Chapter 10 #5
He slides it down my shoulder. His hand moves over my breast through the remaining fabric, gripping with a possession that makes my breath catch all over again.
I get his belt open — it takes both hands and more determination than I'd like to admit — and drag his zipper down.
My hand finds what's inside and I pull him free.
I look down and I take a moment. He’s long and thick—it’s almost intimidating. I wrap my hand around his dick and begin to stroke slowly, feeling the weight and heat of his girth, and the grunt that leaves his throat at my touch is the most satisfying sound I have heard tonight. I sink to my knees.
He leans forward, one hand bracing against the wall above me, and I take my time — stroking him against my face, feeling the slide of him, watching his jaw tighten from this angle which is its own particular reward.
I bring the tip to my lips and taste the bead of cum gathered there, then I take him fully into my mouth.
His hands go immediately into my hair. I hollow my cheeks and suck him slowly at first — both hands around his shaft, my mouth following — and the groan that comes from somewhere in his chest is low and rough and sets every nerve in my body back on alert.
His grip in my hair tightens. His hips begin to move, finding a rhythm, deepening it, until he is using the grip he has on me to guide exactly what he wants and I let him because I want the same thing.
His thrusts become harder. Less controlled. The back of my head hits the wall with each one as he fucks my mouth with force. I bring him closer with both hands rather than pulling back, which tells him everything he needs to know about where I stand on this.
"I'm fucking close," he says, ragged and low.
I don't slow down. I pull him closer. He stills himself with a grip on the back of my head that pins me in place, his entire body shuddering, as he cums in the back of my throat.
His load is warm and thick as I taste him.
He tastes like salt and lemon, with a sharp bitterness that is entirely specific to him. I swallow slowly, and thoroughly.
He pulls me to my feet. We’re both breathing like we've run somewhere.
He reaches for the other strap of my dress and slides it from my shoulder, letting the whole thing fall to the floor.
He reaches behind me and unclasps my bra with one hand.
I step out of what remains and stand in front of him in the Paris darkness with nothing left to hide behind and he looks at me — really looks, the way he does everything, with his complete and unhurried attention — and then he steps forward and kisses me again.
He doesn't seem to mind that he can taste himself on my tongue.
He doesn't seem to mind anything right now except getting closer.
I pull his shirt from his shoulders. He steps out of his trousers.
He is already rising again, which I receive with a combination of disbelief and something that feels very much like greed, and he takes my hand and pulls me toward the chair by the window.
He sits. He spreads his legs. His eyes stay on mine as he fists his cock again, jerking it slowly, deliberately, watching my face while he does it with the specific arrogance of a man who is very certain of what is about to happen.
"Sit on my cock," he says.
I do not hesitate. I straddle him and he lines himself up and I slide down onto him — feeling every inch of the stretch and the fullness.
We both make the same involuntary sound at the same moment.
He grips my thighs and lifts me and brings me back down, his hips thrusting upward to meet me, and I grip his shoulders and move with him, bouncing up and down on his cock.
I suck his lower lip into my mouth. He groans against mine. I feel every movement, every shift, the ridge of him finding the exact right place inside me with a consistency that shouldn't be possible for a stranger—but it clearly is.
His hands move to the backs of my thighs and he shifts forward and stands — stands, with me still wrapped around him, my legs locking at his waist — and carries me toward the bed.
But he doesn't lay me down immediately. He holds me suspended and fucks me mid-air, his grip on my thighs iron-tight, as his long cock drives in and out of me with ease.
At this point my moans are uncontrollable and loud, but I don't particularly care who hears it.
He lowers me to the mattress as he pulls out, but only long enough to reposition me, then climbs onto the bed and lifts both my legs onto his shoulders.
He looks at me from this angle — composed, dark-eyed, utterly sure of himself.
He fists his cock once, and slides back inside.
His thrusts are hard and deliberate and completely without mercy.
"You feel so fucking good," he says, his voice raw and ragged at the edges.
"Your—" He stops. Shakes his head once like he is overwhelmed by the specific information.
"Unbelievable."
Something about hearing that from him — this contained, exacting, controlled man coming apart at the edges because of me — sends me somewhere I have no intention of coming back from.
"Fuck me," I hear myself say. My voice doesn't sound like mine. It is louder and less measured and completely honest, which tracks with how the entire evening has gone.
"Fuck me—"
The sensation in my belly crests and breaks and I come with my whole body, shaking and loud and completely undignified.
Only moments later he follows right behind me as he stills himself, and grips my thighs so hard that I’m sure that I’ll feel it tomorrow.
He releases with a sound that is low and guttural as I feel him pulse inside me.
I hold his shoulders while he empties himself completely, his warm cum filling my pussy walls.
Neither of us moves for a long moment afterward. We stay exactly as we are — heat and weight and the damp tangle of sheets beneath us and Paris outside the window doing what Paris does, which is continue being Paris, indifferent to everything we have just done in this room.
Eventually he rolls to the side and lays flat on the mattress as we both catch our breath.
After a few minutes I reach for the water bottle on the nightstand and sit up enough to drink — a long, necessary sip that I feel in every part of my body.
His eyes find mine over the rim. I offer it to him without speaking and he takes it, drinks deeply then hands it back.
"Don't worry," I say, "there's plenty more."
The corner of his mouth moves. He looks at me — really looks, dragging his gaze down slowly with an unhurried appreciation that makes my skin warm all over again — and hands the bottle back.
"I hope so," he says.
He reaches over to set it on the nightstand, and in the shift of his body against mine I feel him stir again. My mouth opens. I close it. I bite my lip instead because my face is apparently incapable of neutrality where this man is concerned.
There is something about the scent of him.
He smelled like clean linen and something sharp and faintly herbal when we started — the specific, composed smell of a man who pays attention to details.
Now that is layered underneath something warmer, salt and skin and the particular heat of sex, and desire and the combination is — I don't have a word.
Addictive is close. Insufficient but close.
He leans forward again, and his mouth closes over my breast, warm and deliberate as he draws my nipple between his lips.
The sensation moves through me in a slow, dangerous pull, softer than the urgency from moments ago but no less consuming.
We’re on our sides now, facing each other in the rumpled sheets, skin damp, breaths still uneven.
His hand moves between us, parting my thighs as he pulls me closer, fitting my body against his like he already knows where I belong.
He angles his hips, and then he slides inside me again with almost no effort.
His cock is long enough that there is no searching, no awkward shifting, only that deep, steady fullness that makes my eyes flutter shut.
I am still wet. Still sensitive. My pussy is still tingling from him, every nerve lit and aching as he begins to move.
At first, he thrusts slowly, almost calmly, each stroke dragging through me with a patience that feels more dangerous than the roughness.
I hold on to him, my fingers pressing into his shoulders as my body adjusts to him all over again.
His breath turns heavier against my skin.
The rhythm deepens. What starts slow becomes harder, then harder still, until the bed shifts beneath us and my body is right back at the edge he keeps dragging me toward.
When he cums inside me again, he pulls me tight against him, his body tense and hot as he empties himself with a rough, breathless sound.
I cling to him through it, feeling every pulse, every tremor, every ruined piece of control between us.
We don’t stop there. He fucks me at least twice more that evening, and I experience the most powerful and mind-blowing orgasms I’ve ever had.
By the time Paris begins to lighten outside the window, we have exhausted every remaining argument either of our bodies could make, and sleep arrives not as a decision but as a fact — the inevitable conclusion of two people who gave everything they had to a single night with a stranger they will never entirely be strangers with again.