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“I’ll just get drunk on you.” He sets his glass down on the table next to him and then takes mine, doing the same. “Come here.”
He catches my hand and pulls me onto his lap, the silk of the flared black dress I’d put on for dinner fanning over his lap, while my thighs straddle his hips. “Thank you, Addie,” he says, folding me into him, his hand sliding under my hair to cup my neck.
“For what?”
“For making me feel more human than I have in a very long time.”
My heart swells with his words. “Creed,” I whisper, and there is this energy between us that is as warm and wicked as it is tender.
He drags my mouth to his, and I lean into him willingly, eagerly, our tongues tangling, and he tastes of sweet champagne and passion, the effect drugging in every way. He catches my dress and drags it over my head, and I push off him, unhooking my bra and tossing it aside, the heat of his eyes on my breasts, puckering my nipples. I reach for my panties, and he leans forward, catching the strings at my hips with his fingers, his mouth on my belly, even as he drags the silk down my legs.
I kick away the silk, and he folds me close, leaning down to kiss my clit, my head tilting backward with the rush of sensation through my body, my fingers diving into his hair, as his tongue swirls the sensitive area. My knees are already weak when he stands and tugs off his shirt, tossing it aside. I reach for his pants—I want him naked in a bad way. He’s anxious, too—it’s there between us—this need to remove the barriers. To just be together. And soon we’re standing there, just the way we wanted to be, naked, the Vegas lights framing us, when he sits back down and takes me with him.
His shaft is between us, and I reach down and stroke it, closing my hand around him. Reveling in the shift of his expression, the look of pleasure that feels like a reward with a man who shows so little of himself. But he showed me tonight. He’s been as human as he says I make him feel. “You’re the weapon,” he murmurs, lifting, anchoring me, and pressing his erection inside me.
Wet and hot for him, I slide down the hard length of him and moan with just how hard and thick he is right now, but when I’m settled against him, we don’t move. We’re just there, staring at one another, this pulse between us I can’t explain, but it steals my breath. He rolls my body forward, cupping my breast and kissing me.
“You’re too beautiful and too good for me, Addie,” he says roughly, and I have this sense that there is more to those words than the heat of passion. That I need to push back against them, but I never get the chance.
His mouth covers mine, his tongue a seduction that drags me under his spell and never allows me to recover. He thrusts into me and then we’re moving together, and his hands are all over me, touching me, caressing me, and my fingers are back in his hair, on his face, curling into his shoulders.
I am lost in this man, in how he smells, how he touches me, the way my skin tingles in the wake of his touch. The way I just want to inhale him, curl into him, and crawl under his skin when I simply can’t get close enough to him. It just doesn’t feel possible. I have never in my life been this completely in the moment, this all-in with a man. I barely know the moment I am too far gone to hold back. I’m tumbling over the edge. I’m already there. My body quakes and spasms around him, and I cling to him, my face buried in his shoulder. His fingers splay between my shoulder blades, and he thrusts again, a growl of pleasure ripping from his lips, as his body shudders, and we collapse into each other.
For a bit we just hold each other, his hand cups my head and he rolls me to my back, leaning over me. “I’m a selfish man with you, Addie, and that is going to be a problem. When we go back—”
My hand splays on his cheek, the shadowy stubble beneath my palm. “Stop. Just stop before you say something we’ll both regret.”
Seconds tick before he says, “I’ll get you a towel,” and then he’s gone, pulling out of me and then disappearing. I don’t move, I can’t, and my mind races. This is about my father. I know it’s about my father. And about him, and what he thinks he’s become and might become. When he returns, he’s in sweatpants and he offers me the towel and my silk robe from my bag. When I’m dressed, he’s sitting on the end of the couch, his fingers laced together in front of him, elbows on his knees. “We both know your father did this. We both know that makes him my enemy.” He looks toward me. “And you’re too loyal of a person to turn your back on him. I can’t put you in between us. It’s not fair to you.” He pushes to his feet and walks to the window, staring out at the city, the muscles in his back bunched with tension.
