I rock against his hand, crying out at the way the tip of his fingers tease in and out of me, gathering wetness, moving back and forth over my clit.
Picking me up, he walks us to the counter, setting me down before he kneels between my parted legs. I watch as he leans forward, looking up at me through his lashes while he reaches out, pulls my panties to the side, and flicks the tip of his tongue over me.
“Oh,” I cry out, too loud and breathing so heavy I fear I might actually pass out. On instinct my hand moves to the back of his head, holding him to me and God it’s so dirty to see him like this, head down and washed in neon while he licks me out, moans against me.
I try to stay still, not to rock my hips or be demanding, but every nerve in my body is focused on his tongue as it drags over my clit.
“Fingers,” I gasp.
He swears, two fingers sliding deep, his tongue moving in practiced movements, tiny flicks alternated with long, slow licks.
“Oh God . . .” I say, on the edge of something that starts in my stomach, slips up along my spine. I twist my hands in his hair, hips rocking against him as it grows stronger. I look down and watch, nearly losing my breath when I see his hand down the front of his pants, his arm jerking in a blur of movement.
“Come up here,” I say, breathless. “Please.” I’m so close—so close—but I want us to come together.
“God yes,” he says, and stands, pushing his pants down his hips.
His hair is a mess and color blooms across his cheekbones and down his neck. I feel the head of his cock as he slides it over me and I’m so wet that with just the smallest step forward he starts to slip inside.
With a gasp, he tucks his head into my neck, takes deep, steadying breaths. “I need a second,” he says, and holds my hips still. “S’il te pla?t.”
When he straightens again, he reaches a hand over my shoulder, bracing himself against the mirror.
“You feel too good,” he explains, pulling out slowly before pushing in again. “So fucking good.”
He builds a rhythm, hips rocking against mine, the sound of his belt clanking against the counter as he fucks me. I wrap my legs around his waist and he reaches up, holds my face in one hand before pushing his thumb between my lips. I can taste myself on his fingers, on his mouth, but he can’t seem to focus long enough to kiss me.
“I want to watch you come,” he whispers, eyes moving across my face. He pulls his thumb back and paints a wet line across my lower lip. “I want to feel you squeezing me and I want to eat your greedy little noises.”
I gasp, wrapping my fists around the hem of his shirt, pulling him harder into me.
“Say what you want,” he growls.
“I want it rougher.”
“Make it dirty,” he says, licking my mouth. “You can pretend you never have to see me again. What is your most shameful thought?”
My gaze drops to his mouth as I tell him, “I want someone to hear us fucking.”
His pupils dilate, reflecting the neon back to me, and he grips my thighs tightly before he begins slamming hard and slick into me, grunting roughly every time his hips press to my inner thighs.
Someone knocks on the door and the timing is perfect. It’s locked, but if they walked inside they would hear the slapping of his skin on mine, see my legs on either side of Ansel’s hips, my dress pushed up my body while he fucks me.
“Hurry,” I cry—louder than I probably should—reaching back and gripping the faucet. My fingers feel slick around the cool metal, my skin flushed and damp with sweat.
I feel so full, stretched, with limbs loose. His body fits perfectly inside and against me, the jut of his pelvis rubbing against my clit with every thrust. The tight feeling in my stomach grows, warmer and hotter until I throw my head back, crying out as I come, lost to everything but the way my body tries to pull him in as I fall apart around him.
He follows only a moment later, movements becoming jagged and frantic, stilling against me with a muffled groan into my skin.
THE EVENING BREEZE ruffles the back of my hair and the ends tickle my chin as the scent of bread and cigarettes drifts from a café we pass on our way to the métro.
I glance over my shoulder to where rows of motorcycles are parked at the curb. “Where’s your bike?” I ask.