The taste of her...Jesus. Her lips are sweet, as if she had soda or candy not long ago, and her breath is tart, like the soda was laced with liquor. Sounds spill from the apex of our kiss: muffled yelps as I nip at her, low grunts I can't help but loose when her tongue rubs over mine.
It's not even a kiss anymore. It's jumping off a building. It's a coke binge. A single slash to the throat. Kissing Leo is like perpetual suicide; I die in her mouth over and over, my hips smacking into hers with all the force of the fall.
When I pull away, her lips are swollen and pink, the skin around her mouth rubbed sore from my stubble. Too busy just looking at her, I loosen my hold on her braid. She hunches forward and hides her face in my shoulder; there, she takes slow breaths and murmurs to herself, trying to come back from an edge she didn't know was there.
"I didn't think it would be like that," she whispers.
"It never has been," I tell her, my voice hoarse. "It never is."
It's starting. That feeling I've missed, the one that has deserted me for so long, the one that first whispered Leo could give me all I wanted; it boils at the base of my spine. Once it grips me, there's no resistance. No return. And if it woke for the most chaste of kisses, God help her when I do anything else.
I pull her braid again to lift her mouth, to take kisses she hasn't offered yet but gives up regardless. Only a little force, to begin with. I need her pliable enough to be stripped and tied, and then...then I indulge myself. It takes all the willpower I possess to keep from throwing her down, from squeezing the flesh of her thighs through my fingers like bread dough...because God, sweetheart. I've waited.
For a while, I gave up wanting Leo to trust me. Seemed pointless. Now I need just a few seconds of it, to be let in, acquiesced to. Then I'll go full throttle and claim her like the fucking virus I am.
"Baby. Fetch me the box," I say into her mouth.
She pulls back, eyes pleading. "I'm not like her. I can't, I..."
"I know. You're special." I run my lips across her forehead, nuzzle downward, lick the tight tendons at her throat. It's oddly peaceful to pet her. "You think I won't take care of you? You think I'm still a teenaged boy?"
Her fingers pluck at the base of my scalp, measuring the softness of my hair, the strength I hold in strange places. "I don't want to ruin my good sheets," she says flatly.
A twisted laugh bubbles up from my belly, croaking and splitting as it hits the air. "I'll buy you new sheets. Fetch the box, sweetheart. Please. For me." I reach down to roll up the hem of her skirt. "But take the dress off first."
She's silent as I pull the dress over her head. It lands on the floor in a heavy puddle of jersey, leaving her in her black bra, panties and heels. I make short work of the bra, her breasts tumbling out to be squeezed while I kiss her, her tight nipples grating along my palms. Oh yes. Good girl, already struggling, just a little. When I run my hands down to her ass, scrunch her cheeks up so she rubs against my straining cock, she squeals a protest so genuine that I have to spit her bottom lip out before I bite it off.
"Fetch it," I demand. "Now."
Leo kicks her heels off and pads out into the hall. I take her place at the bed frame and drink in the sight: not long ago, she did the same walk of shame out of my elevator, only fully clothed and not nearly as flustered. Now she's barefoot in panties, panties that hug her like a second skin, the slender valley of her spine leading to a heart shaped invitation. Her ass is like something from Alice in Wonderland—eat me, drink me. That book needed another bottle that said fuck me. Alice would've been less of a bitter cunt and the book would've been vastly improved.
While she fetches the box, I play with myself. Fist my cock through the fleece of my track pants, close my eyes, open them, dark, shadow, dark. So fucking hard I'm probably gaping at the head. Leo appears again, an outline in the grey fog of the room with the black box in one hand. She walks with a bowed head, soft footsteps, like even the carpet is telling her to be quiet.
Then she reaches my feet...and kneels.
She presses her face into my left thigh. Hot breath disturbs the fine hairs there, balms the muscles, taunts old wounds.
"Leo," I groan.
The box lands on my foot, pushed gently against my toes. The floorboards shift beneath her; she comes up a little, the tip of her nose running up toward my cock in a shock of heat.
I get a good handful of her hair and tug her head back, forcing her to look at me. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"
Another girl might have apologised. Sorry, sir. Promise I won't do it again, sir. But my defiant little lion just arches eyebrow at me—how dare you interrupt? For all that fear haunts her, sarcasm is never far behind.
I don't even know what to do with that. But I'm a problem solver. I have my tools.