Chapter 8
Eight
Iris
“Leftovers, my eye,” I laugh, setting the bag down on the cloth cutting table next to a mountain of fabric scraps that need organizing. “Pull up a chair and have dinner with me.”
Oliver doesn’t move. He stares at the mannequin with Rebecca Wright’s wedding dress on it, the one I’m almost finished sewing the crystals onto.
“You made that?” Oliver asks.
He seems to take way more notice of the dress than the last guy I dated did when he visited my studio.
“Yes. I designed it, actually. With the bride’s input, of course.”
He takes a step forward and examines the work.
Then I remember the bowl. Of course, he’s an artist. He notices things.
“The crystal pattern is nothing I’ve ever seen before,” he says.
“You flatter me. Don’t tell the bride,” I say, approaching the dress and tracing the lines with my fingers.
“But I got the inspiration from the topping on the pan dulce from the bakery. She mentioned she was a big fan of The Little Mermaid, which made me think of conch shells, which made me think about food—everything leads back to food—and then, pop! I had my idea.”
Oliver is now staring at me, and not at the dress.
“What? Oh gosh, I’m babbling again.”
Oliver’s perfect dark brows draw together. “No, you’re not. You’re letting me get to know you, and I like it. Now quit apologizing.”
I’m mildly taken aback. The combination of sweetness and bossiness makes my head spin a little. And makes other parts of me aroused. My nipples, to name two things reacting to Oliver.
“I get self-conscious when I catch myself oversharing. People like to say that I’m a lot.”
“If people can’t handle you, then that’s their problem.”
Only my closest friends say things like that. And sometimes, guys who are trying to get into my panties. But usually, those kinds of guys don’t put that much thought into bringing me food, nor are they ever curious about the dresses I’m working on.
His words make me stand up a little taller. “You know, you’re right. I’m cooped up in a studio all day every day, it should be expected that I’m a chatterbox when I see other humans.”
“Exactly.”
“Dammit, I like to talk. I should be able to express myself.”
“Hell, yes.”
“Thank you, Oliver. Thank you for giving me permission to be myself.”
“You don’t need my permission for anything.”
He reaches over and tucks a lock of hair behind my ear, his hand lingering right there for a long time.
His thumb brushes against the shell of my ear.
My skin tingles. My heart races. Our eyes meet, and I wonder if he knows the effect he has on me, that I’m visualizing that hand fisting my hair, pulling it back, and lunging for my neck…
I ask, “Do I need permission if I have the urge to kiss you?”
“Hell no.”
I rise up on the balls of my feet and touch my lips to Oliver’s lips, steadying myself with a hand on his bicep.
Nothing will ever be the same after this.
It’s only a soft, short kiss. Closed mouth. Sweet. But when I pull back, the look in his eye is anything but sweet.
Oliver flexes the hand that’s still touching my hair, and now cups the side of my face with it. His gaze is on my mouth, and there’s a glint of my nude gloss on his bottom lip.
I reach for him, curling one arm around his neck. As natural as can be, Oliver’s other hand warms the small of my back, pulling me in closer.
This time, the kiss is long, deep, and my mouth opens to accept his tongue.
Instantly, it becomes clear Oliver knows what he’s doing.
The first soft lick into my mouth is erotically teasing and leaves me wanting more.
With a shiver of need, I deepen the kiss, probing my tongue into his mouth.
He tastes wonderfully salty. The scent coming off his skin goes straight to my head—outdoors and clean sweat.
His tongue softly slides against mine, causing an ache between my legs I haven’t felt in ages.
“You should eat,” he says, pressing his forehead to mine, his fingers smoothing my hair.
“Later,” I whisper, angling for another kiss. “Busy.”
This has happened before. In the past, anytime I’ve jumped into bed with someone, they end up hurting me. Sometimes accidentally, sometimes intentionally. I enjoy sex, maybe a little too much, according to some people in my family. In my heart I know I also get attached way too fast.
Oliver chuckles softly against my mouth. “I didn’t come here with the intent to make out with you; I came here to feed you.”
“So shut up and feed me,” I breathe, gripping the front of his shirt and pulling him in for a deep, long, wet kiss, this time letting my tongue dominate. With a groan of need, he takes control, cupping my face firmly as his tongue lashes into my mouth, hitting the back of my throat.
Without breaking the kiss, Oliver hoists me up and sets me down on the cutting table, laying me down on top of the pile of fabric scraps.
The feel of his solid frame between my thighs has me pawing and tugging at him like a feral thing, needing him closer.
Oliver takes both my arms from the back of his neck and weaves his fingers through mine, resting them above my head, keeping my grabby hands out of the way.
The kisses grow wilder and more frantic, with our fingers locked together over my head and my body fitted against his.
I love the weight of him on top of me. I love the domination.
I love that both of us are equally swept up in this moment, not being coy or denying what we want.
And why should we?
His deep, demanding kisses pull a needy moan from my throat. Wanting to ride him so badly, I try to lock my thighs around him, but Oliver pulls away for a quick moment.
I sit up to watch him reach back and swiftly tug off his shirt.
I notice the bunching of the muscles at the backs of his arms, the sparse hair dappling his broad chest. The silver nipple ring.
There’s so much skin to touch. Oliver is built, but not overbuilt.
Strong like a warrior, yet limber. It’s the perfect combination.
He’s built for sex. He’s built for really, really good sex, and the anticipation of that makes my inner muscles tighten against nothing.
I need to be fed, but not falafel. Maybe later.
I run my hand over his chest, noticing the softness of the light hair, the rapid beat of his heart. I touch the piercing and check his reaction. He sucks in a breath as his nipple hardens.
Oliver stares down at me, pupils blowing out the intense blue eyes. His jaw ticks.
With a questioning gaze up at him, I lean in, signaling, “May I suck it?”
He growls nad cups the back of my neck. I lean in and tease my tongue over the piercing. Oliver lets out a soft curse, and I suck that pierced nipple into my mouth and gently suck and flick my tongue there.
“Fuck me, Iris.” Oliver’s breath is ragged and his grip tightens on the back of my neck. “You got me so fucking hard I can’t think straight.”
Oliver’s reaction to me has my head buzzing with energy. I’m only thinking in cavewoman thoughts at this point. Need more contact. Need more touching.
I pull back and he lets go, watching me peel off the tee-shirt I’m wearing and chuck it aside, exposing my breasts.
“I knew you were beautiful, but bonus points for not wearing a bra, I just…” Oliver’s words trail off as I pull him back in.
Less talking, more kissing. I don’t need to hear about what I look like to him.
This man is absolutely beautiful and obviously enjoys sex.
And sure, I’m moderately attractive, but let’s not get carried away.
No one has ever said I’m beautiful before, and I don’t know how to handle that.
He eases back from the kiss and goes very still for a moment, hovering over me, staring at me.
He unclenches his grip on my fingers and drags his strong hands down the inside of my arms, touching every inch of soft skin on the way down.
He sweeps his hands over my armpits—oh my god, did he just do that of his own free will?
—over my chest until he’s cupping both my breasts, and growling. Actually growling.
This man has my head spinning; I don’t have time to feel weird about him caressing my armpits because the fact of his calloused thumbs rubbing both my nipples is making me forget everything else. Maybe even my own name.
Instinctively, I lock my legs around Oliver’s waist. Slowly, he angles his head down and takes one taut nipple into his mouth. And sucks.
I gasp at the multitude of sensations rocketing through my body.
His sturdy frame gripped tightly between my thighs.
His wet mouth on my breasts. His powerful hands caressing and gently squeezing.
The scent of him. The salty taste of him still in my mouth.
The wet, soft pop of his lips releasing one nipple and moving slowly to the other one.
I grip tighter, demanding more, feeling the hard length rub against my core through the front of his jeans.
He understands what I want. Of course he does.
Oliver pulls away from me for a second, and I lick my lips as he unzips.
I sit up and watch him reach inside and rub the meat of his palm over his underwear. Up and down once, twice, over the underside of that bulge, all the while, an angry red tip, shiny with precum, peeks out of the waistband.
“Holy shit,” I breathe.
It’s all I can do to rip my gaze from what his hands are doing. When I make eye contact, his face looks pained.
“Let me…let me help with that…”
“No,” he says with a grunt. Another pump over the front of his undies.
Oh god, he better not be one of those guys who just wants a woman to watch him jerk off…
As if he can read the worry that surely shows on my face, Oliver makes me lie back down on the table and says, “Lift up for me, Biscuit.”
I don’t have time to wonder how I feel about that name because I’m too busy letting him tug down my leggings.
I also don’t have time to worry about what he’s going to think about me not wearing any underwear.
I get the feeling this guy does not give a single fuck about the state of me at all.
I think I could be covered in sweat and mud and bug bites from the garden and he’d still be down to fuck.
And there’s something so wonderfully sexy about that thought that it only turns me on even more.
I can barely control my shivers as Oliver rolls my leggings down my legs and all the way off.
“Holy shit, look at you,” he groans.
He reaches between our bodies and pushes a thigh to one side. I gasp at the first contact of his hand between my legs.
I whimper as his fingers split me open, noticing how wet I am. There’s no hiding how deeply turned on I am now.
He easily slides in one, and I grip him. It’s not everything I want, but having this man touch me feels incredible.
“Oliver,” I gasp. “What are we doing?”
It’s more a question out of wonder than protest, and I hope he can sense that.
“We’re gonna make you come, baby girl.”
My body bucks against him, and I begin riding that hand.
He adds a second finger and begins stroking my clit at the same time.
I squeak like a kitten as he strokes in and out, making me leak all over his hand.
Oliver’s mouth is on my breast once more, the intensity ramping up, making me ready to scream and claw at him as he builds up the heat in my belly higher and higher.
His thumb on my clit is too much, bringing me so close to the edge. I need something to hold on to as I buck and ride his hand. I lace my fingers through his short-cropped hair, loving how surprisingly soft it feels.
The orgasm is coming shockingly fast. One more sweep over my aching clit, and I come apart.
“Oh god! Oliver!”
“That’s it…come for me, Iris…come just like that…unbelievable…you come sweeter than pie…just for me…”
I don’t know how he knows, but the praise only makes me come harder, multiple times in a row.
He overloads my senses and fills my ears with words no one has ever said to me.
I’m still catching my breath when I hear the crinkle of a wrapper, and my body sings when my brain registers what that means for me.
More of him. All of him inside me. Right fucking now.
Sitting up, I snatch the condom out of his hands.
“Let me…”
Oliver doesn’t protest.
Somewhere along the way, Oliver has kicked off his jeans and underwear. It occurs to me that we’re both naked as jaybirds in my studio, while the rest of the town parties outside. I love the idea of us, two strangers hiding away from the crowds, being deliciously slutty.
Oliver fits perfectly in my hand. Long and heavy, with one thick vein trailing up the underside. It’s red, pulsating, and it grows as I hold it, carefully rolling the condom on for him.
“Never had someone do that for me before,” he rumbles.
I bite my lip. “I hope that’s okay.”
“It’s more than okay.”
Oliver kisses me again, and this time it’s warm and grounding. The kind of kiss a woman needs right after an explosive orgasm that rattles her bones and is still making her lightheaded. Oliver is so steady. So patient as I do what I’m doing.
“I’m sorry,” I say as I finish wrapping him up. “I don’t know a lot of crazy positions. I’m pretty vanilla.”
“I don’t need an acrobat, Iris. Can’t you tell, all I want is you.”
I’m not sure what “all I want” means, and I have to fight the urge to overthink.
His body says right now, but his eyes say forever. My heart wants both. But I’ll take right now.