“Oh.” I press my palm to the wall beside me. “Ez.”
He does it again, a teasing, tantalizing bite and suck, his mouth hot and wet through my panties.
I groan, shifting my hips, spreading myself wider, silently begging him to take it with nothing between us. His fingers are at my hips, slipping beneath the scrap of silk, tugging until the panties skim my flesh in a slow ride down my thighs, over my knees, calves and feet.
Off.
He reverses, kissing up my calf. He sucks behind my knee, disappearing again under the dress, dragging his tongue over the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. The blunt tips of his fingers pry me apart, hold me open. His breath caresses my clit, and my heels reflexively dig into his back. I press my palm harder into the wall, shaking with anticipation.
Before I’m reduced to begging, he licks me, whisper-soft and barely there. His groan vibrates against my thigh. Spreading me wider, he opens his mouth over me, running the flat of his tongue from my opening to the tight cluster of nerves at the top of my pussy. His thumb brushes my clit while his tongue plunges inside me, setting a steady, fucking pace. With his other hand, he cups my breast, squeezes, pinches, twists my nipple.
“Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God,” I chant, the words melting in my mouth, slurring drunkenly.
Mindlessly, I rock my hips in time with his mouth. I can’t stop my fist from banging the wall. I can’t stop my knees from tightening around his head. A moan climbs from my belly and wails out of me at the apogee of my pleasure. It feels so good, my mouth falls open on a silent sob. I’m rocking and writhing and his. I’m so completely his right now. He’s eating me out, but he has me eating from the palm of his hand. No one has ever taken care of me this way, this thoroughly, with such selfless abandon and dedication to my pleasure.
Even after I come, liquid bliss spilling from my body and I’m slumped against the wal
l, he doesn’t stop nibbling, tasting, squeezing my legs, dragging me closer like a bowl he has to lick clean.
“Tru.” Passion and layers of expensive fabric muffle his voice. With tingling hands, I push the skirt away so I can see his face. His mouth and chin glisten and his eyes are glazed. I rub my thumb across his bottom lip.
“I want to fuck you,” he says.
I want that. Even though I just came hard and long, an emptiness swallows me from the inside out. Need burgeons from that void—the need to feel him pistoning in and out, to know the intimate slide of our bodies. I stand on wobbly legs, pull his hand, pushing his shoulder until he takes my place on the bench. He runs his knuckle between my breasts and over my belly until he reaches the band of my skirt where the bodice hangs useless. I reach back and undo the button at the base of my spine. The dress falls to the floor in a vivid cascade, fanning around my ankles. I’m naked and barefoot in his mudroom. I haven’t shed all of the extra weight that comes with this damn condition, but I’m not self-conscious. Not ashamed. He’s looking at me like I’m the sunrise and he’s grateful for a brand new day. He runs his palms up and down my thighs, over my hips. He squeezes my ass, brushes my nipples. I sway under a fresh wave of pleasure but help slide his boxers and jeans off.
“Come here,” he whispers, curling his fingers around my leg and urging me toward him. I lift my knees on either side of his hips, straddling him. He grips my ass, lining our bodies up.
“Shit.” He presses his forehead to mine. “Condom.”
I reach down to grab my discarded clutch and quickly pull out the little sleeve containing credit cards, my license and, in a hidden compartment, a condom.
Taking him in my hand, I rub my thumb over his leaking tip, squeezing the slightest bit. His head falls back, exposing the corded strength of his throat. I stroke up and down, gently at first, learning the hot slide of silk over steel. And then faster, firmer until his hips jerk and the muscles of his thighs flex beneath mine. He mumbles something incoherent. I don’t let up, pumping his dick and bending to suck his nipples.
“In,” he rasps.
“What?” I mutter at his neck, drowning in the earthy scent of him, fascinated by all his male textures—rough, smooth, hard, velvet, silk, stone.
“In,” he says abruptly, clearly, gripping my hips and sliding me forward. “Let me fuck you.”
I slide the condom over the hard, hot length of him, and then slowly interlock us. The first time Ezra enters my body, the world cracks open. Tectonic. Like two plates of earth shifted, melded to make an entirely new plane. We go still in unison for just a second, the newness of a completely unique dimension comprised of his body and mine settling into place. And then we move, a slow, sensuous give and take of soul and flesh that makes us pant and moan and grind and groan. Our mouths open, gasping. He fills me completely. I press my temple to his and rock my hips over him. He maps my back, my ass, my thighs. I’m territory he claims with his hands and lips and the covetous heat of his eyes. And I take possession of him. Squatter’s rights, a field Aiko abandoned that, whether she knows it or not, is now mine.
He reaches between us, rubbing his thumb over my slick clit. The pace quickens; the need is feral. My breasts bounce as I ride him hard, one palm slammed into the wall over his shoulder and one hand squeezing my own breast with just the right pressure to send me spiraling. Another climax jerks my body forward until we’re heart to heart. He pounds up into me, squeezing, spreading my ass open and stiffening, the hard muscles of his stomach contracting. A moan wrenches from him as he empties himself. I grab his chin, tugging his mouth open, and lick into him with long, languid kisses that bob our heads and twist our bodies and wall out the world. The years fall away like a torn veil separating him from me, then from now. It hasn’t been years. There has only been one long day for us on which the sun has never set. We were never lost, and this place has always been waiting for our wandering hearts, for our prodigal souls to finally, together rest.
Chapter Thirty
Ezra
“Tell me about your first time.”
Kimba asks the question in the middle of the night. After we dragged our limp bodies from the mudroom and up the stairs, we stumbled into the guest bedroom and made love again, this time a slow, savoring union, commemorating what was the best sex of my life. I spoon her under the covers, pushing the damp hair, half straight, half coiled, away from her neck and ghost kisses over her soft skin. She presses her naked back into my chest.
“My first time?” I tighten my arms around her middle and spread my hand over her stomach. “It should have been with you.”
“Obviously.” She reaches back, scraping her nails through my hair. “But who was the little wench?”
I chuckle and push my knee into hers from behind. “Francesca Aldi. I was fifteen. She was sixteen. My first time. Not hers.”
“Where was it?”