“Instinct.” He says the word knowingly. “Sometimes it’s hard to know the difference between instinct and habit, but the truth is that the distinction rarely matters. It’s all just forms of survival.”
A nervous laugh comes out of me. “You mean I don’t need to feel guilty all the time for deceiving people? Because I don’t know what I’ll do with all that free time if I don’t spend it on guilt.”
He almost smiles. “No need for guilt. At least, not with me.”
The shift comes in moments. When we both reach for the cream, our hands meet. We linger. A flash of heat in my face, my neck. Lower. He’s older than me, but that only seems to perk my interest as I stare at the gray stubble on his jaw. His eyes drop briefly to my mouth and back up. I don’t look away.
He edges closer, showing it without saying it.
Patience. They say it’s a virtue. But I don’t have any.
I grab his collar and pull him to my mouth. His lips are firm on mine, decisive. He wants this too. I didn’t misread him. His hands slide up my arms before traveling down my sides. They rest at my hips now, a slight squeeze.
When was the last time anyone touched me like this? Months? Years?
A moan slides out of me, and he crowds me with his body, pressing me so my lower back is against the edge of the counter. Heat floods me, and I’m wet already. I wrap my arms around his neck, and he looses a growl into my mouth before breaking the kiss. His pupils might be blown—can’t tell, they’re so dark. But he mutters, “Lena, we should probably stop, right?”
But I don’t want to stop. “Not if we don’t want to.”
“I don’t.”
“Me either.”
He reaches beneath me, lifting me onto the countertop. But clothes and logistics won’t let that work. We have low counters.
“The couch.” I take his hand and lead him to the living room. It’s far enough from Opal’s room that I don’t have to be completely silent. Just quiet.
I motion for him to sit, then straddle him and rest my elbows on the back of the couch. To my surprise, he takes his time. His hands skim up and down my bare thighs as we make out, and I’m so caught up in everything that I hardly notice the change until I feel his fingers on my clit through my panties.
I yip into his mouth, and that changes the game.
Dario turns me so my back is on the couch, and he’s on top of me, grinding while I spread my legs for him. He rips my panties off, and his fingers—those magic fingers—glide over me and make me squirm for him.
I pant, “I want you inside of me.”
Without another word, he swaps his fingers for his cock, stretching me open. I know this is irresponsible and crazy. I don’t even know him. But I’ve been responsible for years, and I deserve a break.
He fills me up and hits a part of me that’s been neglected. My eyes roll back, and I work myself against him just as hard as he pounds me. The man arches his back to deepen his strokes and plays with my clit when he has the space.
Just as I crest to it, he leans over me, covering my mouth with his hand. Two black pits stare down at me, and I can’t look away. “You’re going to come for me, Lena. Right on this cock. And you’re going to do it quietly, aren’t you?”
I nod, shaking and weak and on the verge.
“That’s it—I feel you pulsing on me. You’re right there.” The edge of his hand brushes up against my nose, covering it slightly. Can’t breathe. Panic?—
Oh, fuck.
Pleasure detonates in my core, and it’s all I can do not to scream. I writhe beneath him, on him, as a shuddering sound flies against his palm. He keeps at me until I tap his hand, a silent beg for mercy. Then he pulls out and comes in his hand.
The man is silent as he orgasms. Not naturally—his neck muscles strain in his skin to stay quiet. I wonder what he sounds like when he doesn’t have to hold back.
He straightens up without making a thing of it. Finds his jacket. “I’ll check in tonight,” he says at the door. No hand-wringing, no analysis, no attempt to decide what this was or wasn’t.
“Okay.”
He leaves with no goodbye kiss. Was this transactional for him?
Do I even care?
