She tilted her pelvis so it slammed against his. “A little bit wild.”
He could fucking come in his pants because his cool financial advisor was a prick tease of the best kind and the shock of that was a rush of heat and blood through his body.
“My place,” she said, as he fumbled to open the door with the key, the remote long since having quit the band.
She did not help by kissing his neck, laughing when he dropped the keys, hands roving over his chest and arse as he scooped to pick them up.
He couldn’t name a single street they drove down. He went whatever direction she prompted and when he parked outside her terrace, they spent a long time kissing with a kind of desperation that belonged to being fifteen and worried this wasn’t allowed and they were about to get caught by an outraged parent.
He messed up her hair. She got her hands up under his shirt. The steering wheel got in the way and so did the console between the seats. Twice they blasted the horn. He whacked his elbow on the window hard enough to break contact with her lips and groan. It was uncomfortable and so much fucking fun, and they were both laughing when they fell into the street, making it as far as her front door before they were all over each other again.
A parcel left on her doorstep made him sober up enough to remember he hadn’t expected this. “I don’t have a condom.” As if one was going to do. He’d need a jumbo pack before he was done here.
She put her back to the door as though to bar him. “What kind of a rock star are you?”
“One who is hard-core into you and regretting being such a boy scout.”
She laughed. “I thought the whole boy scout schtick was always be prepared.”
“For tying
knots and surviving in the bush and shit.” Not for being tied up in them by a woman he wanted so badly he’d give up royalty percentage points.
She picked up the parcel and opened the door. “I’ve got you.”
Green light. Presto. They made it just inside her place before they were at each other. He undid her zip. She went for his belt. Then they quit pawing at each other and worked on themselves. He got rid of his boots and socks and shirt. Her dress pooled on the floor.
He gawped at her like he’d never seen a woman in heels and sexy lingerie, but he’d never seen a woman look like a 1940s pinup in the flesh before. She had curves to ache for. She wore a creamy satin corset, nipping her waist, lifting her breasts, under it silk and lace briefs and stockings with suspenders. There was more of her covered up than uncovered, and his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth, because she hadn’t done it for him. She dressed like that for herself. She was her own showstopping drum solo.
“I need a minute,” she said, advancing on him. He didn’t have anything sensible to say to that and she captured his hands when he tried to touch her, spin her, see all of her. What was a minute when he’d have the whole night?
“The bedroom is upstairs. Make yourself comfortable.”
By which he fricking hoped she meant naked because in her bedroom, he pulled the covers back off the bed to reveal soft sheets and silk pillowslips and ditched the rest of his clothes. The whole terrace house might be made of silk for all the notice he’d taken of it. He was stupidly eager, the hands shaking, it’d-been-too-long kind. That corset might have laces or hooks. He had to be careful not to tear her stockings on his callouses as he rolled them down her legs.
He was sitting on the end of her bed, trying to slow his heart rate, thinking about taking his time unwrapping her, making her twitch and sigh and groan before they got to the main event, when she reappeared absolutely fucking gloriously naked.
Teardrop-shaped breasts with both nipples pierced.
There was no way to be disappointed about that. It was almost a religious moment. Soaring symphonies hit a crescendo in his head. Mena filled his sense with wonder, made his hands warm, ready to play.
“You know how to make an entrance.”
She tossed him a box of condoms. “You know how to make yourself at home.”
“Tell me how I make you come?” Her eyes were on his happily upright dick and his Prince Albert piercing. “Does it put you off? It’ll feel like an ultra-ribbed tip.” Or so he’d been told.
She stalked across to him, sat across his knees and speared a hand through his hair. “Nothing about you puts me off. I don’t think you’re going to have any trouble making me come.”
He could smell her arousal. He put his hands to her back, tried to look at all of her, kept getting hung up on details, the tiny ridges in her skin where her corset had rested, the smattering of freckles across her collarbone, the fold of her belly button and a neat landing strip of pubic hair.
Her nipples were the kind that always stood proud, and she wore circles of tiny blue gems around them. He used a thumb to rub across one in a circular motion and she arched to give him better access.
“I want to gorge myself on you, Mena. You are sexy as fuck.”
She pulled his head back and kissed him, her mouth hot, her thighs and knees tightening against his thighs and hips, her breasts pressed to him. “You can bank on making me come if you help me keep my pelvis tilted and you know how to use that piercing.”
He’d use it to make her shake and moan. He made a song list in his head for her. Staged a whole concert. He’d use a pillow, he’d use his hands, and his mouth and his whole heart to make her cry out, to make her a devoted fan who fell asleep sated beside him.