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“I think we might be better off on the bed. We can do household surfaces when you’re a little less excited.”
The only word he understood was bed. He put his shoulder to her middle and picked her up like a bag of cement. She squealed and her hands went to his back to hold on. He carried her to the bedroom to the sound of her laughter, to the rush of heat to his chest and his thighs. He had one objective. All her skin on all of his, warm, close, tight, wet.
He dropped her on the bed on her back and stood over her wondering what he was doing because she was naked now and she was so lovely she couldn’t be for him.
“Come and get me, Back Booth.”
The sweats had to vanish. When he slipped them off and looked at her again she said something about women who’d let him go. He couldn’t concentrate. How did people have a conversation and sex at the same time? Even if he had words, his mouth was so dry they’d never make it to his lips. He put a knee to the bed and reached for her. “Stop talking.”
“Talking is half the fun of sex.” She put her hand on his thigh and the muscle jumped.
“Can’t talk, you’re too much.”
“Poor baby.”
Yes, everything hurt and he needed the relief of her, so why wasn’t she under him already.
“It’s my turn on top.”
“Fuck.”
She laughed. “Is that a yes or a no?”
He half tackled her, going to his back and pulling her alongside him. “Jesus, yes, anything, yes.”
“See, you can talk. In fact, you swear like a pissed-off bartender when you’re excited.”
He did? He had her hands in his and she moved her knee across his thighs and sat there. He watched her look at him. He liked the heat in her eyes but he was leaking all over his belly and his stomach was a misery of knots he could feel in his tailbone.
“Are all pole dancers sadists or just you?”
She bent forward and licked him base to tip and he shouted a curse, his hips lifting from the bed so sharply when she flickered her tongue around the head, he nearly dislodged her. And she gave him no chance to recover. She shifted so she sat over his cock and the slippery heat of her made him groan loudly enough to wake the upstairs neighbor, and then she moved, letting go his hands to brace on his ribs, sliding forward and then back.
That made him grip her ass, curl his torso off the bed to watch. It made him grind his teeth. And when she increased the pace of her hip rolls and her hair fell over her face he pushed it back and held it so he could see her bite her lip, squeeze her eyes shut. He felt her shudder. Could she make herself come like this? She was incredible, focused on this like she focused on her pole routines. It would be enough for him if she kept it up, the sight of her working him over was the best thing he’d ever seen and the friction was mind blowing, till on a backward hip roll, she caught him at her entrance. He stopped breathing. She froze there a second and then took him inside.
“Holy fuck. Zarley. Zarley.”
“Oh you fill me so good, Reid. So good like this.”
He had to move. No choice. He tilted his pelvis experimentally and her body rippled. Again and she folded forward onto his chest. He kissed her forehead and she lifted her face and then they were kissing, wet, tongues tangled, but he needed to move again, thrust again and again, meeting the roll of her hips, slapping their bodies together, faster, faster, more, more.
She gripped his shoulders and he grasped her ass and he chased that whiteout, that brain blast zone, and he smashed into it when she tightened all around him, burying her head in his neck muffling a shout. He came a stroke, two after she stilled, his groin going tight, electricity crackling up his spine and jolting right to his head, the pleasure so intense his calves cramped and his hands fisted before he went limp.
It might’ve been a century later and neither of them had moved when he said her name.
She tried to sit, but he stopped her, wrapped his arms around her. “I want you here.” She sighed and sank back into him. “You got there.”
She nodded.
“I felt it. You liked it?”
She propped her chin on his chest to look at him. “Now you want to talk.”
He smiled. “I should shut up?” He’d soften, knew he would slip out of her, didn’t want that to mean they’d stop being close.
“You should shut up.” She stretched to kiss him, and he adored these deliberate kisses that worked like punctuation in a sentence. They stood apart from the ones he got carried away with and had their own meaning. “It’s much easier to kiss you when you’re not talking.”
This kiss meant shut up, but he’d never been one to take advice. He smoothed a hand over her hair. “Do you want to sleep?” He didn’t; unlike earlier, he was energized and also hungry.
