Ragged breaths. Fingers burrow into my shoulders, and he places tiny kisses on my collarbone this time. I sigh, try to make it deep and throaty to belie how nervous and exposed I feel. The only thought I can piece together is that I need to not fall to pieces.
His hands slide under, scoop me unceremoniously on top of him. Short, hard sweeps push, almost row like sailors in a galley, where our bodies meet together. So good. So, so good. My head falls against his brow and I pant, “God, yes…there, baby.”
A gasp escapes me as he lifts his head away from me, and I panic because I may have just crossed a line here.
“I—” he starts.
“I-I didn’t mean…” I say and make to slide from over him, but he holds fast.
“No, don’t.” His voice carries some form of desperation. “Don’t…stop,” he practically yells and begins to rock against me. He clings to me as if he were slipping from a high branch, his breath harsh in my ear.
Everything is warm and want and pressure. Grinding against one another clothed is not glamorous, and I know it, and we deserve better, and whatever this is we may or may not have deserved better, but there is no way I’m going to risk rejection at this point. I hold his face in my hands. Amid elbows and bumps and gasps and wholly graceless acts, I kiss him as gently as possible.
All of my thoughts flow together, overlapping. He rocks and we slide and I grip and pulse and it is all too fucking much. He is not even in me and I think it is the happiest my nether bits have ever been—the happiest I have ever been.
Through fog, his voice reaches me. “I want…I…”
It’s a sentence he can’t finish; he doesn’t know what he wants.
I pull him against me and roll until he’s over me and I’m under him. Feet tangled in the armrest, seatbelt digging into my back. I find I cannot care because there are only scant layers of fiber between him and where I want him so very, very badly. We move against each other, mimicking so closely what I want with him that it’s all I can do not to tear at my seams and hope it can happen, too. A part of my mind tells me this is an excellent idea and that we are consenting and adults and have done plenty of intimate acts already and why not because I am so much in…so deeply in l—
“I’m…I’m…I…”
My plea’s heard. Hands go under me. Hold my ass. Rock against me that much harder, that much faster. My feet dig into the backs of his knees, lifting and meeting each thrust. Hot and damp, he plows against me, over and over again.
More passes and he meets me every time and mumbles half thoughts against my neck, and damn, I want him inside so much it snatches the very breath from my lungs. A hollow fire inside. I tell him this in a ragged whisper, and his breath catches and his arms wrap around my neck as he groans out, low and coarse.
I want to feel every change, swallow every sound, but coals inside me burn white hot, my ears close, and then I’m gone too, saying his name and trying to find air.
When clouded edges finally fade from my sight, I remember where we are. Scant Christmas lights manage to filter in through the back glass. Canon’s shed clothes barricade off ninety percent of it.
Maybe we need to buy some Dramamine. Bet that driver is hella dizzy from circling the block.
11:35 p.m.
*
Car
: Hands folded in my lap.
*
Elevator
: Hand in his.
*
Hall
: Other hand added over his.
*
Room
: Hands everywhere.
MY COAT SLIPS from the hanger and hits the floor. He looks at me as if to say it looks just fine there.
“You feel it, don’t you, Emma? What’s happening? You feel it.”
I nod. Yes. So much I can’t feel anything else.
Streetlights and shadows color the room. We’re near the bedroom. Near the door.
He’s waiting. For me. On me.
I loosen his tie. Feel him swallow below my fingers, breathe beneath my arms.
He’s not moving. Waiting. Baiting.
I look at him and then to my shoulders, tilt my head, silently suggest. Strongly suggest.
His hands slowly roam me. Tentative. I step forward, and his arms go round to meet at the small of my back.
“You wanted me to wear this,” I say as his fingers play at a dress seam. “So…take it off.”
He holds his breath. I can tell because I’m holding mine.
The slow rustle of fabric fills the room. He pulls the zipper, looking down, watching me while each tooth pulls free. His hands slide under and graze my torso, along my sides. He slides it over my shoulders.
I wouldn’t think this would be such a surprise. It was darn cold in that theater. And he was all but wearing my dress right along with me during our fun out in the limo.
But his breath hitches. Silk splashes on the floor.
I’m down to sheer, black thigh-highs and heels.
Okay, the man might pass out.
A panty-less warning might have been prudent. Noted.
His arms wrap around my shoulders. Thumb at the joint, palm around, fingers reach and press my back.
His hands travel down my arms, unhurried, drag. My wrists. Shoulders. Pale flesh inside my arms, almost tickling. Slower at the curve and swell.
I can feel him looking at me. Hard. Hands continue their trek. Soft.
Deliberate, measured, I bring my arms to him, to his shirt. His button’s a puzzle. Hesitant and unfocused, I curse my nerves.
He doesn’t seem to notice.
I don’t remember the buttons being this difficult before. Probably because I tore them free.
Which seems like a genius idea, and I contemplate that method again while I push a fingertip under the rounded edge and thread it through. It’s slow going. Maybe that’s okay.
It is going to take forever at this rate.
I’m still in my heels, closer to his level. He barely bends to watch me, continues to feel me. Warm at my ribs. Heated fingers on my back.
Another button finally gives. Yeah, taking forever.
He breathes, shuddering, watches my progress. Roams me. Waits.
Waiting.
I take on another.
He follows my waist, my hip. The top of my stockings. Fingers dance. At the rim. Palms my ass, traces where thigh meets cheek. Dip and explore. Ready.
And I’m not holding my breath anymore. Not at all. I’m panting. Pants.
Pants. Oh, yeah…his pants. I start pulling at his pants and yanking, and I guess I will be going to the store to buy clothes for him after all because there is a rip that should be sickening, but instead I hear my laugh, a laugh like the sound you make when you see a car wreck and it is the exact opposite of how you feel. I’m frantic, desperate to not let on how very real, really real I’m finding all this.
Because I’m going to make love to him in a moment.
I just sorta realized that.
I start to step out of my shoes, but the change in height from the first movement makes me feel even smaller. I leave them on. He watches as I kick away the dress with my shoes still on.
I step into him. Run my hands down around his open shirt and start it over his shoulders and down.
He watches my chest rise and fall.
“You like?”
Corner of his mouth turns up. He might laugh now.
That will never do.
“Show me.”
And I guess “show me” equates to “prove it” in his book because before I know what’s happening he’s pulled me by my butt and lifted me against him, bent himself to bury his face in my neck, arms encircling and cock—some hard proof right there—running near roughly between my legs. Somehow we get to the bed, and he is backed up against it and still moving and holding and oh-wow-that-is-pretty-fucking-amazing between my legs.
I finish pulling his sleeves down his arms and discover they won’t come off as they’re bunched up at his wrists where I have failed to unbutton the damned cuffs. Ah, screw it. Or him.
I give a shove, and he falls back onto the mattress, shirt under his ass, hands trapped at his sides. Eyes wide, not scared, something else. Something…I don’t know.