Then he moves—savage, vigorous thrusts that don’t slow or relent. With my frantic pulse in his palm, he hisses past his teeth and grips my waist, his hips hammering and grinding with desperate urgency.
My body’s his vessel, his flesh to pound, and he doesn’t hold back, stroking me up and down on his cock and jacking himself off.
I fucking love it, need it. “More.”
“I’ll never get enough of you.” His hand flexes against my throat, his furious grunts panting at my ear. “Fucking love you.”
“Yes, yes, yes…” I moan, reaching behind me to touch him, to hold him closer.
A growl erupts from his chest, and he pulls out, spinning and lifting me before slamming me down on his dick.
My legs straddle his hips. My arms encircle his neck, and I ride him, kiss him, and chase him into orgasm.
We come together, gazes locked, bodies writhing, thrusting, and joined as one.
“I love you, too.” I rest my face against his, our noses sliding together, and breaths ragged.
After we regain our senses and straighten our clothes, he stands behind me, caging me against the railing in the safety of his arms. I spend the rest of the ride watching the sunset while he nuzzles and kisses my neck, whispering soft words and hungry promises.
I didn’t understand the depth of his sexual appetite until he unleashed it. His wandering hands and fevered kisses don’t leave my body, not in the balloon, not in the car on the way home, and not when he leads me into my house and locks the door.
He strips us both of our clothes in the dance studio, and only then does he release me to set a folding chair in the center of the room.
“Sit.” He doesn’t wait for me to obey and strides over to the sound system, mouth-wateringly nude. “Your taste in music is growing on me.”
“You’re a Beyoncé fan?” I lower into the chair, biting down on my smile.
I’ve learned over the past few weeks that Stuffy Suit Savoy listens to rap music, all of things.
“I went to that concert for you.” He messes with the stereo, and the intro to Close by Nick Jonas & Tove Lo hums through the room.
Prowling back to me, he grips his hardening cock and begins to stroke. The song shivers with sex and seduction, but nothing compares to the predatory look in those blue eyes.
Shivers rain over my nude skin as he closes in, straddles my thighs with his legs straight, and fists the hair on the back of my head. The erection in his hand stands thick and hard and level with my mouth.
I wet my lips and stare up at him. “You want me to suck you?”
“Yes.” An unbending response, issued from kissable lips.
I lift my hands to hold that beautiful cock.
“No.” He yanks my head back by my hair, and his eyes smile blue flames. “Lock your fingers together behind the chair.”
I follow his order, the position pulling back my shoulders and lifting my breasts. Nude and trembling, I ache to take him to the brink of pleasure and stare into his eyes as I send him over.
He trails a finger along my jawline and lifts my chin, holding himself within the reach of my lips. “If I never feel the touch of another woman, it’ll be a tremendous blessing.”
Warmth swells in my chest. “Don’t worry. I’ll beat them off you with a stick.”
“Open your mouth, Danni.”
I lower my jaw, and he touches the plump head of his cock to my lips, gliding it around the curve of my mouth. Then he slides onto my tongue, inching in, groaning, fingers flexing in my hair.
Since we didn’t clean up after the balloon ride, I taste myself on him and smell our passion in the trimmed patch of his hair. It’s filthy and erotic and wildly irresistible.
His legs shake, and the rock of his hips starts slow and steady. He thrusts, and I lick around his girth. He grunts, and I suck harder, deeper. When he finally lets go and kicks into a pounding frenzy, I relax my tongue and glory in the claiming.
He gives me every ruthless, unrestrained inch of his desire, and I still want more.
It doesn’t take long before he peaks, and when he comes, his mouth hangs open in ecstasy, his hands clenching in my hair and his eyes locked on mine.
Love means different things for different people. For me, love is when his happiness is vital to my own. The way he’s staring at me now, eyes shining with soulful joy, I couldn’t be happier or more in love.
That night, we lie entangled in bed, our bodies pressed together so tightly I feel the rhythm of his heart in my veins.
Before I met him, I lost the ability to dream. If I’m dreaming now, I want to stay awake for it. I want to feel every fucking minute of it.
I just want to feel him for as long as I have him, and maybe, just maybe, it’ll be forever.
One month later, I grind my hips in the moving beam of light at Bissara. My bare feet slide effortlessly across the stage as dozens of gamblers and restaurant patrons look on in mesmerized silence. I might not ever be on Beyoncé’s dance team, but this job is a wonderful consolation prize. I’m floating in a dream, caught in the rhythm, smiling, dancing, and hopelessly in love.
Since my shift only started thirty minutes ago, my energy is boundless, fluctuating through my limbs and loosening my waist.
Silver coin-sized sequins shimmy and shake on my hip-hugging panties. More adorn the black bra top and bands on my upper arms.
The belly dance costume would be as revealing as a bikini if it weren’t for the floor-length chiffon panels that drape from my waist on the front and back. The shimmery fabric sways between my legs and exposes the length of my body on both sides. It’s seductive and elegant, and I can’t wait until Trace sees me in it.
I haven’t spotted him in the restaurant yet, but he’ll come. He always does, just to watch me dance.
Bending a leg in front of me, I balance it on a toe and rapidly tilt my pelvis, nailing the ending beats. The crowd erupts in applause as I bow and move into position for the next song in my set list.
Except the instrumentals that echo through the room aren’t what I chose.
I falter, scanning the crowd as Shape of You by Ed Sheeran thrums through my chest.
Then I see him. Standing in the back corner. Tall and regal. Dressed in a black tuxedo.
I cherish this shivery feeling I get whenever I look at him and find he’s already staring. And boy is he staring. It’s the stare he gives right before he crashes in like a tidal wave, smothering, drowning, and sweeping everything away until there’s only him and me and the breath we hold in our lungs.
“Dance,” he mouths.
I don’t have a choreographed belly dance routine to Shape of You. So I ad lib, rolling my pelvis and crossing my arms at the wrists over my head.
As he slowly prowls toward me, I try to focus on dancing, but I can’t take my eyes off him. Why is he wearing a tux? And why did he change my set list to this song? I know he loves the shape of me. He’s told me a thousand times. But there’s a strange expression on his face. What does he have up his tailored sleeve?