When I don’t respond because my mind is in a death match with my hormones, Connor simply lowers his head and brushes his lips along the length of my jaw.
I shudder. He nuzzles his nose beneath my ear, inhaling against my skin, which makes me shudder again. He releases my throat and slides his hand into my hair. He takes a fistful of it and gently tugs, tilting my head back to expose my throat. He murmurs, “Just feel this. I’ll stop in ten seconds. And I want you to count the time. Out loud.”
He opens his mouth over the pulse in my neck. The unexpected heat of his lips and tongue feels so amazing, a low moan breaks from my chest.
I can’t remember the last time I was kissed on the throat. Before Connor, I can’t remember the last time I was kissed anywhere, by anyone.
It’s fucking amazing.
“One,” he prompts, his voice muffled against my skin.
“One.”
The word is so soft, it doesn’t qualify as a whisper. Connor sucks on my throat again, this time using a hint of teeth. My eyes slide shut with pleasure.
“Two.”
His mouth drifts closer to my collarbone, his tongue gliding like silk, raising goose bumps on the back of my neck. I inhale, arching toward him. In the distance, the whine of sirens competes with the intermittent squawk of the hotel’s alarm. I barely notice either.
“Three.”
He bites me softly on the long muscle above my clavicle. Heat pulses between my thighs, and I restlessly squeeze them together.
I breathe, “Four.”
His fingers find the hem of my shirt and slip beneath. When his fingertips brush my bare skin, I jerk, gasping. He kisses a soft trail from my shoulder back to my throat, his lips leaving sparks in their wake. I can hardly concentrate on counting, and have to think for a moment to remember what number I’m on.
“Five.”
His fingers drift up my waist and over my rib cage, tracing their shape, the hollows and ridges. His gentle kiss turns more insistent. His tongue laps at the dip in the base of my throat. My nipples harden and begin to ache.
I want his mouth on them. I want his hands on them. I want to feel the pull and tug of his teeth—
“Six,” he reminds me gently. When I breathlessly repeat it, I feel his lips curve against my skin. He whispers, “Good.”
He flattens his hand over my rib cage, just under my breast. His palm feels as if it’s scorching my skin. I wonder if he can feel my heartbeat, the wild hummingbird thrum of it, rising to a crescendo beneath his hand.
The sirens grow closer. Voices murmur nearby. People. People are close.
People can go fuck themselves.
The slow, upward drifting glide of his hand. The heat of it. The strength of it. The way he’s in no hurry, the way his lips feel, fire and satin, oh God this is good this is so, so good.
He stills for a moment, waiting.
Number. What number? I mumble, “Seven.”
Connor moves to the other side of my neck, repeating the process of slow kisses, nibbles, gentle bites, but leaving his hand just below my breast, unmoving. Everything inside me is aching, clenching, surging. All my nerve endings are firing at once. My arms tangle around his neck. My head drops back against the wall.
“Eight,” I whisper, and adjust my body so the weight of my breast rests in his hand.
Because I hate them, I’m not wearing a bra.
Connor exhales softly. From somewhere very far off, I think it sounds like my name.
His mouth glides up my neck. His fingers slide together. He pinches my hard nipple between two calloused fingers, and I softly cry out. Into my ear, he says gruffly, “I want this in my mouth,” and flicks his thumb over the small silver stud pierced through it.
I like how verbal he is, how explicit. I wonder if he’d be this explicit during sex, talking in that low, rough voice about how I feel, how I taste, what he’s going to do next.
Between my legs, I’m drenched. The ache has turned into an insistent throb. I can’t concentrate on anything else. There’s only his mouth, his hand, and my body, reacting to both.
Connor says, “Nine, beautiful girl.”
In response I simply moan.
His thumb circles my taut nipple, over and over, sending shockwaves through my body. His erection presses insistently against my lower belly.
“Say it and you’ll get a reward.” His voice is a husky, wicked whisper. His breath is hot at my ear.
“N-nine.”
He dips his head, slides my shirt up, exposing my bare breast, and takes my rigid nipple into his hot mouth.
The noise that comes out of me doesn’t sound human.
Then a fire engine comes to a screeching, rubber-burning stop not thirty feet away, driving right up over the parking lot curb and onto the grass. When my body goes stiff, Connor pulls away, throws a glance over his shoulder at the fire truck and the men in yellow gear and hats hopping out of it, and mutters a curse.
Flushed and trembling, I scramble to pull my shirt down. By the time Connor turns back to me, my arms are crossed over my chest and I’m shaking my head in disbelief at what I just allowed to happen.
Looking at my expression, he says flatly, “Ten.”
When I wordlessly turn and run away, Connor doesn’t follow.