And then the tempo changed. Both the music and the rhythm of his kiss. The bass kicked up, strumming and thumping, long, savoring beats, reverberating through my chest, steady and intoxicating.
We were moving. Matt moved me backward, still kissing, his mouth on my neck, my jaw, biting and tasting and sucking my skin with impatience and hunger. His fingers dug into my shoulders and backside, his hold on the brink of painful. Likewise, I tried to mirror his movements, kissing his neck, wanting him to feel as desperately out of control as I did.
He steered us while we consumed each other, expertly weaving through the crowd, which seemed to instinctively recognize that this was a crisis.
At the stairs, he separated from me and I moaned my discontent, reaching for him. But then he bent, hoisting me over his shoulder, and I gasped.
He climbed the stairs and punched in the four-digit code. Then I heard him curse. “What the fuck is the code?”
“3-4-5-7,” I said, laughing with desire-induced hysteria, my arms wrapping around his waist to keep myself steady.
“Thank you,” came his short reply, punching in the numbers again, and we were through the door.
I didn’t spare a thought for how obvious we were being, not one single thought. Because . . . whoremones.
Instead I began frantically pulling his shirt from his pants. And when he set me on the ground, I frantically undid the buckle of his belt. His hands were at the back of my dress, searching for the zipper while our mouths mated.
“Damn it,” he breathed against my lips just as I released his buckle, winning the getting-the-other-person-more-naked race.
Unbuttoning his pants, I shoved my hand down the front of his boxers.
“Marie, fuck.” Hissing, Matt pushed himself into my palm, a reflexive movement. Momentarily paralyzed, his forehead met mine and I saw him struggle, battling for control.
He felt so good, so right, so thick and hard and long and big and smooth and hot. The want in me clawed, demanding, obliterating caution, silencing what was left of reason, yet the desire to please him was just as strong, if not stronger.
I . . . worried.
Although I’d never felt so certain I would perish without satisfaction, I fretted that I wouldn’t be able to provide what he needed in return. And so I rubbed my body against his, impetuously seeking friction and sensation and touch, hoping to communicate to him that I wanted to be an instrument of his satisfaction as well.
But then in the next moment, he yanked my hand away, holding my wrists hostage at my sides, and walked me backward, his mouth once again capturing mine for a starving kiss. Like I was the answer. Like all his hunger would end if he’d just kiss me long enough.
My calves hit the couch and the strength of his advancing momentum sent me downward, my bottom hitting the velvet sofa, jarring me. He followed, kneeling on the floor, placing my arms around his neck while in the next moment his fingers slid under my dress. His thumbs gliding along the interior of my thighs, he parted my legs, making me tremble.
“Let me touch you,” I begged, spreading myself wider for him as I moved to the edge of the couch. His fingertips inched higher. I gasped, the throbbing want built within me, becoming brutal and demanding. “I want to make you feel good.”
“Lie back,” he instructed, brushing his knuckles against my center, rubbing me teasingly through the lace of my panties.
I shuddered, unable to comply. My nails were anchored to his shoulders. I whimpered, “Please, Matt. Please. I need you to feel good, too.”
A tremor overtook him, followed by a desperate growl as he hooked his fingers into my underwear and tugged them down my legs. His movements were urgent, lacking finesse.
But it was perfect, the sign I craved. His frenetic desire was perfect as it heightened mine.
“Take off your dress,” he demanded, removing his outer shirt, leaving him in his white tee.
I had to lean forward, clumsily reaching for, then finding the pull of my zipper under my arm. Once it was undone, his hands were there, pushing it over my head and tossing it to where his jacket and tie were, discarded ages ago.
He pulled me forward by wrapping one strong arm around my waist, nipping and suckling my breasts through my bra. Laying me back on the couch atop his dress shirt, he tugged one strap of my bra down my shoulder, exposing me, sliding his hand around to unhook it as his mouth both worshipped and tortured my body with decadent kisses and bites.
“Take this off.” He tugged at the loose bra.
Matt’s large hands squeezed and massaged and fondled while I pulled the offending garment down my arms, then lifted his T-shirt, needing the feel of him, wanting his skin flush against mine.
He leaned back, evading me, his eyes blazing a trail over my bare skin as I instinctively covered myself. He pulled my arms away from my body, his unapologetic gaze moving from my breasts to my stomach, then lower, licking his lips.
“Matt,” I pleaded.
His eyes lifted to mine abruptly, hooded and sharp, as if gripped by a sudden thought, an acute obsession. He leaned forward, his hand moving between my legs, parting me, stroking me.
I cried out at the contact I craved, rolling my hips, gripping his strong shoulders for purchase as he demanded on a growl, “This will not be the only time.”
I nodded, panting, feeling empty, needing more. I wanted to touch him, stroke him, and drive him mad like he was so expertly doing to me. And the worry persisted, that maybe I couldn’t. That somehow the pleasure I could give to him would fall short of his expectations.
“Tell me how badly you want me inside you,” he ordered, bending to bite my neck, then soothed the sting with his tongue, adding, “How badly you want me to fuck you.”
Whoa . . . !
All the air left my lungs in a whoosh at his unexpected sexy talk, my head lolling to the side, offering more of myself. I’d never been a dirty talker, maybe I never had the confidence to do so. But something about it sounded so essential in that moment. So perfect. I needed his rough voice. I needed the brazen harshness of his words. They calmed the voices of doubt in my head.
“Do you want me, Marie? Because I want you. You’re so wet, is that for me?”
I couldn’t speak, so I nodded, a keening sound slipping past my lips. His fingers at my center were a gentle contradiction to the ravenous kisses he lavished on my breasts, then stomach, then hip, then lower.
“Do you want my mouth on you? On your pussy? I can’t wait to taste you.”
God, yes! The affirmation of his words, of his want, they both soothed and excited me. I couldn’t breathe, I could barely see, and my heart galloped between my ears. Every filthy word out of his mouth drove me mad with desire.
Holy shit.
Who was this guy?
And who was I?
I watched his progress, the sight of his head moving between my legs, kissing my inner thigh, skimming his lips along the sensitive skin until he parted me with his thumbs.