My lips lift in victory as I dare to lean back, to meet his eye, and slowly I circle my hips over his touch, my hand still tight on his.
You’re not going anywhere, Ash, not yet.
His lips are deliciously parted and I love it, taking advantage to sink my tongue inside his mouth and coax his own into action. He comes alive at last, his fingers moving of their own volition, his mouth crushingly sweet as he takes control.
He slips his fingers deeper, enters me as his thumb grazes my clit and I buck on the spike of pleasure that runs through me, the continued onslaught of his mouth catching my sigh of ecstasy.
I raise my hands to his shoulders and cling to his body for support, my lower half on a shameless ride of its own.
I struggle to catch my breath as his thumb works me to fever pitch, his mouth endless in its brutal exploration of my mouth. I tear my lips away, press my forehead into his shoulder and remember the audience taking in our brazen display, enjoying what they can see, what they can hear.
I look to where his hand is buried in black lace. His movements are quick and dizzying, his fingers in deep. He’s skilled, all right, and I’m seconds away from combusting. My nails bite into his shoulders, my body tenses up and I fling my head back to look at him, to register the blazing heat of his gaze.
‘That’s it—come for me, princess.’
His words, his hand, his skill... Every muscle floods with heat, my insides are wound so tight, and then I burst from the inside out.
‘Fuck...’ My eyes clamp shut, my body spasms and he locks his arm around my waist, holding me tight. He won’t drop me. I won’t fall. It’s perfect—perfect and safe.
His thumb rolls over me, slowing against my heightened sensitivity, and then he palms me, his hot heat pressed against my wetness until my body eventually stills and my breathing calms.
My head falls forward, he withdraws his hand and reality seeps in.
Nothing’s changed. Life is as it was before. But for those blissful few minutes it was gone, and for that I am grateful.
Slowly I raise my lashes and calm my expression. He doesn’t need to join me on the comedown. He doesn’t have to shoulder what I do.
‘Thank you,’ I whisper.
He curves his hand around my behind beneath my skirt. ‘You’re welcome.’
And then he releases me to fasten his trousers. He steps back, his attention off me. So off me that I’m floundering.
I look away and smooth out my skirt, suddenly awkward, sheepish. Do we just say goodbye? It’s what I would normally do. But I don’t want to. Already the chill is taking over and the distance is building between us. I want the warmth back.
What’s the likelihood of us seeing each other again? I’ve been coming here for years and never seen him, regardless of his claim that Jackson is a mate. Maybe he’s not from London. Maybe he’s just visiting.
So many questions burn through me and I can’t give voice to a single one.
Regardless of his actions, he said I wasn’t his type. Would that still be the case now we’d had our fill?
He’s very still and I risk a look. He’s staring at me, but I can’t read him. He’s impenetrable, cold. While his blue eyes seem to pierce me, strip me bare. My confidence is in tatters. Obliterated with the surprising force of my orgasm and his sudden detachment.
Perhaps it’s because I could see myself wanting more.
More like what?
A date. A normal, everyday date, like any normal, everyday woman would want.
But you’re not one of them. Never have been... Never will be.
The growing chill reaches my heart and I shiver.
‘I should go,’ he says, smoothing a hand over his hair.
I nod, still speechless, my messed-up thoughts keeping me tongue-tied as I wrap my arms around myself.
He starts to walk and then stops. My heart flutters, my head lifts, I’m hopeful. But then he continues on and I watch him leave...cold, sober, sad.