“Yes.”
“Good.” He unbuttons my pants. “Stand up.”
I do, and then he’s undressing me, leaving me in my thin cotton bra and underwear. Comfort and breathability had taken precedence over any seduction today. But Faust lets out a strangled groan like I’m in the laciest French lingerie set, garter belt, stockings, the whole nine yards. He bends, and a kiss brushes over my ribs. Beneath my bra band, over my tattoo. He mumbles something against my skin that I don’t quite catch—might be in another language—and then he’s sitting on the bed, pulling me into his lap, my legs split around his waist.
I’m exposed. He isn’t. My fingers clench around his shoulders for support, feeling the smooth fabric of the shirt I designed, blood rushing to my head and between my thighs. “Beautiful.” His tone is proud, possessive. But maddeningly restrained, too. “So beautiful for me.” His hand sneaks between my legs, two fingers crooked up, and he strokes me over my damp underwear with enough expertise to make my whole body start to shake.
“Faust.” I hide my head in the crook of his shoulder, my face red.
“Yes?”
“You don’t need to do that.”
“I do. I want to.” His middle finger pushes against my seam, and I feel how embarrassingly wet I am already. And he must, too, because he clicks his tongue. “Think you want me to touch you, too. You’re soaked, baby. Don’t you feel it? Right here?”
It’s such a Faust thing to say. Simple and direct and, somehow, the hottest thing I’ve ever heard. Electricity thrums between mylegs, my body turning into a reactor programmed to his touch, and I nod against his shoulder, speechless.
“That’s what I thought. You’d have to feel it.” With a hum, he tugs my underwear to the side, cups me. “But I’ll stop if you want me to.” His hand is cold against my heat. “Do you want me to stop?”
“N-No.”
“Because you’ll tell me if you do?”
“Yes.”
“So, what do you want?”
Like I would know. But he actually waits. For me. To reply to him. His fingers don’t move, his palm so close to me that he must feel my pulse. Every slick twitch of my legs. “I… you could…” I swallow, but there’s nothing in my throat.
“So close, sweetheart.” Fingers press soothingly into the small of my back. I hadn’t noticed that he’s snaked his other hand around my back, helping me straddle him. “You can do it. It’s okay.”
My nose bumps against his shoulder. “I—I want you to touch me.”
I could wave a green flag for him, too. Blink some red lights. Fuck, I don’t know why I have to be like this. He has to be reconsidering his desire to sleep with me, the most Trojan Horse of a fuckbuddy as there ever was. Or worse, he’s reconsidering me, period. I’m not being confident, or cool, and I’ve definitely lost my grip on my own control if looking at him between my legs makes me turn—
Faust pulls me closer, stopping my thoughts. “I want to touch you, too. So come here.” One of his fingers slips inside me, his thumb circling my clit. “You’re going to ride my fingers until you’re close, and let me enjoy you.”
I sink down onto his finger with a gasp. It’s nothing, I know,but his hand is so big, and it’s been so long, pressure grabbing my core. “Easy.” He traces a circle over my spine, fingernails light on my skin. “Let yourself adjust.”
And maybe I’ve always needed rules here, too, guidelines to keep me in one place, since next thing I know I’m nodding and shifting. And then it feels good. I turn into the static between radio stations—scattered white noise, breaking into smaller pieces—as he pushes into me, teases me, soft, then firm. “You,” he sighs against my neck, and the sound is like licking a live wire. Finally tightly wound, so frustrated. “Feel like heaven.”
“Thanks,” I breathe out. “You”—I gasp. His teeth skimmed my skin—“do, too.”
Really, he feels like God has decided to punish me specifically, real and addictive anddeep, though I don’t have time to tell him that. Because then he’s asking, “But what do you taste like?” and I’m somewhere else. Definitely not here.
“Oh. I don’t—you really don’t need to worry about that.”
Not that I have a wealth of experience getting eaten out. Usually requires at least one other person in bed with you. Faust leans back just far enough that we’re looking at each other again, face-to-face, his finger sheathed inside me, my whole world his deep brown eyes and burning honesty. “I’m notworried,” he says, deadly serious. “I don’tworryabout wanting to drink you. I don’tworryabout making you come against my mouth.”
Then, as if to prove his point, Faust drags his hand from me to his mouth. Slips one wet finger between his flushed lips.
And moans.
“Perfect.”
I’ve forgotten every single word I know. My muscles tighten, my body fluttering with emptiness, need, his hand back on me. Fillingme. When he touches me again, I’m dripping, my eyes transfixed on the deep scarlet blush staining his cheekbones before I’m too shy to look at him anymore.
Faust builds me up, closer to the edge, faster than I’d thought was possible. My legs shake. I grab his head, fingers winding in his hair. And right as I’m almost there—wherever there is with someone like him—he leans back. Circling my clit slowly, watching me. “Where do you want to come?” he says, jaw tight and eyes dark.
