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I push him again, and the resistance falters. I fall against him, pressing him into the shelves, pressing my mouth to his, tasting him for the first time.
And we kiss.
***
Salty, warm with a hint of oak-matured whiskey, he opens up when I lick at his lips and his tongue fights with mine for dominance. His hands grab my shoulders, bruising, and I pin him against rows of books and knick-knacks, knocking a few off. They crash to the floor.
I barely notice.
He gives as good as he gets, kissing me back with tongue and lips and teeth and an urgency that mirrors my own.
At some point, he pushes on my shoulders, gasping, and belatedly I remember his back. Steering him away from the shelves, still kissing, I walk him backward to the sofa and wrapping an arm around him, lay him down.
We break apart as he settles on the cushions. Those pretty, long-lashed eyes are wide, his mouth reddened, his chest rising and falling with each harsh breath. I reach for the knot in the towel, and he licks his lips as I undo it, letting the terry cloth fall open.
Fuck, his cock is big. Hard. Beautiful. It juts upward, not forward like mine, and a piercing glints under the flushed head—a silver bar.
I touch the metal, and he shivers, his stomach clenching into a mouthwatering six-pack. His cock hardens more, lifts off, pushing into my hand.
Grinning ferally, I oblige. I stop toying with the piercing and wrap my hand around his thick length, giving it a hard tug.
He hisses a curse, his hips lifting. He’s magnificent, his body all harsh lines and flat planes, thick muscle and pale skin. I brush a hand over his chest, and his small nipples bunch up into tiny hard points. His tattoo shifts as he lifts his arms to put them around my neck, and I realize it trails down his side.
Why a constellation? Does it have any meani
ng for him? He doesn’t strike me like a man who’d ink himself out of vanity…
But then he’s kissing me hungrily, his cock thrusting against my fabric-clad one, and I lose my train of thought.
I don’t think as we rock against each other, kissing and biting and rutting like animals. At some point I reach between us for my zipper, and he beats me to it, shoving my pants down my hips and pulling out my dick.
He pulls my head back down, eating at my mouth as we rock together, dick against dick, a hot, silky slide of hard flesh on hard flesh, and it feels so damn good I can’t stop, can’t slow down, racing toward the finish line.
He comes first, ripping his mouth from mine to moan long and loud, his cum shooting between our bodies, painting his chest—and my sweater.
Not that I care about that right now.
I grunt as I rock faster, my dick sliding in the slick between our bodies, one, two, three exquisite thrusts before I spill, too, my mouth open on a choked cry.
God. Oh God.
Fuck.
I brace myself with trembling arms over him, riding the waves of pleasure, my lungs seizing with the force of it.
Then my heart does this weird thing it does sometimes, skipping a beat, then doing a triple, sending a ripple of ice through me. Pain hits my chest, cutting off my breath. I press my hand to my ribs, as if that will fix it.
Calm down, I tell myself. It’s nothing. You’re okay.
Riddick is gazing up at me, a question in his eyes. I wait.
Another skipped beat. Another triple pulse.
And another.
Another spike of pain.
Hauling myself up, I stuff my limp dick back into my pants. “I have to go.”
