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Koen slides the pocket door shut behind him and steps toward me.
“What are you doing?”
“Did you miss me?”
With a nervous laugh, I avert my gaze. “Stop.”
“Because I missed you.” He takes a step closer.
I have nowhere to go with a full-length mirror at my back.
“Lift your sweater again.” He wets his lips.
Again, I return a shaky chuckle. “Your family is downstairs. You’re teasing me. That’s not nice.”
“Why would I tease you? If I’m teasing you, then I’m torturing myself. Want me to make you come?”
“Stop. It.” I press my lips together to keep from grinning.
“Lift your sweater.”
He could lift it, pull it over my head … rip it off my body if he wanted. But this is a game.
Do I want to play this game? Is this the time to play games?
Of course not.
But the way he says, “Lift your sweater,” in a deep voice, has the same effect as “Spread your legs.”
Sometimes, living in the moment isn’t the responsible decision. Now is an example of that. Yet, Ireallylove to seize the moment.
I pull my sweater up past my breasts.
Koen palms both breasts, keeping his eyes on me while he ducks his head to flick my nipple with his tongue and suck it.
I hiss, feeling a jolt of pleasure shoot between my legs.
He does this over and over, gazing at me the whole time. I begin to squirm, hands in his hair, heart racing.
His fingers work the button to my jeans and slide down the zipper. “Fuck me …” He moans and drops to his knees as he discovers my lack of underwear.
When my jeans hit my ankles, I step out of them. “Koen!” I yell while his mouth dives, eager and hungry, between my legs.
While my knees fight to keep from buckling, I wrestle with my sweater to shrug it off. Koen unfastens his jeans and strokes himself several times before standing and discarding his shirt.
With his jeans and briefs barely past his butt, he lifts me and presses my back to the wardrobe door. I bite his shoulder and pinch my eyes shut to keep from making any more noise while he relentlessly pumps into me.
Embarrassment awaits us downstairs when we’re done, but I don’t care because I’m too busy reveling in the moment. I’ve missed him andthisso much. There’s nothing better than being so horny that your mind loses all ability to make rational decisions. Wanting (needing) this orgasm trumpseverything.
“I love … you … Scottie Rucker. So … fucking … much.”
I open my eyes and press my hands to his cheeks so he looks at me. But he doesn’t stop moving, and my need to orgasm doesn’t lose momentum.
I grin.
He grins.
We release, kissing hard to mute the moans until he drops his head to my shoulder, breathless.
