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And he pushed a hand between them. At first, she feared he was going to set her apart from him, but then she felt the movement in his wrist as he separated the clothes he wore, parting them in the middle and pushing at his pants. He moved quickly; she didn’t want to think about how often he liberated himself – just his arousal – in such a manner. He lifted her as though she weighed nothing, wrapping her legs around his waist as he strode through the apartment. He didn’t go to the bedroom though. He stepped through the lounge area and pushed her against a wall. It was cold and hard and she shivered as it juxtaposed form and texture so completely with his warm responsiveness.
His fingers dug into the flesh at her hips as he positioned h
er.
There was no time for protection. It didn’t even enter Sarah’s head to question it. He entered her swiftly and she cried out, so loud, so desperately, as every bit of her that he’d torn apart immediately shifted back into place. The sense of power and rightness was indescribable. She dug her nails into his shoulders, braced against the wall, as he thrust hard and fast into her again and a primal, desperate need took over.
She curled her ankles together around his waist and she ground her hips lower, inviting him deeper even as he owned her completely. Even as her muscles were stretched so far, so fast, that she was left reeling.
His mouth dropped to her breast. It was warm and wet, his tongue swirling her in his need and creating answering waves of desire deep within her. Waves he was already abating with his swift possession of her.
She cried out again as he took her, hard and fast and the pleasure began to morph into something else. Something like release. A sharp, jagged edge she had become addicted to five years earlier. A release from pent-up sexual need that had started to control her.
“Please,” she groaned, arching her back only for Syed to push her harder to the wall, pinning her where he wanted her, keeping her still so that his body alone could dance and move to the tune of passion. She was his passenger; her pleasure was at his command.
And command he did.
No sooner had he thrust her against the wall, his mouth transferred to the other breast, did she begin to fall apart completely, crying out as relief saturated her.
“Syed,” she whimpered into his neck, dropping her head and sobbing as the pleasure seeped through her. “That was so good.” The words were a whisper against his neck but he didn’t heed them.
“It is not time for ‘was’,” he drawled. “I have you for the night. That was just the beginning.”
Something in the way he said it should have unnerved her, but the sensual fog had clogged her mind. She was putty in his hands. And exhausted, suddenly. Five years of needing to get laid and he’d blown every single one of her expectations out of the water.
“Was it always like that?” She said quietly, a soft question into the darkness of her thoughts.
His laugh made his arousal flinch and her overly sensitive muscles rejoiced at the contact. She startled against him and he pulled back a little, just enough to look her in the eye. “No.”
She shook her head. “I didn’t think so.”
He lifted a thumb and stroked her cheek. “You were unforgettable then.”
“And now?” She murmured, angling her head and catching the ball of his thumb between her teeth.
“Now?” He shook his head. “I cannot say.”
She frowned, analysing the statement even as he began to move. But it was a simple, quick thrust, and then he pulled her away from the wall, holding her around his waist. He carried her easily, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. He strode confidently to the wall of glass overlooking the city.
He eased her to the ground in front of the window and she groaned as his body separated from hers.
“Turn around.” A gravelled request that nonetheless carried the weight and authority of a man used to commanding.
She did, immediately. Not because she feared him or saw him as her ruler, but because she trusted him when it came to matters of pleasure. She had begun a journey with him five years ago. He had been her only instructor, the master to whom her body responded, and she was his ever-willing pupil.
Her back to him, he reached for her hands and lifted them, bracing them against the glass before running his fingers slowly down her arms, teasing her beside her breasts, before dragging slowly lower, to her hips. When he reached the subtle curves, he pulled on them sharply, jerking her backwards so that she was bent over, her body at a right angle, her arms braced against the glass.
“You’re sure this window isn’t see through?” She murmured, amazed at the view of Manhattan as the sun settled over it.
“It is private,” he assured her, his fingers running over the bare curves of her rear, marvelling at the soft roundness, touching her intimately, brushing against her most private flesh.
“And secure?” She shivered as his thumb glanced forward, towards her feminine core.
“Perfectly. You will not tumble to your death.”
“Not without taking you along for the ride,” she agreed.
His laugh was a different kind of pleasure, because it brought a reminder of another kind of intimacy. The way they had talked and laughed and shared everything.
