I’m yet another problem for her to manage.
“I really am sorry about tonight,” I mutter, my lips bumping against hers.
“Shut up. Kiss me. Feel bad later.”
I can do all three.
Her lips part immediately as I slide our mouths together, her teeth nipping at my bottom lip as I suck her top one into my mouth. I groan and haul her tighter against me, thrusting my tongue into her mouth. Fuck. She tastes sweet, coke and bourbon and pure Ali beneath it all, wet and hot and eager for me to fill her up. Her tongue swipes at mine. She wants to play, and the thought sends a dangerous spark through my body.
How dirty can this kiss get outside her building?
I hitch her up my body, cupping her ass as I shift one of my thighs between hers. She rubs against me, squeezing her legs as I work my hand inside her jacket.
The whole time, I’m exploring her mouth, finding out what strokes make her wriggle, what licks make her moan.
My fingers find her waist, her ribs, and I follow the path up to her breast. Through the thin fabric of her shirt I can feel lace and structured fabric. She’s wearing a fancy bra.
My cock throbs at the second-base promise of silk and satin.
But not tonight. I keep sliding my hand, up over her nipple, ignoring her breathless protest as I cup the nape of her neck. I deepen the kiss one last time and pull away, ignoring how wet and shiny her mouth is—if I think about that for even a second, I’ll be a goner. “Good night, Ms. Reid.”
She presses her fingers to her lips, a smile playing behind the long, slim digits. “Good night, Mr. Mayfair,” she whispers, her eyes dancing.
We stand there, frozen, until she giggles and I step back. She turns and lets herself in, and I let myself ogle her sweet ass peaking out beneath her jacket until she’s inside the apartment building and the door closes in my face.
My phone vibrates as I walk away from her building. I turn around once I’m across the street and look up. Her apartment is dark, then the window brightens a bit as she opens the door. I look down at my phone. The text message is from her.
A: 1/2
That’s it. But then another bubble appears, and I realize she’s sent me a photo text, it’s just taking its sweet-ass time to load.
It’s a selfie, taken in the stairwell. She’s giving the camera a little smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. Does she regret sending me away? She was right to, of course. But damn it if I don’t want to be upstairs with her right now.
1/2…One of two…
I stand there and wait for the second photo. My attention is divided between my phone, still working away with the download, and the two windows of her apartment—she walked through the dark living space and now she’s in her small bedroom. I can picture the room. Her closet, already overflowing with clothes. That little double bed, pushed into the corner, with the faded quilt and basic cotton sheets.
The standing mirror, where I can picture her looking at herself as she gets dressed.
As she gets undressed.
As she touches herself, maybe, because she’s a girl that sends me pictures, so maybe she’s a girl who watches herself get off.
I’m jealous of that mirror, for getting a daily glimpse at her soft, lithe body.
It’s been offered to you, jackass . Over and over again, and I keep turning her down. And then tonight, if I hadn’t pushed my luck and shown my hand, shown how desperate I am for her, I could have had another offer.
One of these days, she’s going to offer, and I’m going to take every inch she gives me and then some.
Then the second picture comes in.
A: 2/2
And it’s hot as fuck. Skin, everywhere. Nothing exposed, nothing that would end up in the tabloids—she’s learned that lesson well. One arm over her breasts, one leg twisted up to cover what I already know is the sweetest pussy in the entire fucking world.
Her tongue, caught between her teeth.
But it’s the look on her face that does me in. Naked, unvarnished need,
“I really am sorry about tonight,” I mutter, my lips bumping against hers.
“Shut up. Kiss me. Feel bad later.”
I can do all three.
Her lips part immediately as I slide our mouths together, her teeth nipping at my bottom lip as I suck her top one into my mouth. I groan and haul her tighter against me, thrusting my tongue into her mouth. Fuck. She tastes sweet, coke and bourbon and pure Ali beneath it all, wet and hot and eager for me to fill her up. Her tongue swipes at mine. She wants to play, and the thought sends a dangerous spark through my body.
How dirty can this kiss get outside her building?
I hitch her up my body, cupping her ass as I shift one of my thighs between hers. She rubs against me, squeezing her legs as I work my hand inside her jacket.
The whole time, I’m exploring her mouth, finding out what strokes make her wriggle, what licks make her moan.
My fingers find her waist, her ribs, and I follow the path up to her breast. Through the thin fabric of her shirt I can feel lace and structured fabric. She’s wearing a fancy bra.
My cock throbs at the second-base promise of silk and satin.
But not tonight. I keep sliding my hand, up over her nipple, ignoring her breathless protest as I cup the nape of her neck. I deepen the kiss one last time and pull away, ignoring how wet and shiny her mouth is—if I think about that for even a second, I’ll be a goner. “Good night, Ms. Reid.”
She presses her fingers to her lips, a smile playing behind the long, slim digits. “Good night, Mr. Mayfair,” she whispers, her eyes dancing.
We stand there, frozen, until she giggles and I step back. She turns and lets herself in, and I let myself ogle her sweet ass peaking out beneath her jacket until she’s inside the apartment building and the door closes in my face.
My phone vibrates as I walk away from her building. I turn around once I’m across the street and look up. Her apartment is dark, then the window brightens a bit as she opens the door. I look down at my phone. The text message is from her.
A: 1/2
That’s it. But then another bubble appears, and I realize she’s sent me a photo text, it’s just taking its sweet-ass time to load.
It’s a selfie, taken in the stairwell. She’s giving the camera a little smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. Does she regret sending me away? She was right to, of course. But damn it if I don’t want to be upstairs with her right now.
1/2…One of two…
I stand there and wait for the second photo. My attention is divided between my phone, still working away with the download, and the two windows of her apartment—she walked through the dark living space and now she’s in her small bedroom. I can picture the room. Her closet, already overflowing with clothes. That little double bed, pushed into the corner, with the faded quilt and basic cotton sheets.
The standing mirror, where I can picture her looking at herself as she gets dressed.
As she gets undressed.
As she touches herself, maybe, because she’s a girl that sends me pictures, so maybe she’s a girl who watches herself get off.
I’m jealous of that mirror, for getting a daily glimpse at her soft, lithe body.
It’s been offered to you, jackass . Over and over again, and I keep turning her down. And then tonight, if I hadn’t pushed my luck and shown my hand, shown how desperate I am for her, I could have had another offer.
One of these days, she’s going to offer, and I’m going to take every inch she gives me and then some.
Then the second picture comes in.
A: 2/2
And it’s hot as fuck. Skin, everywhere. Nothing exposed, nothing that would end up in the tabloids—she’s learned that lesson well. One arm over her breasts, one leg twisted up to cover what I already know is the sweetest pussy in the entire fucking world.
Her tongue, caught between her teeth.
But it’s the look on her face that does me in. Naked, unvarnished need,
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