Chapter 22 #2
I cross the room toward her and when I reach her, I take my time.
I touch her cheek first, then the side of her throat, then the delicate line of her shoulder where the black fabric begins.
Her skin is warm. Her pulse moves beneath my fingers.
She watches me with those blue eyes, no performance, no coyness, no attempt to make the moment safer by making it smaller.
“Stay with me tonight,” I say.
“I’m already here.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Her eyes hold mine. “Yes. I will stay.”
I lean in, taking her mouth without asking, tasting her like I’ve been starved for years.
I feel her entire body loosen into the contact.
Her hands slide up my chest and into my hair, and the first pull of her fingers against my scalp sends heat straight through me.
I deepen the kiss, walking her back until her hips meet the kitchen island.
The same island where I have worked alone, eaten alone, stood at midnight with things I could not name.
Now she’s against it, warm and alive beneath my hands, and the apartment feels as if it has been waiting for the correction.
I press harder into her, letting her feel how hard I already am—my cock straining against the seam of my pants, desperate to be inside her.
I lift her onto the marble. She gasps against my mouth, then laughs softly, breathlessly, as if she should have expected that and still did not.
Her dress rides up her thighs, and I step between them, one hand at her waist, the other sliding into her hair.
“You’re very fond of surfaces,” she says.
“I design them well.”
“That is the most arrogant thing you could possibly say right now.”
“No,” I say, kissing the corner of her mouth.
“It’s only the most accurate.”
She laughs again, and I swallow the sound because I want it inside me. I want every rare, unguarded thing she gives. I kiss her until the laughter becomes breath, until her hands tighten on my shoulders and she makes helpless sounds against my mouth.
I pull back only to look at her. She’s beautiful in a way that should be simple to describe and is not.
Beauty is too small a word for attention this complete.
She’s not an object in my kitchen, not a woman arranged for desire.
She is the disruption, the answer, the one person in months of rooms and meals and service who has made me feel seen without making me feel exposed.
I slide my hand along her thigh, slow enough to feel the tremor she tries to contain.
“Damien,” she says, and this time my name is not a warning.
“I know,” I say.
I do.
I know she wants me. I know she’s afraid of wanting me. I know I’m no better. I know we’ve already crossed every line and are still behaving as if the next one will explain the damage. It will not. There’s no more useful pretending available.
She moans into my mouth, and it fuels me. Her chest heaves beneath that dress, rising and falling like she can barely hold herself together.
I bury my face in the crook of her neck, dragging my lips over her skin, letting my teeth graze just enough to make her gasp. Then I bite. Not hard—but hard enough.
She arches into me, offering more, and I take it—kissing lower, tasting her collarbone, the slope of her chest. My free hand finds her breast and I groan into her skin as I squeeze the soft and full flesh.
I release her wrists slowly, letting her arms fall. She doesn’t move. Just looks at me—flushed, needy, dazed. I take one of her hands and slide it down between us, dragging it across the front of my pants, so she can feel how hard my dick is for her.
Her hands go to the buttons of my shirt. One by one, slow at first, then faster. As more of me is revealed, her hands slide over my chest, down my abs, exploring every ridge like she’s memorizing it.
When her fingers reach my belt, she slows her pace and then frantically yanks the leather through the buckle. Her fingers find the zipper. She eases it down, her knuckles brushing against me. I groan at the contact, low and sharp, as I take her wrist in my hand and guide it inside my pants.
She wraps her fingers around my cock. Her grip is firm, warm, and perfect. She strokes slowly at first, then picks up the pace. She licks her lips and her eyes flash with desire when she looks back up at me. I press my mouth to hers again, and unhook the back of her dress.
She slides down off the kitchen island, facing me, as the fabric of her dress slips down her shoulders, exposing the top of her lace bra, then she lets it fall down to her ankles.
I unfasten the rest of my pants and shove them down, along with my briefs. My cock springs free, hard and swollen, the head flushed with need. She inhales sharply at the sight, her lips twitching like she’s about to say something wicked—but doesn’t.
Instead she kneels to the floor, eyes never leaving mine, and kneels in front of me, her face brushing against the base of my shaft. I fist her hair, guiding her gently, teasing the tip of my cock against her lips—smearing the pre-cum over her mouth like lip gloss.
Her mouth opens and she takes me in— deep, hot and wet.
I moan as her hands grip the base of my cock, stroking in rhythm as she sucks, her lips forming a perfect seal around my girth.
My grip on her hair tightens. I thrust slowly at first, jerking my hips forward.
Then deeper, as I feel the tip hitting the back of her throat.
She gags—but doesn’t pull away. Saliva drips from the corners of her mouth, glistening down her chin, and it’s the filthiest thing I’ve ever seen. She moans around my cock, and the vibrations make me more feral.
Her fingers squeeze, twist. Her mouth sucks harder. Her cheeks hollow as she picks up speed. I brace one hand on the wall behind me, the other still tangled in her hair as she devours me like she owns me.
I cup her head, my fists still tangled in her hair, as I fuck her mouth aggressively.
I grunt with each movement, as I feel the sensation rise in my groin.
I thrust forward once more, gritting my teeth as my orgasm tears through me.
I cum deep into her mouth, my seed spurting down her throat, as I groan for mercy.
She drinks me down without flinching, holding me in place, sucking every drop until I’m empty and trembling.
She pulls back, slowly, and swallows. Her lips are still swollen, her chest rising and falling, flushed and glistening from where she kneels between my legs.
I pull her up, her body light but humming with heat, and guide her back to the living room sofa.
My hands slide down the curve of her body until I reach her breasts.
I squeeze them through the fabric—firm, full, fucking perfect in my palms—and I can feel her breath hitch as I kneel between her legs.
I run my fingers up the inside of her thighs, slow and deliberate, and feel her legs open for me without hesitation. She's soaked.
I hook my fingers into the edge of her panties and drag them down over her legs, pulling them off completely, tossing them somewhere behind me without care. I lift her thighs over my shoulders, burying my face between her legs without a word of warning.
Her gasp tears through the room as my tongue finds her folds, gliding through the slick warmth of her.
She’s drenched, her taste already coating my mouth.
I use one hand to spread her open, exposing the tight, flushed bud of her clit.
My mouth latches onto it instantly, sucking hard, slow, rhythmic pulls that make her hips jerk forward.
Her thighs flex around my head as I work her with my tongue, feeling her body twitch under me.
Then without stopping, I slide two fingers inside of her. She’s hot, tight, gripping me. My fingers thrust deep, curling just enough to find her spot. I alternate between licking up the length of her slit and flicking her clit with my tongue, while my fingers work a punishing rhythm inside her.
She moans, high-pitched and desperate as I tongue fuck her pussy. Juices coat my lips and chin as she writhes under me, her hands tangled in my hair. I don’t let up. I suck on her clit, hard, then thrust deeper with my fingers, adjusting my angle until she cries out, body convulsing.
I stay locked on her clit, drawing it into my mouth, sucking as her thighs begin to tremble around my head. Her whole body seizes, arches, then a shudder rolls through her—and I feel it. Her orgasm bursts against my tongue, a hot gush of wetness pouring out of her as she cries out again.
I lap it all up. Every drop. I keep licking, slower now, gentle strokes of my tongue as she twitches and pants, still throbbing around my fingers. Her pussy pulses, and I ease my fingers free, licking the mess from them before I stand.
My chin is coated with her juice. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, then lean over, grabbing her by the waist. She’s dazed, eyes glassy, lips parted—fucking beautiful.
I lift her from the sofa, her legs wrap around my waist as I carry her up to my bedroom. Once inside, I toss her on the bed, and she collapses back onto the sheets as I stand over her, unbuttoned shirt hanging off my shoulders.
My cock is already hard again. Aching. I finish unbuttoning my shirt and toss it aside as our eyes are locked onto each other. She stretches out on the bed, her body purring—long legs, glistening thighs, flushed chest rising and falling as she watches me.
I grab her ankles and tug her toward me, slowly removing her bra– the last article of clothing she has on. I unhook it, dragging the straps from her shoulders as she lies back, her back arched, her nipples hard, aching for my mouth.