"Upstairs," he says. "Yeah."
He doesn't rush getting there either, his mouth on my throat the whole way up, and I drag him through the door by his shirt.
His room is plain: white walls, bare wood floor, a window looking over the east garden. He turns me to face him and takes the hem of my shirt in both hands, a question in his eyes. I lift my arms.
Everett takes my shirt off, folds it and sets it on the chair. I would have dropped it and that small careful thing does something to me I don't expect.
His hands come back, warm and certain, running from my shoulders down my sides. He reaches around and unclasps my bra, drops it and then he just looks at me, all of me.
He's broad and brown from working outdoors. I get my palms flat on his chest and feel the heat of him, the specific roughness of his skin, and I pull him toward the bed by his belt loops.
"Sloane," he says.
"I know," I say. "Come here."
He tips me back onto the mattress and comes down over me and I reach for him and pull him in, and his weight settles and his mouth finds my throat.
I let out a grumble because I am done being patient about any of this.
But, he isnotdone being patient. This man is determined to make me beg.
He takes his time at my throat, my collarbone, the curve of my shoulder, his stubble dragging against my skin in a way that makes me dig my fingers into his back. When his mouth closes over my nipple I make a sound that echoes in the bare room and he does it again until I've got both hands in his hair and I'm pressing up into him and grinding against face.
"Everett." I barely recognize my own voice.
"Mm." Against my skin. Not stopping.
His hand slides down my stomach and past the waistband of my underwear and his fingers find me and I stop making sentences. He strokes me through the cotton — slow, deliberate, already reading exactly how worked up I am — and I make a sound into his shoulder.
"Already," he says. Like he's noting something that pleases him considerably. "Don't say already, you've been…?" He moves his fingers.
He gets my underwear off and comes back and this time there's nothing between his hand and my pussy and I can't bequiet about it. He parts me with two fingers, slow, and I feel exactly how wet I am and so does he and then he slides both fingers inside me and curls them and just holds the pressure there, completely still, watching my face while I clench around him.
He fingers me with slow, deep strokes, his thumb finding my clit with unerring accuracy and working it in tight circles, and I'm gripping his wrist and rocking against his hand before I've decided to. He adds more pressure. He doesn't speed up. He holds the exact pace that has me halfway out of my mind and stays there, watching every second of it, until I'm saying his name on a loop and my thighs are shaking.
"Tell me," he says.
"Don't stop," I say. "Right there, don't —don't stop!"
He doesn't stop. He works me open with those broad, calloused fingers, his thumb relentless on my clit, and I come with my back arching off the mattress and a sound that’s somewhere between a gasp and a scream.
He holds me through it. Then his hands slide down my thighs and he puts his mouth on me and I stop breathing, helpless in the best way. His tongue moves slow and certain and I've got both hands back in his hair and I'm saying things I'll be embarrassed about later, please and there and his name over and over, and when I come again it's quieter and deeper and I'm shaking when it's done.
He presses a kiss to the inside of my knee, then climbs back up and looks at me.
I pull him down by the back of his neck. "Your turn."
I get his belt open and his jeans off and wrap my hand around his cock. He's thick and already hard and the low sound he makes when I stroke him goes directly through me.
"Sloane." A warning. "Give me a minute."
"You didn't give me a minute."
I pull him between my thighs and feel the blunt head of his cock pressing against my entrance, and I exhale and tilt my hips up.
He pushes in slowly. I feel the thick stretch of him opening me up, the heat, the slow relentless slide and I make a sound that isn't a word and he stills halfway, watching my face.
"Still with me?" he asks. Completely steady.
