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“So okay,” I gasp, then I feel the mattress press down and hear a buzzing. One hand’s on the top of my ass while the other returns to my spread thighs with the vibrator. Thank god. “Yes, please make me come,” I beg, desperately seeking sweet relief.
Doesn’t take me long. Soon, I’m shamelessly fucking the toy and shattering, breaking apart under the powerful force of a second orgasm. It’s still rocketing through me when Finn turns me over, spreads me out, and buries his face in my pussy.
“So fucking good. So fucking sweet,” he praises, then slides his hands under my ass and devours me while I’m still coming down from the last orgasm.
It’s almost too much. I’m so sensitive already, but he’s merciless, licking me ferociously, sucking on my clit till my belly coils with the delicious threat of more pleasure. I’m close, so damn close. This can’t be happening. I can’t be coming again.
But impossibly, I am, grabbing his head, drawing him nearer and coming like a woman drunk on orgasms.
While I’m still crying out, he unties the blindfold then unbuttons his shirt, giving me a view of his broad, toned chest. He stares down at me while he strips. His eyes spark with desire. He’s more turned on than I’ve ever seen him. My throat is dry. My voice is hoarse, but I lift a hand, reaching for the ridge of his erection through his pants. “Your cock. Gimme your cock,” I beg.
He shakes his head. “Not enough, honey. You haven’t come enough,” he says, then he tugs me off the mattress. I feel loose and noodle-y, and I’m not even sure I can stand, but he bends me over the bed, then unzips his pants. I crane my neck as he takes out his cock and rubs it against my ass, teasing me with what I want most, but not giving it to me.
Instead, he gives me his hand again, sliding those determined fingers between my thighs, rubbing his cock against my ass. I’m wrung out, panting, sweating, and crying from the intensity.
I come again, then once more with the vibrator, collapsing onto the bed, boneless. I feel like my body isn’t mine. It’s his to play with, his to take, his to cherish.
I can’t stand all this pleasure. “It’s too much. Just fuck me now,” I gasp as I stare up at him while I finally kick off those damn heels.
His smile is so damn satisfied. “All you had to do was ask,” he teases as he sheds his pants and boxer briefs at last, then reaches for his wallet, no doubt for a condom.
I sit up, setting a hand on his arm. “I’m on the pill and safe.”
He groans. “I’m safe too,” he says, then climbs onto the bed, settling between my thighs. He spreads me open. “Mine,” he says, and I shudder. “Want to see your sweet pussy. Want to feel it bare. Want you to come on my cock till you can’t take it anymore.”
I’m not sure I can take his brand of domination. But Iamsure I want it. And him. I loop my hands around his neck. “Fuck me into tomorrow.”
His sigh is carnal, and needy as he slides into me. “Jules,” he grunts. “My fucking Jules.”
My.
Sometime tonight, I became his.
* * *
In the morning, I’m still buzzed. I’m pretty sure now that being sex drunk is a real thing.Or maybe I’m intoxicated on honesty. Finn’s someone who takes me as I am. He doesn’t try to trick me. He doesn’t try to twist my wishes. He meets them openly, then exceeds them.
With him, I feel a newfound confidence that comes from embracing my personal after dark. From feeling comfortable in my own skin.
With that in my mind, we get dressed, then head out together into the Montmartre morning, a summer breeze wafting through the air as the city wakes up. We head down a curving, hilly street with Sacré-Coeur watching over us, and no one knowing who we are.
We were secret lovers for a night, and I want more of that. We haven’t talked about the rest of the time here in Paris and whether we’ll spend it together. But that’s okay. I know this fling can’t last, so I’m rolling with it, living life like Finn said his son does—in medias res.
“Let’s do your list,” he says after we grab coffee and croissants. “You said wandering down a quiet street was on it. Montmartre is full of quiet streets where you can get lost. I don’t have a meeting for a couple hours. When are you due on set?”
“Two hours,” I say.
We go. I’ve checked off a handful of items already with him, so the list feels like it belongs to both of us now as we turn on a cobblestone street with no cars allowed.
It’s quiet, like I’ve stepped into Paris in the Belle Époque. We walk past historical-looking buildings with doors painted purple, bright green, and sunshine yellow, and with window boxes lining each story. As we wander, I take photos and send them to Camden with little captions.
“Let me take a picture of you,” Finn says.
That tone makes me comply, but so does the emotion in his voice, the clear sense that he needs this picture to remember this day when it’s long gone. When all that’s left is the memory.
I stand by an orange doorway, but I don’t smile because I don’t think that’s what he wants. I think he just wants to remember me here. I brush a strand of hair from my face and I know that’s what he’s capturing.
When he looks at his phone, he murmurs, “Perfect.”
