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He undid the buckle on his jeans, the button, the zipper, and exposed his desire to her.
She looked up at him, her eyes widened, innocent and hungry.
And he felt like he’d been sucker punched with need.
He wrapped his hand around his hardened length and stroked himself with his thumb.
He watched her let out a long, slow breath, a shiver going through her.
She moved to the edge of the bed and wrapped her hand around him, leaning forward, stroking him with her tongue.
He watched her face, watched her expression, wonder, desire, need, reflective of his own all right there as she took him into her mouth.
He pushed his hand into her hair and held her there, as she tormented him with an expert stroke of her tongue, with the force of her need.
It didn’t need to be skilled. It just needed to be her.
It was her turn to take him to the edge. He was the one now who wasn’t coherent. He was the one who was lost.
“Quinn,” he said, ragged, trying to hold back his climax.
He lifted her away from him and set her back on the bed, put his hand between her thighs and began to stroke her with his thumb. She whimpered, moving her hips in tempo with his touch, and he teased the entrance to her body, denying her penetration even as she begged for it with her questing hips.
He brought her to the edge again and again, until he had lost all sense of time. Until he had lost all sense of everything but how soft and slick she was. How rosy her lips were, desire making her cheeks red and spreading that flush all over her body.
Her hands roamed over his body, his chest, his shoulders. And finally, he reached into the bedside drawer for a condom.
For the first time in his life, he was almost sorry to put one on. Almost sorry that he was unable to stop himself from taking things to the next level, because he could’ve reveled in this, in the touching, the teasing, for an hour or so more.
If he had just a little more willpower. But he didn’t. He would finish mourning it later, because for now he just needed to be inside her.
He moved his hand back around under her ass and lifted her off the mattress, positioning himself at the entrance of her body and pushing inside in one smooth stroke.
And that was when she shattered. She cried out her orgasm, digging her fingernails into his forearms, the climax rolling on and on, and he began to move, not even letting her catch her breath, not letting her come down from the heights before he started to chase his own.
Her whimpers, his name on her lips, created a rhythm that he kept until he lost control. Until his climax roared up inside him, desire that he couldn’t deny. And when he found his own release, she found hers again, crying out his name and shuddering and shaking beneath him. Then he collapsed beside her, sweat-slicked and spent.
“I really didn’t intend to do that,” he said.
A delicate hand came to rest on his cheek and he closed his eyes.
“What is it you intended to do?”
“Go to work,” he said.
“Sex is a lot more fun than work,” she said.
He rolled over onto his back and scooped her up, bringing her over to rest on his chest. “Yeah. It is. But I can’t say that I’ve ever shirked work for sex before.”
“Well,” she said. “It’s fun. You should do it more often.”
“Apparently I should.”
“I didn’t tell anyone,” she said softly.
“I don’t care if you do.”
And then he realized she might be ashamed of him. But he dismissed that. He wasn’t going to assume the worst of her. He’d done that too many times. To protect himself.
