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He cut off that train of thought before it could finish. Now was not the time for thinking. It was time for feeling. He licked her clit into his mouth, and her laughter turned into a long moan. She wove her fingers into his hair, undulating against his face, and he willfully lost himself in her taste, her scent, her erotic sounds, and the feel of her on his tongue. Nothing was this good.
When she gripped his shoulders and pulled insistently, he looked up in confusion.
“Michael, I want it. I need it. Now. Please,” she said between heavy pants for breath.
“It?” Fuck, was she going to
talk dirty to him?
She continued trying to drag him up over her. “I’m aching for you, Michael.”
Too shy, after all, but her words hit him just as hard. He had to take a moment to focus on breathing and not spilling all over the sheets before he climbed off the bed, turned her over, and pulled her hips to the edge of the mattress. This was the way she needed it. It was too personal for her to do it with him face to face. Maybe with her next man, she’d—
He distracted himself from that shitty image by running his hands over her generous ass. Their relationship was just practice for her, but this moment, right now, was real. “I love your bed, but it’s too low to the ground. There is something mine is perfect for.”
She buried her face in his sheets. “Now, please.”
But when he patted his pocket, it was empty. He groaned in disbelief. Forget blue or indigo. Violet. His balls were violet. “I don’t have a condom.” He was an escort, for fuck’s sake, and he’d forgotten a condom. He’d been too eager to see Stella to go through his regular pre-session checklist.
“Don’t tease me like that, Michael.” She arched her hips, presenting him with a glimpse of her swollen pussy. God.
He wanted to press into her so badly he hurt.
“Not teasing. I left the box in my car.”
She stared back at him with tormented eyes.
“I’ll be right back.”
With that, he adjusted his painfully hard flesh, zipped and buttoned his pants, and ran from his apartment.
{ CHAP+ER }
19
Stella collapsed onto Michael’s bed. After her first three sexual encounters, she’d been convinced intercourse wasn’t for her. It had been messy, at times painful, and extremely uncomfortable. Right now, it was all she could think about.
Her body throbbed from the force of her craving, aching to be filled, and held, and . . . spoken to.
She grinned as she recalled what he’d said. Did other people laugh during sex?
She tapped her fingers on the bed as she waited, but patience had never been one of her strong suits. She was a person of action. She hated wasting time. And she hadn’t finished investigating Michael’s apartment.
She lowered her feet to the floor, grabbed her glasses, and pulled his shirt on, smiling to herself when the tails fell to her knees. The non-French seams bothered her skin, but his smell made up for the irritation. Besides, she wouldn’t be wearing this for long.
A peek inside his closet filled her with vast contentment. Yes, it rocked her world. All of his beautiful suits and shirts were perfectly lined up, organized by color, fabric sheen, and stripe width. She trailed her fingers over the sleeves of his suit jackets before she turned and considered his dresser. She wanted to open the drawers and see how he kept his socks, but that seemed intrusive. What if he caught her snooping? Would he think she was searching for something? Was she searching for something? Maybe she was, but not for anything in particular. She just wanted to understand him better.
She padded out of his bedroom, walked past his TV—she’d already seen most of the titles there and had stuffed Laughing in the Wind in her purse—tracked her fingertips over the cold surfaces of all the ordered dumbbells on the rack by his workout bench, slammed her fist into his punching bag, and then rubbed at her knuckles because that had hurt.
A look in his fridge told her he cooked regularly. It was filled with Asian cooking sauces with mysterious labels, fresh produce, and all sorts of healthy things Stella had no idea what to do with. There were a few containers of the yogurt she liked, though.
As she ambled over to admire the plant on his dining table, the papers on top of his metal filing cabinet caught her eye. Bills, from the look of them.
And Michael had money problems.
She snuck a glance at the front door, but it remained shut. She perked her ears, listening for the sound of his footsteps. Nothing.
Her heart pounded. She knew this was a violation of privacy. She shouldn’t.
