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“What?” But beyond that buckle is the good stuff. That buckle is the gateway to Shangri-la.
He pulls back and laughs once. “Don’t worry, Elliot. I’ve got you.”
Then he pops up to press a hard kiss to my mouth… before dropping to his knees.
My eyes flare, and my breath sucks in with the understanding of what this man intends.
He can’t. Not here. Can we? “But— But?—”
This is already crazy. But I figure if we skip over some of the sexy times fun— like Ben on his knees doing something I remember he is very, very good at —we’ll be done faster. And for the purposes of tonight’s exercise and the whole not-getting-arrested thing, faster is better.
But then, his face rubs back and forth against the skin between my navel and panties. He tips his head and, blond brow arched, asks, “Want me to stop?”
Cheeks burning with the realization that risk or not, no. No, I do not want him to stop. I frantically shake my head.
Ben starts to lower his gaze, and my body reacts with some kind of Pavlovian response to the proximity of this man’s mouth to my pussy. He hooks his fingers in the denim at my hips and inches them lower before pulling away to meet my eyes again.
“You sure?” he asks, pure mischief in his eyes.
This is the Ben I remember, the Ben I loved. And even if that’s not who he is most of the time these days, seeing him again is a gift.
I knock his hands from where they aren’t making progress nearly fast enough, pushing my jeans down myself. The motion bows me forward, and Ben being Ben doesn’t miss the chance to lick between my breasts.
Wow.
I slip my foot from my flat and then out of my jeans leg too. It’s a move I perfected in those too few weeks we had together the first time around. One I haven’t had the opportunity to use since.
Humming his approval, he takes my hips in his hands and holds me against the wall, eyes focused on the smooth satin of my bikini-cut panties… which are, sadly, more function over form.
“Not quite what you envisioned with the Slayers-red lace thong with your number embroidered on the front.”
He swallows, then meets me with an earnest look. “Better.”
And before I can argue, he leans forward, opening his mouth over my satin-covered mound.
His mouth is hot, his breath teasing through the fabric in a way that makes me gasp even before he licks the sodden panel between my legs.
He groans, his grip firming on my hips in a hold that feels possessive and as sexy as the lick itself.
“Christ, Lara, I can taste you through your panties. You been getting wet for me all night?”
“Yes.”
No sense denying it.
“I gotta see. Gotta feel for myself.” His fingers flex at my hip then release enough to skim down the outside of my bare leg, trailing his fingertips over the back of my knee, my calf, and then through the sensitive hollow behind my ankle.
Because he remembers.
Like he remembers that single finger tap, and I remember it’s the signal to slip my leg over his arm and then onto his shoulder.
“Just like that, Lara,” he praises, guiding my hips forward before pulling my panties to the side, exposing me to his stare, his breath, the flick of his tongue.
“Ben!”
“Dreamed of having you like this again.” He shakes his head. “Seeing your pretty pussy glistening for me. Begging me to have a taste.”
The noise I make would embarrass me with anyone else, but with Ben it just feels honest.
