I tug the sweatshirt over my head, shuck off the jeans and shoes, standing only in a black sheer bra and panties. He deftly flicks open the front closure of my bra, and my breasts spill out like they’re eager for his touch. He doesn’t disappoint, cupping them, thumbing the nipples until they’re hard, budded. He slides his hand into my panties and his fingers find me. The stroking, back-and-forth slide across my clit is shockingly erotic. It’s only been a week since we made love in Santa Barbara, but my body is starving for this, and when he slides two fingers inside, my muscles clinch around him almost convulsively.
“Do you know how many times this week I thought about this pussy?” His breath mists my earlobe, inciting a shudder that skids down my nape and across my arms. With slow, deliberate, deep thrusts, he invades me. With each stroke, I go limper, my breath catching and releasing.
“Some days I couldn’t concentrate.” He pushes impatiently at the strip of lace ringing my hips, shoving the panties down to circle my ankles. “I walked around with a hard-on half the day.”
I chuckle against the strong column of his neck, reaching between us to grip him, pull him, relishing the harshness of his breath in response to my touch.
“I was so turned on Wednesday,” I tell him, capturing his eyes. “Watching you tug on your lips the way you do when you’re trying to figure something out.”
“I do?” he asks, absently, bending to take my nipple in his mouth.
“You do.” My head drops back and I whimper at the warmth, at the tender tug of his lips wrapped around the sensitive tip. “And it was so damn sexy I went in my trailer on break and touched myself.”
He goes statue-still, his hand tightening at my hip.
“I came so hard,” I rasp into his ear.
“Turn around.” It’s a guttural command.
He bends me over the arm of the couch, and my hands hit the cushion for support, to steady myself. At the sound of the condom tearing, my inner muscles contract, bracing for him. He spreads my cheeks and, slipping his whole hand between my legs, cups the trembling flesh. I’m unprepared for the swipe of his tongue. For the subtle abrasion of his beard scraping the inner skin of my thighs. For the sound of him eating me. I push back against his face, helpless, no shame. Digging my nails into the cushions, I widen my legs to give me more, to take more for myself. He grips my thighs, holding me steady for his devouring mouth until, with a sob that sails over the rooftop, over the city, I contract around his delving tongue. The orgasm hits hard, tightening the muscles in my thighs and calves. With staccato breaths, I bury my face in the couch, biting my lip to the point of pain.
“Canon,” I beg. “Stop teasing me and—”
He shoves in, and the words tumble back down my throat, recessing into the shock of this pleasure.
“Jesus.” Need shreds my voice to ribbons.
He coasts his hand up my back, gently cuffs my neck. Ass in the air, I rise up on my toes, begging for breath, petitioning for more dick. He gives it to me, pushing impossibly deeper.
“So damn good,” he grunts behind me.
I hope I never get over how perfect he feels inside me, like I was molded to his specifications. Shaped for his dimensions. I moan and reach my hand back to pull at one of my cheeks, widening the way for his cock. It feels like he goes where no dick has gone before, deeper, better. Somehow I feel each thrust in my heart. His every touch plays on my emotions, and tears sting my eyes. His hand tightens at my hip, and he slides the other hand up my arm, finds my hand on the couch and laces our fingers together. He sets a frenetic pace that sends the blood singing through my body again. The cushion absorbs my scream as I come, and I punish the soft cotton with clawing nails. With his voice strangled, his fingers fisted in my hair, he comes.
Collapsing against my back, a heavy, happy burden, his breath stilted and warm at my neck, he snakes one muscled arm around my middle, clutching me. After the urgent, feral coupling, it’s a cherishing hold. I cross my arm over his at my waist and tangle our fingers. It’s fragile and sweet, this moment, like flakes of sugar disintegrating on your tongue when you’ve barely had time to taste.
Leaving a kiss on my shoulder, he pulls out, and I miss him immediately. When he straightens, so do I, turning around to face him. Our still unsteady breaths brush our chests together, the tips of my breasts kissing his hard torso. He rubs a thumb along my areola, and I wonder if I could come again just from that touch and the look in his eyes.
He frowns at the redness surrounding the soft flesh.
“Beard burn,” I tell him, smiling at the way his brows knit in chagrin.
“Does it bother you? The beard, I mean.”
“And if it did?” I walk around him, bending to retrieve my underwear. “Would you cut it off?”
“If I didn’t,” he chuckles, tossing his condom into a small trash can and tying off the bag, “would you cut me off?”
“I think you already know the answer to that.” I slide my arms into my bra, snapping the closure between my breasts. “Besides, growing the beard—it’s your tradition.”
His jeans are back on, but not the T-shirt, leaving his powerful chest still bare when he approaches me, cups my face. “You could be my new tradition.”
The laughter dies on my lips, fades from his eyes, and we are trapped in a net of our own making. Thin as gossamer, it tightens around us, and I hold my breath, not wanting to disrupt these few seconds with even a heartbeat. Finally, I rise up on my bare toes to reach his cheek, leaving a kiss there.
“Keep the beard.” I rake my nails through it and step back to put on my sweatshirt.
Once we leave the cabana, the moment dissipates, but the feeling lingers—that breathless contentment warmed by affection. We gather our things, and I study the debris of our breakfast, recall our conversation about Camille. I’ll never like the fact that they were together. That’s normal, and I am severely normal, but when Canon looks at me, when he holds me, there are no ghosts. No traces of her except in his regret. I don’t know how long I get to have him, but as long as I do, he’s only mine.
“You ready?” He assesses the patio, empty, but soon to be filled with people and music and food and gaiety. “They’ll clean up when the staff comes in to get ready for tonight.”