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He delicately places his hand on my cheek, and brushes one finger across my lips. I lean in and bring my mouth to his. The moment our lips touch, there's an electric hum that courses through me.
And that's when I know that I want to be in his embrace for as long as humanly possible. I never want him to disappear again.
40
Stacy
Sanders has a Midtown apartment that's so nice I do a double take when I step inside. Herald Towers is classy as shit, how on earth does he afford this? Well, I'm not here to shake out his wallet, I'm trying to get him out of his pants.
I am not tentative now. After how he left before...well, I was starting to question a lot of things. But he's back now. I am here, now, at his place. I know what we're going to do.
I take in the sight of him, heading to the kitchen. The elegant one bedroom is surprisingly spacious for Midtown, but that's more of a negative than a perk right now. I want to haul him off to the bedroom. Or, really, anywhere where we are significantly less clothed. A repeat of our last sexual encounter would be more than welcome. I lick my lips and let my eyes wander to the sheer size of his bulging biceps while he fills the cocktail shaker. No man has ever looked so good as he does right now squeezing a lemon.
"Whisky sour?" He asks with a slow drawl to his voice. It sends a shiver up my spine and I know I detect lust in his voice, radiating off my skin now in shared arousal.
The cocktails are teasing us both. We're both adults...but after what happened last time, and the time between...I guess we both need to space out the night so neither of us is sneaking out in the middle of the night.
"Sure," I say with a smile. Simple can be good. Delightful, even. I don't need a fancy bar drink. Something with some edge is sure to lighten this tension I sense in him. The tension I sense in him that I am trying to keep from having my own misgivings about. Everything should be fine. I walk towards the kitchen, taking the drink he offers with a grateful swipe before I turn to head back to the chaise on his sofa. I slip off my shoes and recline my feet, watching him now take a drink of his own cocktail before I sip mine. His body is the most powerful thing I've ever laid eyes -- or hands -- on. I wouldn't be surprised if he could crush a tree trunk with his bare hands. That is, if he could. He never would. There's something so powerful yet gentle about Sanders that intrigues me. He's strong yet caring. That's what made his escape so painful for me, if I'm being honest with myself.
I take a bigger sip of my drink. That's what even internal honesty calls for. The slow burn in my throat and down to my belly coils within me and I blink slowly. When my eyes open, after just a second, Sanders is sitting down before me on the chaise. I hold onto my drink a little tighter. My lips part, which I don't realize until I follow his vision to them.
"Drink your own whisky," I tell him with a silly grin.
Sanders takes a final swig, and then he places his glass onto a coaster on the coffee table. "I know that slipping out like that wasn't my proudest moment. I hope you'll stay tonight."
There's something almost pleading in his voice. I take another sip of my drink before I say anything. The truth is, because I want to stay despite my misgivings, and the oddness of this place...I just don't know what to make of Sanders. I will stay the night, but I won't say it. Some cruel part of me knows he needs that answer, but the part of me that guards myself demands that I don't give that answer. "You assume that I'm going to sleep with you?" I say, allowing my voice to be coy. I'm not trying to torture the man. I just want to keep from answering that particular question.
"Well," Sanders leans closer to me. I almost taste his breath now, laced with the whisky, and I want him to kiss me. He is hovering over me like this precisely so I will feel this way. "Yes, I think I am going to kiss you, then I'm going to carry you off to my bed and spend the night making love to you."
Making love? Oh god, who says that? And he's going to carry me off to his bed? I can't even mock this because...god that's the sweetest damn thing anyone has ever said to me and Sanders does have that whole knight in shining armor thing going on, and it is completely not ironic or cheesy from him.
This is exactly how I know I am in too deep.
"Are you going to throw me over your shoulder again?" I say, and I hope I don't sound too eager.
"I want to work with, not against that whisky sour in your belly," Sanders says. His voice is gruff and sensual. If a voice could drop panties, this one, Sanders's voice, would undo my bra and bend me over.
I reach for my drink because I don't want to lick my lips right in front of him like this. It is practically lewd. My fingers connect with the glass, but I don't get a chance to lift it up to my mouth just yet.
"Put the ice cube in my mouth," Sanders says of one of the two cubes in my tumbler.
I reach my fingers inside my glass and grab one, bringing the slippery little devil to Sanders's parted lips.
His tongue comes out to catch it and draws it in his mouth. I am about to lick my fingers clean myself when Sanders circles my wrist and licks off the wet parts of my fingers.
I have the burn in my belly from only him, a fire that doesn't need booze to stoke the flames. I watch his mouth now, mesmerized as it releases my fingers and his tongue works over the ice cube.
Sanders rises and puts his knees on either side of my body, leaning over me and closing his mouth over my neck. His lips are hot but then his cold tongue shocks me. He licks and kisses down my neck and to my collarbone.
I'm shivering, and only part of it is the hot/cold sensations he's inflicting on my skin.
His hands grip my arms and pull me closer to him. I feel that strange power yet gentleness in play with the way he's holding me.
He's all raw power and muscle but he doesn't want to overtake me when he touches me.
His claim is giving, his need is to share pleasure.
It echoes something without words to verbalize themselves inside my own being.
