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Is there a part of him that I don’t like?
We break off the kiss eventually, but we stay close, our foreheads touching as we both catch our breath.
“I’m going to take you to my bedroom now,” he says. “And I’m going to fuck you until you beg me to stop.”
Sounds like a plan!Also, you can skip the preliminaries. My panties are soaked already.
“Yes?” he asks.
I draw away from him and race upstairs. “Yes!”
He catches up with me at the top of the staircase. Sliding his hands down my back, he cups my butt, and lifts me up as I squeal. Luckily, my long skirt is loose from the hips down, flaring at the hem. With s bit of fumbling, I wrap my legs around his waist. He presses me against the wall and grinds his hips into mine. He rubs his bulge against my clit. I respond in kind.
His movements are a little rough, infused with an urgency that I recognize and relate to fully. I need him inside me. If he doesn’t execute his threat to fuck me soon, I fear I might expire from frustration.
At last, he pivots me away from the wall and carries me to his bedroom.
Clutching him tight, I stiffen my aching core. “What’s the name of this style of hold?”
“Frontal backpack.” He presses a kiss to my lips. “In France, it’s called the Parismétrocarry.”
“You just made that up.”
He plants another kiss on my mouth.
We tumble into his bedroom.
Louis flicks on the light switch by the door before lowering me to the bed. I kick my pumps off. He removes his shoes and socks, drawing my gaze to his feet.
Who knew feet could be sexy?
He shrugs off his jacket and stretches out next to me, propping himself up on one elbow. We kiss again. Our lips move together, seeking, and exploring. His tongue slides past my teeth to join mine in a dance that is now familiar and oh so welcome.
Seconds, maybe minutes pass. The kiss grows increasingly erotic as our mouths drink and suck on each other. I reach around to caress his back, exploring his muscles through the shirt. Images of his naked butt, taut with exertion as he drives into me, flash in my mind.
Take off your shirt. Please, let me look at you!
Why are his hands so idle? I want to watch those long, slender fingers remove his cuff links, undo the buttons on his shirt, and take it off so I can discover what his bare chest looks like.
I break the kiss and pull back. His eyes stay on my lips for a few seconds, before traveling down. As they linger on my breasts, my tummy and hips, I discern a longing in them, very much akin to my own.
“As much as I love that gown,” he says, “it is now in the way of my plans for you. How about we take it off?”
The tension in his muscles is palpable as he forces himself to stay in place, to ask permission, and not tear my gown off as he may be itching to do.
For the first time in my life, I find myself almost sympathizing with a man’s desire to see me naked. But sympathizing and even relating, doesn’t mean being able to grant his wish. What he wants is more than what I can give.
I make a counterproposal, “How about we blindfold you again?”
“Do you mean it?”
“Yes.”
He frowns. “Why? Why can’t I see you? Why is that a problem?”
“I can’t explain it. I’m sorry.”
He nods uncertainly and sits up. His dark gaze drills into mine, seeking an explanation, something that would help him make sense of my blanket refusal.
