“Thanks for bringing me here. It’s nice, seeing the place you came from.”
“Sure,” he said, looking at me for the first time.
I laid my hand on his chest gently. “Hey.”
“Hey,” he whispered back.
I leaned down slowly, watching his eyes. I gently grazed my lips over his, light and quick. When he didn’t pull away, I kissed him again. He let me, my lips taking his for a third time. I pressed a little harder, and he let me in. I stroked his tongue with my own, feeling him respond as we tangled and twisted. His breathing deepened, his pulse quickened beneath me, and I propped myself above. Not removing my mouth from his, I let my fingers undo his buttons, exposing the skin beneath. Kissing along his jawline, I let my lips tease just below his ear, feeling the sandpaper scruff. I knew what that scruff felt like on the inside of my thighs, and how great was that?
I felt him tense as I flicked my tongue against his earlobe, eliciting a hiss. His hands came up to my waist as I crept back along his neck, kissing lower along his collarbone. Pulling at his shirt, untucking it from his waistband, I threw it wide, pressing myself along his torso. His skin was warm; it felt divine against my own. I needed to feel more of it.
Standing, I kept my hands on him at all times while I gently removed his shirt, then belt, then socks and pants, until I had him naked and wanting. Standing in the moonlight, I dropped my towel.
“Caroline,” he breathed, and I crawled back on top of him. Straddling him low on his legs, I took him in hand. His hands came up to my breasts, needy and kneading. I stroked him, grasping the base and working upward, swirling my hand over the head and letting his hips tell me what he needed.
He panted, his chest rising and falling as I worked him. Up and down and swirly twirly, he was hard in my hands and the single most erotic man I’d ever seen in my life. I gently grazed one finger along the underside, and he thrust hard.
“Not going to last long if you keep that up.” He groaned, his fingers teasing at my nipples.
“That’s not what this is about,” I answered, rising above him. I positioned him, and slid him inside. Slick from just the way he was looking at me, I sank down inch by perfect inch, slowly. Exquisitely so, as he strained to stay still.
Once he was seated fully inside I gave one slow roll of my hips, gasping as I felt him grow harder and thicker. Impossible.
“What’s . . . impossible?” he grunted, every muscle taunt and lean. I didn’t know I’d spoken aloud. No matter, he should know.
“That I will ever get tired of this, of what it feels like to have you inside me,” I said, shuddering as he thrust up. I leaned backward a bit, resting my hands on his thighs for leverage as I took him in again. Rising onto his elbows, he watched in fascination at the sight of him sliding in and out of my body. One of his hands swept my hair back from my face, then dragged down my neck, between my breasts, down my tummy and dipped down below.
That hand, making those perfect circles, right at the center of my world, and my hips took over. I rode him hard, rising up and down, as he watched me writhe above him.
“Simon. That’s. Perfect!” I called out, feeling my orgasm approaching. He sat up underneath me, wrapping my legs around his waist, pistoning into me in an unrelenting rhythm, crushing me to him. I shook as I came, his own release chasing him down in a fury.
I held him to me, not letting go, not letting him get away, my body molded to his in a mess of sticky, sweaty skin, sliding and thrusting together, frantic and furious.
He was silent when he came, his eyes burning into mine as I held him to my breast, as he shattered. His head threw back, his strength washed over me, then he fell into me. I held him, rocking, still feeling him inside me as he softened, cradling him against my skin.
“It’s impossible for me to love you more,” I whispered, kissing his forehead.
He clutched me even tighter.
? ? ?
He was white-faced when we turned onto his street the next day, his lips in a tight line. And speaking of tight, with the grip he had on the steering wheel, he was close to tearing it off. When I wasn’t looking at Simon, I was gaping at the houses we were passing. This was old-ass money, moldy blue-blood money. Not a McMansion in sight, only actual estates. Tennis courts, pool houses, and miles of fencing. Still a neighborhood, though; the houses weren’t so far apart that they were isolated. Just a neighborhood lined with stately oaks and gas lamps.