Chapter 5 – Lori
My knees are still weak from the confrontation when Arthur guides me back upstairs to his apartment. His hand rests at the small of my back, warm and steady, as we climb the stairs in silence. The adrenaline that kept me standing tall in front of Richard is ebbing now, leaving me shaky and raw.
Inside, Arthur closes the door behind us, the soft click of the latch somehow final. We stand in the middle of his living room, the morning light streaming through the windows, illuminating dust motes that dance in the air between us.
"Are you okay?" he asks, his voice low.
I nod, though "okay" doesn't begin to cover what's happening inside me. Relief, fear, pride—and underneath it all, something electric that sparks whenever I look at Arthur's face, his hands, the breadth of his shoulders.
"I should be terrified," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. "He knows where I am. He'll probably come back." I take a shuddering breath. "But all I can feel right now is..."
I trail off, unable to find the right words. Arthur takes a step closer, his eyes never leaving mine.
"Is what?" he prompts gently.
"Alive," I finish. "I feel alive."
Something shifts in his expression, a softening around the eyes, a slight parting of his lips. He reaches up slowly, giving me time to pull away, and cups my cheek in his palm. His skin is calloused but warm, and I lean into the touch without thinking.
"You're the bravest person I've ever met," he says.
I laugh softly, disbelieving. "You're a firefighter. You know actual heroes."
"I know what bravery looks like," he insists. His thumb brushes lightly across my cheekbone, sending a shiver down my spine. "What you did down there… that's courage, Lori."
I'm suddenly aware of how close we're standing, of the heat radiating from his body, of the fact that I'm still wearing his clothes with nothing underneath but my underwear.
His hand slides from my cheek to the nape of my neck, fingers threading through my hair. He pulls me closer, slowly, deliberately, giving me every opportunity to stop him.
I don't want to stop him.
Our lips meet and something electric races through me.
His mouth is soft but insistent against mine, testing, tasting.
I make a small sound in the back of my throat and press closer, my hands finding the solid plane of his chest. Through the thermal shirt, I can feel his heart racing as fast as mine.
We break apart, both breathing harder. His eyes search mine, looking for hesitation or regret. He won't find any.
"I want this," I tell him, my voice steadier than I expected. "I want you."
He takes my hand and leads me to the couch. I sit, tucking my legs to the side, looking up at him. He kneels before me, his large hands settling on my waist, fingers warm even through the fabric of the borrowed t-shirt.
"Tell me if you want to stop," he says. "Anytime."
I nod, unable to form words as he leans in to kiss me again. This time, there's no hesitation. His mouth is demanding, confident, sending pulses of heat straight to my core. His hands remain at my waist, thumbs making small circles that drive me crazy with their restraint.
I shift impatiently, wanting more. One of his hands slides under the borrowed sweatshirt, his calloused palm against my bare skin making me gasp into his mouth. The contrast between his rough hand and the gentleness of his touch sends goosebumps racing across my skin.
I tug at his shirt, wanting to feel his skin against mine. He pulls back long enough to yank it over his head, and I'm momentarily stunned by the sight of him—broad chest dusted with dark hair, muscles defined but not showy, a smattering of scars that speak of a life lived fully.
My hands reach out of their own accord, fingers tracing the firm planes of his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart beneath my palm. His skin is hot to the touch, slightly rough with hair, nothing like...
No. I won't think of anyone else. Not now. Not with Arthur looking at me like I'm the only woman in the world.
He catches my wrist, pressing a kiss to my palm that makes my breath hitch.
Then he tugs me gently to my feet. I go willingly, letting him guide me until my back meets the wall beside the couch.
He braces one hand beside my head, the other settling at the small of my back, pulling me closer until our bodies press together.
The hard length of him presses against my lower belly, and heat pools between my thighs in response. His breath catches, his control visibly slipping.
"Lori," he says, my name a rough sound on his lips.
I answer by rolling my hips against his, the friction making us both gasp. His hand moves to my hip, gripping hard enough that I might find marks tomorrow. The thought sends another pulse of heat through me.
He kisses me again, deeper this time, his tongue sliding against mine in a rhythm that makes me think of other ways our bodies could move together.
His hand slides lower, cupping my backside and lifting me slightly to align our bodies better.
The new angle puts him exactly where I need him, the pressure perfect against my center even through layers of clothing.
"God, you feel good," he murmurs against my neck, his stubble scraping deliciously against my sensitive skin. "The sounds you make..." He rolls his hips again, deliberately, and I can't stop the moan that escapes me.
His mouth trails down my throat, teeth scraping lightly over my collarbone. I'm panting now, my hands clutching at his shoulders, his back, anywhere I can reach. When his hand slides under my shirt again, this time moving higher to cup my breast, I arch into his touch with a gasp.
His thumb brushes over my nipple, and the sensation shoots straight to my core. I whimper, my head falling back against the wall. He takes advantage, his mouth finding the sensitive spot just below my ear. He sucks lightly, then harder, surely leaving a mark.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark with desire. Then he scoops me up as if I weigh nothing, carrying me back to the couch. He lays me down and follows, his weight supported on his forearms as he hovers above me.
I reach for the hem of the borrowed sweatshirt and pull it over my head in one fluid movement. Arthur goes still above me, his eyes roaming over my naked torso with unconcealed hunger.
I reach for him, pulling him down until I can feel the wonderful weight of him pressing me into the couch cushions.
The feel of his bare chest against mine pulls a moan from deep in my throat. His skin is hot, slightly rough with hair, the friction against my sensitive nipples sending sparks of pleasure through my body. His hips settle between my thighs, and I wrap my legs around him, holding him close.
He shifts, adjusting his weight, and the movement creates delicious friction exactly where I need it. I rock against him, seeking more, and he groans into my neck. His mouth finds my breast, tongue circling lazily around the peaked nipple before drawing it between his lips.
My back arches off the couch, hands tangling in his hair to hold him closer. The wet heat of his mouth combined with the gentle scrape of teeth has me gasping his name.
His hand slides down my stomach to the waistband of the borrowed sweatpants. He hooks his fingers in the elastic, then pauses, looking up at me with a question in his eyes.
I nod, lifting my hips to help as he slides them down my legs. The cool air of the apartment raises goosebumps on my newly exposed skin, or maybe it's the way Arthur is looking at me, like he wants to devour me whole.
I'm left in only my underwear.
"These too?" he asks, voice rough.
"Yes," I breathe, lifting my hips again.
He slides them down slowly, his eyes following the path of the fabric as it reveals more of me.
When they're gone, I'm naked beneath him, exposed and vulnerable but not afraid.
He sits back on his heels, eyes roaming over my body with such open desire that I feel my skin flush everywhere his gaze touches.
"You too," I say, reaching for the button of his jeans. "It's not fair."
He laughs, a warm, rich sound that makes something flutter in my chest. "Nothing about this is fair," he says, standing to remove his jeans and boxers in one efficient movement. "You showing up at my garage looking like every fantasy I never knew I had."
Then he's naked too, and it's my turn to stare. He's magnificent—all lean muscle and purpose, his erection jutting proudly from a nest of dark hair. My mouth goes dry at the sight of him, and I feel a fresh surge of wetness between my thighs.
The couch suddenly seems too narrow, too confining for what we both want. Without a word, Arthur helps me to the floor, where a large rug offers more space. He grabs a pillow from the couch and tucks it beneath my head, the small gesture of care making my chest tight with emotion.
Then he's over me again, his body covering mine, skin to skin with nothing between us. The weight of him is perfect, heavy enough to feel secure, not enough to crush. His mouth finds mine in a kiss that's deep and searching, his hands exploring every curve and dip of my body.
I run my hands down his back, feeling the shift and play of muscles beneath my fingers. He's solid, real, present in a way that makes me feel anchored. My nails scrape lightly down his spine, and he shudders against me, his hips pressing forward in an instinctive thrust that makes us both groan.
His hand slides between our bodies, tracing a path down my stomach that makes my muscles clench in anticipation.
When his fingers finally slide between my thighs, finding me wet and ready, we both make sounds of satisfaction.
He strokes me with practiced patience, learning what makes me gasp and arch, what makes me cling to his shoulders and bite my lip.
"I want to hear you," he murmurs against my ear, his voice low and commanding. "Don't hold back."
His thumb circles my most sensitive spot as one finger slides inside me, then two, stretching me gently.
"You're so wet," he says, the words crude but spoken with such reverence that they feel like praise.
His mouth returns to my breast, adding another layer of sensation that pushes me closer to the edge. Just when I think I can't take any more, he withdraws his hand, leaving me empty and aching.
Before I can protest, he shifts lower, trailing kisses down my stomach. His intent is clear, and I feel a momentary flash of self-consciousness that disappears the instant his mouth replaces his fingers.
The first touch of his tongue against my center tears a cry from my throat.
My hips buck upward, but his large hands hold me steady as he explores with lips and tongue, learning what makes me tremble and what makes me shout his name.
When he slides two fingers back inside while his tongue works against me, I feel myself approaching the edge of something enormous.
"Arthur," I gasp, my hands fisting in his hair. "I'm going to—"
He doubles his efforts, his fingers curling to hit that spot inside me that makes my vision blur.
The pressure builds and builds until it shatters, pleasure washing over me in waves that leave me trembling and incoherent.
He doesn't stop, drawing out my orgasm until I'm tugging weakly at his hair, oversensitive and boneless.
He kisses his way back up my body, looking smugly satisfied as he reaches my face. I can taste myself on his lips when he kisses me, and the intimacy of it makes me moan softly. His erection presses against my thigh, hot and insistent.
"I need you," I whisper against his mouth. "Inside me. Now."
He nods, shifting to position himself between my thighs. I feel him, hot and hard, pressing against my entrance. He pauses, his eyes finding mine in a silent question.
"Yes," I breathe, lifting my hips in invitation.
He pushes forward slowly, giving me time to adjust to the stretch and fullness. My breath catches at the initial pressure, then releases in a long, shuddering sigh as he sinks deeper. When he's fully seated within me, he goes still, his forehead pressed to mine, his breathing ragged.
"You feel incredible," he murmurs, his voice strained with the effort of holding still.
I answer by rolling my hips, taking him impossibly deeper.
A groan tears from his throat, his control visibly slipping.
He begins to move, setting a rhythm that has me gasping with each thrust. My legs wrap around his waist, changing the angle until he's hitting that perfect spot with every movement.
His strokes are measured at first, deep and deliberate, his eyes never leaving my face as if gauging my reaction to each movement. The intensity of his gaze is almost too much, there's nowhere to hide, nothing to conceal.
"Harder," I breathe, digging my heels into his lower back.
He complies, his hips snapping forward with more force, driving the breath from my lungs. The sound of our bodies coming together fills the room, along with our mingled gasps and moans. Sweat slicks our skin, making everything hot and slippery and perfect.
I can feel another orgasm building, this one deeper, more encompassing than the first. Arthur must sense it too, because his rhythm falters slightly, his movements becoming less controlled. One hand slides beneath my hips, tilting me upward to change the angle.
I'm trembling beneath him, hovering on the brink. One of his hands slides between us, thumb finding my center with unerring accuracy, and the added sensation sends me flying.
I come with a cry of his name, my body clenching around him in waves of pleasure so intense I can't breathe. He follows moments later, his rhythm faltering as he pushes deep one final time, his body shuddering against mine, my name a prayer on his lips.