roughened. "Cristo, I know. But you don't rush worship. The ache makes it better."
Her hand scrabbled against the marble, desperate for an anchor before she came from wanting alone. She found his hand braced against the counter near her hip, knuckles pressing into stone, and her fingers latched on desperately.
Mateo went still for half a heartbeat. Then his palm turned and his fingers threaded through hers and locked tight.
"Look at me," he said.
His eyes held hers as he lowered his mouth again. This time there was no sorbet, no cold, just his tongue hot and relentless and exactly where she needed it. Her hand gripped his. The marble pressed into her back, nearly as warm as she was now.
His mouth worked her like he was trying to feed every starved part of her at once. This time he didn't pull back and let her climb. Her hand gripped his hair. She couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but feel the pressure concentrating, reducing—
"That's my greedy girl," Mateo murmured against her.
Heat rose. The pressure crested and boiled over. Everything inside her surged up, expanding outward in pulses she had no control over. She came in contractions that felt like being fed, glutted with sensation she couldn't contain. His hand anchored hers to the counter.
The pulses kept coming. Her thighs shook.
She gripped harder, hard enough to leave marks.
She saw the hunger in his gaze as he watched her come apart.
His hand stayed firm on her hip, keeping her steady while his mouth worked her through every wave, drawing it out until she was shaking and sobbing his name.
He didn't stop until she went completely boneless, until her hand went slack in his and her breathing turned to ragged gasps. Then he gentled, working her through the aftershocks with the same caresses he'd used to build her up.
Her hand slipped from his hair.
Her body thrummed, overfull and still wanting. Fed past satisfaction and still hungry.
Mateo pulled back slowly, his face glistening, his grin satisfied.
He stayed between her legs, his hands steady on her thighs, warm and grounding. "Breathe, cara," he murmured, his thumbs making small circles against her skin. "I have you."
She tried. Her lungs seemed to have forgotten the basic mechanics of oxygen intake.
His hands stayed on her, anchoring her while her body remembered how to be a body. His eyes stayed on her face, watching her come back to herself with the same unwavering attention he'd used to take her apart.
When her breathing finally steadied, he pressed a tender kiss to the inside of her thigh.
"There you are," he said tenderly.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stood, smoothing down her ruined blouse with hands that stayed steady even if his eyes didn't. He pressed a kiss to her temple, softer this time, then helped her down from the counter.
Her hands moved on instinct, reaching for his belt.
"You didn't—" Her fingers fumbled with the buckle. "Let me—"
Mateo caught her hands gently, his fingers wrapping around her wrists and stilling them. His breath came uneven. She felt the tremor in his fingers before he loosened his hold, thumbs pressing against her pulse points like he was using her heartbeat to steady his own.
"Not tonight, cara."
April looked up at him, dazed and disheveled and probably still glowing from what he'd just done to her. "But—"
"Tonight was for you." He lifted one of her hands to his mouth and pressed a kiss to her knuckles, his eyes warm. "Let me have that."
"That's not—" She tried to find words through the pleasant fog still filling her head. "That's not fair to you."
"Trust me, cara, watching you come apart was more than enough. My hands are full, cara”
He pressed another kiss to her temple, longer this time, his hand cupping the back of her head with a gentleness that made her chest go tight.
He drew back just enough to look at her, his thumb brushing her cheek. "You have a gala to attend," he murmured.
April blinked at him, then looked down at herself: half-dressed, thoroughly pleased, still unsteady on her feet.
“I probably look like I’ve been tossed in a salad spinner.”
"There's a private washroom through that door. Take your time."
April grabbed her pants and started across the kitchen on legs that felt like overcooked pasta.
Halfway there, she glanced down at the trousers clutched in her hand.
I am walking pantsless through a restaurant kitchen.
She glanced around at the gleaming stainless steel, the immaculate prep stations, the spaces where actual paying customers' food got made.
People EAT the food from this kitchen. This kitchen where I just... on the counter...
She walked faster.
There are health codes. Definitely health codes about this.
The washroom was mercifully private, a single room with soft lighting and a large mirror.
April caught sight of herself and froze.
Her eyes were blown out, pupils huge and dark. Her hair looked like she'd lost a fight with a ceiling fan that had personal grievances. Her lips were swollen, her face flushed, and the champagne blouse was wrinkled beyond any hope of salvation.
She tried to smooth her hair down. Managed to tuck a few strands back into place, but it was a losing battle.
She braced her hands on the sink, meeting her own eyes in the mirror.
"Okay, you little trollop. You've been with two guys today and kissed four. That's insane. That's more than—that equals college."
The silence in the bathroom felt loud, like her own judgment staring back at her from the mirror.
"But Mateo said take what you want. And I wanted this."
She let out a deep breath.
"It's okay."
She grabbed napkins, wiped between her thighs, tossed them and reached for her pants—then promptly half-fell sideways catching herself on the sink with an ungraceful thump.
"Smooth, April. Very smooth."
She finally got the pants on, rebuttoned her blouse as best she could, and stepped back to assess the damage. She snorted. My clothes look distinctly less 'in good taste' now. Which was ironic, because it had been a really good tasting.
She squared her shoulders, and opened the door.
Mateo was waiting by the service exit.
April stopped short, surprised he was still there, and then a smile spread across her face. He'd waited for her. Somehow that felt just as important as the rest, which was a thought she absolutely wasn't going to examine right now.
"I didn't realize I was the main course on the tasting menu," she said.
His expression warmed, his mouth curving into a knowing smile as he reached for her. "You're always the main course, April. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
He caught her wrist and pulled her back into him, kissing her like he hadn’t gotten enough, until she forgot what she was leaving for.
“Now,” he murmured against her lips, “you can go to your gala. You can dance with Liam Sterling and wear the Blackwood ring.”
His thumb brushed across her cheek.
“But you’ll still taste like my kitchen” His smile curved. “And you’ll come back hungry.”