We might be the most indecent couple on the dance floor, and we are swimming in a sea of indecency. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a black-haired woman wearing a top that’s falling so low I can see her nipples. She dances with her partner. Her lips are parted, and it’s like she’s on the cusp of an orgasm. I flick my gaze to the other side, and two men grind against each other, heads thrown back. Even though I can’t hear their sounds above the music, I can tell from their lips they’ll be escaping any second to finish off.
I stare at Christian. “I think everyone here is about to fuck.”
He runs his hand up the back of my neck and tugs my hair. Not hard, but hard enough to send a shudder through me. “Yes. Everyone is.”
He slams his mouth to mine and kisses me hard once more. Like I belong to him. In this moment, I do.
In a flash, we’re gone.
He was right. I don’t want to go to a hotel. All I want is to take him back to my house, even though it scares me, even though it feels far too intimate.
But my body has taken over for my head and my heart. Everything else has the night off except my libido, a dark and dirty thing that’s making all my decisions.
We tumble out of the cab, and I open the green door that leads into the courtyard. His hands are all over me. He’s touching me everywhere: my waist, my breasts, my hair. He can’t seem to stop. His lips travel across the back of my neck, and I can’t walk straight when he does that. I’m buzzing all over. I’m drunk on him, and yet I want to have another vodka tonic. I want to be his vodka tonic and to have him drink all of me.
As soon as we’re inside, my purse and my keys and my phone spill to the floor. Our hands rip at each other’s clothes, undoing buttons, tugging at zippers.
I yank his shirt out of his jeans, and he brings down my panties, saying, “I thought about you all week long. It kills me to go this long without being inside you.”
I swallow, nodding. I don’t know how we reached this point. I don’t know how we became too desperate, too frenzied that we’re about to fuck against my door. All I know is that’s who we are.
I push his boxer briefs down his hips and his hard length springs free. I wrap a hand around him, thrilling at how hot he feels. Hotter than the last time, and somehow, hungrier too.
He groans. “I don’t know if there are words to describe how much I need to be inside you right now.”
“Don’t describe it. Show me.”
In one sharp, hot thrust, he’s inside. The sound I make is carnal. I might groan for days. It feels spectacular, his hardness against my wetness. He yanks my leg, hooking it around his hip and driving into me. We go quickly, like horses at the race, tearing around the field, aiming for the finish line. His lips come down on my neck, his teeth connecting with my flesh, nipping and biting.
“Harder.”
“My teeth or the way I’m fucking you?”
“Both,” I pant.
He bites as he fucks, and I’m filled so completely by him that I’m nothing but feelings—delicious, intoxicating, ecstatic feelings. I’m all the glittering lights in Paris, all the thumping music in the club—I’m everyone’s desire right now. I’m being fucked the way everyone else longed for.
I get to have that coveted feeling, to bathe in erotic bliss as this gorgeous, brilliant man consumes me against the door of my house.
Consumed.
The thing I fear most.
The thing I feel now.
The thing I want badly.
I’m consumed by his body inside mine, consumed by the way he wants me, and most of all, I’m consumed by my own profound longing for him, a longing that finds a wild sort of peace in this pleasure. I’ve avoided this, guarded against it, but now I’m giving in. I want to feel every single thing with Christian.
We twine around each other, all hot and twisting limbs. I feel a tightening in my belly coiling higher, until the pleasure bursts and I cry out.
He follows me there with rough, hard thrusts as my back slams against the door, as his noises drown out all the sounds in my head, and I know he’s as lost in his climax as I am.
Sometime later, I blink open my eyes and we’re still standing at my door, disheveled and sated, cheeks red, clothes askew. “Come to my bedroom.”
He looks down at me and brushes a soft kiss to one eyelid, then the other, whispering yes.
Somehow that feels even more intimate than what we just did.
25CHRISTIAN
“Your bedroom is so girlie.”
“It is, and I like it that way. Being a woman and all.”
“Yes, I very much like that you’re a woman,” I say, and part of me wants to take her to her bed and smother her in kisses and tell her how much I’ve missed her these last two weeks. Still another wants to say, “Holy fuck, what the hell did we just do against the door, because it’s never been like that before. That intense. That electric. That . . . intimate. Was it that way for you too?”
But me playing that role—the needy lover—isn’t in our script. The casting breakdown for her part-time lover and temporary husband calls for me to keep her on her toes, entertain her, make her laugh, make her hot, and make her happy.
No more.
I survey her bedroom, checking out the white walls, the bright white comforter. Purple and silver pillows are piled high on the bed, giving it a feminine touch of color. Thin gauzy curtains hang down around the mattress. “This makes me feel like we’re in Africa. Do you suffer from mosquitoes?”
She rolls her eyes as she wanders over to the bed and wraps her hand around a bedpost. She glances to the door. “You may go now.”
I laugh. “Don’t kick me out. My work isn’t done.”
“Well, I don’t see how you could top door sex anyway.”
I pretend to contemplate, tapping my jaw with my finger. “True. I better take off.”
She pretends to show me the door, gesturing grandly to the exit. I make like I’m leaving, zipping up my jeans at last, but then I grab her waist and tickle her. Laughter bursts from her throat as I carry her to the bed, tossing her on it, still in her tangled dress. I pin her, my palms at her sides. “I’m staying. Admit it. You like me.”
She looks up at me, her brown eyes wide. “Why does everyone say that?”
“Say what?”
“That I like you.”
“Everyone says it?”
She nods against the mattress. “They act shocked that I do like you. All my girlfriends toss that out like it’s some big surprise. Why would I date you, sleep with you, marry you for three months, if I didn’t at least like you? If I disliked you, you can bet I wouldn’t be doing any of this.”
“Only if you liked hate-fucking me.” I grind my pelvis against her. “Do you like hate-fucking?”
“I don’t know. I suppose I could pretend I hate you, and we could see if I like it.”
“New goals,” I say, keeping it light since this is so much easier than telling her all the mad thoughts pinging around in my head. “But honestly, I don’t really want you to hate me, even for the prospect of angry sex.”
