“You did, but I wish you had tried to wake me if you wanted . . .” I want to say “me” but again, I’m not at all sure that’s what he wanted. “If you needed . . . something.”
God, could I be less smooth?
“It’s so late, Cerise. I came in, started to undress. I saw you naked in my bed,” he says, gaze fixed on my lips. “I didn’t want to wake you.”
I nod. “I assumed you would see me naked on your bed.”
He exhales slowly through his nose. “I wasn’t sure—”
Before he finishes the sentence, I’m already lowering myself to my knees in the darkness, moving his hand away so I can lick him, bring his need back to life. My heart is beating so hard, and I’m so nervous I can see my hand shaking where I touch him, but f**k it. I tell myself I’m channeling Harlow, confident sex goddess.
I tell myself I have nothing to lose. “I went to bed naked on purpose.”
“I don’t want you to feel obligated to be with me like this,” he croaks.
I look up at him, flabbergasted. What happened to the delightfully pushy guy I met only a week ago? “I don’t feel obligated. You’re just busy . . .”
He smiles, gripping his base and painting a wet line across my lips with the bead of moisture that appears at his tip. “I think we’re both being too tentative, maybe.”
I lick him, playing a little, teasing. I’m greedy for the breathless noises he’s making, the rough eager grunts when I almost take him in and then pull away to kiss and play some more.
“I was thinking about you,” he admits in a whisper, watching me draw a long wet line from base to tip with my tongue. “I can barely think about anything else anymore.”
This admission uncoils something that had grown tight and tense in my gut, and I only realize how anxious I’d been about this when he says it. I feel like I’ve melted. It makes me eager to give him pleasure, sucking more of him, giving him the vibrations of my voice around him as I moan.
Seeing him like this—impatient, relieved at my touch—makes it easier for me to keep playing, keep being this brave, brazen seductress. Pulling back, I ask, “In your mind, what were we doing?”
“This,” he says, tilting his head as he slides a hand into my hair, anchoring me. I prepare myself to feel the full invasion of him into my mouth only a second before he pushes in deep. “Fucking these lips.”
His head falls back and he closes his eyes, hips rocking in front of my face. “C’est tellement bon, j’en rêve depuis des jours . . .” With apparent effort, he straightens, leaning over a little, growing rougher. “Swallow,” he whispers. “I want to feel you swallowing.” He pauses so I can do what he’s asked and he moans hoarsely as I pull him deeper into my throat with the movement.
“Will you swallow when I come? Will you make a little hungry sound when you feel it?” he asks, watching me intently now.
I nod around him. For him, I will. I want anything he’ll give me; I want to give him anything just the same. He’s the only anchor I have to this place, and even if this marriage is only pretend, I want that feeling back, when it was free and easy between us that night in San Diego, and the one before that, which I only remember in tiny fragments, flashes of skin and sounds and pleasure.
For several minutes he moves, treating me to his quiet growling sounds and whispers that I’m beautiful, giving me every inch along my tongue before pulling almost all the way out and jerking his length with his fist, the crown of his c**k tapping against my lips and tongue.
It’s like this that he comes, messily, spilling in my mouth, on my chin. It’s intentional, it has to be, and I know I’m right when I look up and see his eyes darken at the sight of his orgasm on my skin, my tongue swiping out, instinctively. He steps away, running his thumb over my lower lip before bending to help me up. With a damp towel, he gently wipes me clean and then steps back, preparing to lower himself to his knees, but he weaves slightly and when the streetlight outside catches his profile, I can tell he’s about to fall over in exhaustion. He’s barely slept in days.
“Let me make you feel good now,” he says, instead leading me toward the bedroom.
I stop him with my hand on his elbow. “Wait.”
“What?” he asks, and my thoughts trip on the rough edge in his voice, the simmering frustration I’ve never before heard from him.
“Ansel, it’s nearly three in morning. When was the last time you slept?”
His expression is unreadable in the shadow, but it isn’t so dark that I can’t see how his shoulders seem too heavy for his frame, how tired he looks “You don’t want me to touch you, too? I come on your lips and you’re ready for sleep?”
I shake my head and don’t resist when he reaches for me, slides his hand under his shirt, up my thigh. He spreads me with his fingers and groans. I’m drenched and now he knows it, too. With a quiet hiss he begins to move his hand, bending to suck on my neck.
“Let me taste this,” he growls, his breath warm on my skin, fingers slipping easily over my clit before pushing down and into me. “It’s been a week, Mia. I want my face covered in you.”
I’m shaking in his arms with how much I want him. His fingertips feel like heaven, his breath is hot on my neck, kisses sucking and urgent all along my neck. What’s another fifteen minutes of lost sleep? “Okay,” I whisper.