When the last dish is done, I turn in his embrace, happy to see the thick look of lust on his features. His gaze is searing and direct. His full lips are parted.
“Dinner was delicious,” he murmurs, then tips forward and places a hot, biting kiss at the space between my neck and shoulder, just above my collarbone. My breath shudders in my throat as he kisses me over and over again, biting, teasing, his hands supporting my spine. I feel weightless in his embrace, and I know all I need to do is relax and let him do all the work.
Suddenly he lifts me up, wedging his hands beneath my bottom and wrapping my legs around his hips as he carries me from the kitchen and up the stairs. Giggling, I smile and hang on tight, breathless with anticipation.
I barely finished one glass of wine, but I am buzzing like I am drunk as he lays me across the bed and pushes my skirt over my hips. Falling on his knees on the floor in front of me, he spreads my legs and groans with desire.
The first touch of his tongue against my seam is shocking with his heat. He merely traces the line and I feel myself open up like a flower in time-lapse.
“Oh, Clarissa,” he groans. “That’s it. Let me have you.”
No one has ever said those words before. No one has ever said anything like that to me. My core clenches, releasing a volley of sparks that I can see when I close my eyes. At first shy, soon I can no longer resist the urge to give in to the pleasure he is offering me. I roll my hips, countering the pressure of his soft, fluttering tongue with my own reaction. He finds my pearl and sucks it gently, sending me into another wave of clenching pleasure
I never knew it could be like this. With his lips on my sex, my body shuttles me quickly through ever-mounting stages of bliss. Soon I feel a pang, almost a twinge of pain deep within my pussy. Nature tells me what to do and I let it overtake me, let it explode inside me like a fireworks display.
Totally giving in, I ride the waves of orgasm through visions of terraced mists, secret places I have never visited before. The world seems crystal clear to me now. And startlingly simple.
When he rises to join me on the bed, I am shockingly wet. He kisses me deeply, trading back my own taste onto my tongue as his cock circles my entrance. Hooking my thigh over his hip, I drag him closer, needing him inside me to take us the rest of the way on our journey.
I can feel every ridge of his thick erection as he slides past the barrier, bit by bit. I seem to suck him inside of me, scratching a deep, primal itch with this union.
His muscles flex and clench under my hands as he thrusts rhythmically against me. I love the roll of his hips, the motion that is so private, so intimate and specific that I feel it is only for me. Here we are as our strangest selves, sharing the sounds, tastes, and motions that no one else sees of us.
He tenses, tendons standing out between the thick, sculpted muscles as he arches his back, plunging so far into me that it almost makes me cry out in pain. But I’m determined to take every bit of it, to hold nothing back.
His seed overflows, drenching both of us. It puddles between our bodies as he releases the last of it, falling breathless and panting on top of me like a spent animal.
Pinned beneath him, I feel small, obliterated, and completely safe.
Chapter 15
Maxwell
When I hear a scream upstairs, I remember I’m not supposed to turn on the water in the kitchen while Clarissa is in the shower. Quickly I slap the faucet handle and cringe, hoping that the temperature change wasn’t too scalding.
But when she stomps down the stairs, I can tell by her footfalls that I took the shine off her morning routine. Quickly I prepare coffee with cream and sugar—how she likes it—and perch it on the corner of the counter so it is the first thing she sees when she walks into the kitchen.
“That’s not really going to make up for it,” she informs me as she picks up the mug.
But I know how she is. I’ve figured out that mornings are Clarissa’s worst possible time. Before coffee, she’s practically nonverbal. If I speak to her, there’s a good chance she’ll say things that she will have to retract later on in the day. It’s better just to have coffee first, conversation after.
Since we have been spending time together, I’ve been getting the lay of the land, and she has been getting to know me too. She understands that I like to open doors for her. If she doesn’t give me a chance, how am I supposed to open the door? She is learning how to pause for just a moment to let me reach in front of her and open her car door.
She’s also learned that my music tastes haven’t changed very much since I was fourteen or fifteen. I like Rush and Jane’s Addiction. I refuse to make excuses for that.
Since her place is closer to the office than mine, we have found it easier to stay here most nights. The last time I picked up my dry-cleaning, I left it in her closet. It’s just a convenience, but one that feels good. It feels very good.
Even now, as I’m watching her scowl into her coffee mug, I can’t help but smile. She is cute when she’s grumpy.
“So I talked to my parents,” I mention conversationally after she’s had three ounces or so of coffee. “They’ve asked us to dinner. Shouldn’t be a big deal. Are you free tonight?”
She pauses momentarily, then sets the coffee down and turns it in place on the counter until the handle is on the other side.
“You want me to meet your parents?” she asks slowly without looking up.
“Is this a problem?”
“Can