Bend - Bromberg K.. Страница 117

“Come here.”

He stalks forward, in a suit, his hands leaving his pockets as he walks, his head level, stare direct, and eats me with his eyes as he moves without hesitation, not pausing until he is suddenly against me, his hand firm, gripping the side of my face, his mouth taking mine in a possessive kiss that has me back against the wall, his palm against my skin almost hurting me in its need. I gasp for breath when I can grab it, his kiss desperate, dipping, pulling me tighter. I love it.

“I need you,” he grunts, his free hand sliding up my thigh, pushing my dress inappropriately high, his fingers gripping, squeezing, the heat of his palm sliding over my skin like he owns it, his large hand ending on my ass, and he feels every inch of it as if he is memorizing, worshiping, taking it in his mind as his own.

“Yes,” I gasp, lifting my leg and hooking it around him, the shift in my body opening the place between my legs, his fingers finding and running reverently over the line of silk that keeps me tied to the edge of sanity.

The door next to me opens, shielding us for a moment, and I freeze behind it, my body tensing. His hand drops from my face, wrapping around my body, the other hand returning to my ass, both of them working in concert and lifting, carrying me into the dark shadows where he had just stood, a new wall replacing the brick, this one rough stucco, and I feel lines of it dig into my sunburned skin as he sets me down, his mouth taking a break from the kiss and moving to my neck, the rough journey letting me know the level of his need.

Further proof is against me, his pelvis pressed tighter than possible against my own, the hard ridge of it against my sex making my breath hitch with every twitch of him along me. God, I want this man. Am made weak from his touch yet have never felt this aggressive.

Feather soft brushes against silk. Teasing. Torturing. His hand keeping my leg in place, though there is no way I’m moving it. Not when it opens me up to him. Not when it keeps that iron against the place where I want it most. My panties are so wet it is embarrassing. I pant against the night air, struggling for silence, the murmurs of the couple who have stepped outside breaking the silence of the night, the orange embers of their smokes reminding me of their presence, their attention on each other, a giggle escaping from their conversation and sending a moment of intelligent thought to my head. Am I really being humped in the shadows against the side of a building? Is this beautiful man really running the pad of his fingers back and forth, lower and higher, finding the—oh my god. My head drops back, and I can’t stop the moan that escapes me when my silk-covered clit is brushed by his fingers.

Jesus. It’s not a curse. It is a thankful message sent upward. I have been lost and now, in that light brush against my most sensitive place, I am found.

He chuckles against my neck, his fingers moving back an inch or two, until they are back at my soaked opening, pushing on the indent there, the silk moving far enough inside for me to feel the brush of skin on skin, and I just about lift off the ground in my need for more.

“Don’t stop,” I gasp.

“Honey, I’m not going stop until you fall apart in my hands. I need that. I’m not releasing you until it happens.”

He lifts his mouth off of my neck, returning to my mouth, his kisses softening as his fingers take their time, probing, fluttering over my clit, sliding a firm index down the line of my sex, making their way to my ass for a hard press, before returning and starting the insanity again. I am shaking, wanting, dying for another touch of his skin, wanting the silk tease of my panties gone, wanting the raw feel of skin on skin. Even with that need, I am not prepared when it happens, my mouth freezing against his kiss, brain function gone, motor skills impaired, every intelligent thought I ever had fleeing my body as his thumb presses against my clit and two of his fingers push inside my body.

Holy Jesus Hell.

He groans, his forehead on my own, pushing my head back against the wall. “Fuck, I wish you were open before me on a bed right now so I could see this.” The words tear from him, and the blurred vision of my senses sees the couple glance our way, a whispered discussion beginning, then ending; the club door opens.

“If we were on a bed right now, your cock would be out.” It is a difficult sentence to formulate, my hips thrusting, trying to help the push and withdrawal of his fingers, my eyes closing despite my best attempts to keep them open.

“Is that so?”

I can hear his need despite the cocky drawl of his question. I have my leg wrapped around him, can feel a tremor in his legs, can feel the stiff ridge of his cock that is anything but unaffected.

“I’m—” The word ‘close’ never makes it off my lips. It can’t, never has a chance at life, my orgasm eating it for dessert with a ravenous need that takes hold of everything else in its path. I tighten around his fingers, my body shuddering as delirium moves in needy waves, radiating from the center of my universe, which lies in the slick breath between his fingers and my everything. I don’t catch the first of his words; they disappear in my full body experience. But then later, I hear them as I fall back down to Earth, the vowels stretching out my grip on insanity, taking me to an additional plane I have never reached before.

“… beautiful creature. You feel so perfect. So open, so willing. I want to take every piece of you with my cock. Open up your world, and make you mine. Taste you on my mouth. Feel this sensation against the bare skin of my cock. God, I want you so badly. Have thought about you all day.”

His mouth stops moving, stops talking, crushes back on mine, communicating the most with its desperation, his fingers thrusting and then slowly halting their movement, and just staying in place, buried inside, my sex fuller than it has been in a long time. I drop my hand off his shoulders, let the one that has been digging lines of need into his back fall as a wave of sexual contentment moves in.

His mouth slows, and he slides my leg down, tugs my dress back down, keeping our kiss uninterrupted, his hands moving to cup both sides of my face as his legs straddle mine, my push against the wall less intense as our interaction changes to something less dirty. He breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against my own as he lets out a long breath that is half groan in its makeup. “God, Riley.”

He sounds so pained, so remorseful, that I almost check for a wedding ring, almost push against his chest to look into his eyes. But I don’t. I don’t do anything but enjoy the scent of his cologne, the view out of the bottom of my lashes, one of expensive fabric and a peek of tan skin.

“I don’t know what to do with you.” He finishes the statement with a brush over my lips, his hands lifting my face until it is turned up to him, our eyes meeting for the first moment since I lost all sense.

Damn, I could look in this man’s eyes all day. Could get lost in them, move for them, lie, steal, die for them. I stare in his eyes and fully accept that I am a woman. Vulnerable, emotional, delicate, easily overcome. I don’t know this man. Have shared less than a hundred sentences with him. Have just given him a piece of my virtue in the form of a finger fuck on a dirty Bahamian street in the dead of night.

I stare in his eyes and say nothing. Memorize the dark depths of them. The thick fringe of lashes that I’d accuse of being mascara enhanced had he not radiated masculinity from every pore on his body.

“I don’t need to ask if you do this often. Your body betrays you of the impossibility of that fact.” He speaks tightly, his hands keeping my face up, my eyes arrested by him, not that I have any plans of looking away in this lifetime. “I don’t. I can’t. This … is not normal.” His eyes drop to my lips and he bends, takes a long draw of my mouth, as if it is the last time we will ever kiss. He groans, and my shoulders are suddenly pushed back against stucco. “Fuck,” he swears. “God, I need you underneath me.” He releases me, steps away, rubs his mouth as he turns, half in the light, the shadows protecting me from the meat of his stare.