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She looks up at me, and her mouth slowly forms into a wicked grin.
Fuck, this is all a part of her plan, isn’t it?
“When was the last time you had me here?” Taking off the second shoe, she slowly glides up my body.
“In this position or in my apartment?”
Fingering the hem of my shirt, she pulls me closer. “Here.”
I reach for her and cradle her head in my hands.
To my surprise, she lets me, but she keeps her hands on my chest, pushing on it for distance.
“It’s been too damn long, angel.”
I look at her intensely. Our breathing becomes erratic, and my heart pounds aggressively against my chest.
I stare at her lips and then at her eyes, and I can see that she feels the same way. Her body shudders against mine, and my cock pulsates in response.
“Let me show you something,” I say, hoping to distract us from what is inevitable—me fucking her.
That’s not how I want this to go. As agonizing as it’s going to be, I need to take this slow. I need to show her that what we had and what we have means more to me than she assumes.
She tilts her head and lifts her brow inquisitively, but I remain silent and smile at her reassuringly. Taking her hand in mine, I guide her up to my rooftop.
The view of the city is one of the many reasons I paid as much as I did for this penthouse—it’s fucking spectacular. And I didn’t try to emulate the night at the restaurant’s veranda, but I did use it as inspiration.
Luckily, I have assistants who can do things—magical things—for me at the drop of a hat, seeing as I texted them on our way back. And they fucking delivered.
Instead of decorating the rooftops with a shit ton of flowers, they lined every inch of the space with a candle. The wavering flames glisten in tandem with the sparkling city lights, and I watch as Elsa’s eyes twinkle in amazement.
Damn, I’m becoming really fucking good at this romantic thing. Maybe I do have a knack for it after all. Or at least, I’m becoming impressively good at knowing who to contact to do it for me.
I hear Elsa snort, and I turn toward her. She’s fucking laughing! What the fuck?
“Is there something funny?” I try not to take offense and chalk it up to her being drunk off tequila, but it pisses me off.
“It’s beautiful. I’m sorry, but...” She exhales, trying to stop herself from laughing more. “But I’ve been here many times, remember?”
“Yes, I remember.” I have no idea where she’s going with this.
“Well, Mr. Romantic, if you do remember, tell me what did we do on that swing. Or behind that pillar? What about when I leaned over ledge as you fucked me from behind? Or over there, on a blanket, wine drunk, and surrounded by very similar candles?”
I smirk at her, recalling all the fucking orgasmic moments, and I make my way to her side.
“Oh, I fucking remember ever one of those times like they were yesterday.” I emphasize each word, desire overpowering me.
Her smiles fades, and her eyes resemble my need.
I take her head in my hands, holding it like before, and I stroke her cheeks and finger her lips.
She bites down on her bottom lip, and I peel it away from her hold, wanting it to stay open and inviting.
“I’d love to refresh my memory and revisit each one of those spots. All. Over. Again,” I whisper, never keeping my eyes from hers.
She grabs onto my shirt and pulls me against her. Our breathing shallows in anticipation, and the magnetic pull becomes overwhelming strong.
I kiss her gently, gradually intertwining my tongue with hers. Our kisses grow firm, and we fall into a slow, passionately heated rhythm.
