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She asked me for this in Vegas. Told me she wanted it. But it was the champagne and bitter heartbreak talking that night.
Now? She’s not coming off a breakup. She’s not drunk.
She’s beautiful.
She’s— fuck, she’s working my belt open with quick, sure fingers.
I let her at my fly then cover her hip with my hand so my thumb anchors over that sexy bone in front, my palm cups the womanly curve of her, and my fingers flex against the swell of her ass.
Pulling her in to me, I kiss her to the sound of my belt hitting the floor. I lick into her open mouth, teasing first and thentakingas I slide that shirt down, down, down, then bring my hands back up in a greedy caress of her belly, ribs, and breasts… teasing her tight nipples with my thumbs.
She moans around my tongue, her hips starting to move against me.
“Fuck, you taste good.” I’m losing my mind over her. “Want to taste you everywhere.”
Another shaky moan and her hands fumble against my chest, climbing higher until they reach my hair.
Tugging. Pulling. Holding me to her as I kiss her harder.
“Turn around, beautiful.”
She does what I ask, her chin trailing behind as she watches me over her shoulder.
I’m no stranger to laces, but never in my life have I had a woman tied in such a delicate binding. Two shimmering strands cross her otherwise bare back and tie in a bow in the middle, and another set of impossibly small knots beneath her arms where the front of her dress is secured, now on just the one side, to the back.
Running my thumbs over the smooth skin of her shoulders, I let them trail down her arms and then catch her wrists in my hands.
“Up.” I guide them to the wall in front of her and press a kiss to each bare shoulder.
Carefully, I untie the left side and then run my knuckles over the stretch of bare, sensitive skin. She’s soft beyond imagination. A gift, even though she’s not one I get to keep.
I skim my nose along her shoulders and, bracing one hand beside hers at the wall, ghost the other down the front of her body until I reach the bottom of her dress. Slipping beneath, I find a sodden scrap of silk between her legs, cut as spare as the dress paired with it.
“So fucking wet.”
I rock my hips into her, petting that damp heat until I feel her quake.
“God, Liam,” she gasps, her hips pushing back while her hands remain at the wall. “Please.”
“Need to see you, gorgeous.”
I pull back and undo the last tie, letting the dress drift to the floor.
She turns, and the sight of her in those fuck-me heels and scant panties is it.
In the next breath, Stormy lets out a shocked squeak as I throw her over my shoulder like a damn caveman.
I cart her to the bed and flip her forward.
She lands with her legs spread, just enough for me to see where the silk has darkened with her wetness.
I groan, running a hand over my straining cock. Because there is nothing as hot as seeing the evidence of this woman’s desire. For me.
How is this real?
But then I don’t care how. All I care about is getting what I need. And I need to make her come.
Catching her slim ankles, I tug her toward me and lean into heaven, drawing in the scent of her want.
