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He still ignored me, digging into my jeans pockets to pull out my phone, a pen, a Chapstick, and a paper clip. He frowned at the paper clip. All of that went on the counter. He hoisted me up.
I’d fallen silent by this time, enjoying his touch. On the inside of my leg. My back. Down my arm. His chest against mine. All the little points of contact. I was quickly getting distracted.
He pulled off my sandals and straightened, sliding his hands along the inside of my thighs. He held there, his eyes meeting mine, darkening. His finger pressed against me, rubbing in a circle.
My lips parted and swirls of pleasure climbed through me, my ache growing, starting to throb.
His lips found my shoulder, tasting me as he yanked me against him, his hand still between my legs.
I grabbed for his shoulders, my eyes closed as I groaned. “That feels so good.”
“Good,” he whispered. Then his mouth was on mine, and I sighed into his kiss. So good. So delicious.
The kiss grew harder, more demanding.
I opened for him.
His tongue slid inside, tasting me. He undid my jeans and moved them down—or tried. He pulled away, looking between us. My pants were too tight, so he grunted, wrapped an arm around me and held me up so he could peel them down. Then he set me back down and yanked my jeans the rest of the way, kicking them to the side.
His mouth found mine, reclaiming me as his beard teased at the same time.
He tore my top off, only lifting his head long enough to whisk it over me. My bra came next. He had it off in one second, which was impressive, and I smiled at how good he was at that.
His hands were everywhere, his body against mine. His heat engulfed me, and I wound my legs around his waist, feeling him against my center. I moved over him, grinding, biting my lip as a moan shuddered through me.
He ripped his mouth away. “Fuck.” His forehead rested against mine as he breathed hard, fighting for control. “Fuck. Dinner.”
I frowned. What is he talking about?
He groaned and started to pick me up.
“No.” I tugged at his shirt, needing that off. I wanted skin against skin.
The rest of his clothes disappeared in record time. He stroked himself once as he looked me over. The connection between us was pulsating, an actual throb I could feel in the room.
“Babe,” he whispered, his dick pressing against me, through my panties.
We paused at the contact, breathing each other in. I clung to him, my legs lifting to his hips, and he ran a hand down one of them, catching my knee and tugging me tighter against him. The barrier was still there, but it was so slight.
He could move it aside, and he’d be in there. That’s what I wanted. What he wanted.
Nothing else existed. It all faded away.
It was just him and me, and the feel of him right where I needed him.
We’d had a conversation about protection. I was very much clean since I’d been abstinent for so long, and he’d had regular check-ups, the last one being right before we’d met at the show.
My hand moved down, sliding over him, curling around his dick.
He went still, his forehead falling to my shoulder. He was trying to regain control, but no. That’s not what I wanted. I made a decision, and it felt good. It felt right. It felt powerful.
A sensual and almost lazy feeling of good spread through me as I moved, taking my panties off —then the phone rang.
We both froze, but no. No way. No one was going to interrupt this.
I clasped him tighter to me, needing him to be inside me.
The phone rang again.
