I move my hand off Genevieve’s mouth and trail a single finger over her chin, down the slope of her neck. Her pulse trips as my touch grazes across her skin. In response, she arches her neck, swallows, then runs her tongue over her bottom lip, and maybe this is how bad people convince themselves they’re not doing anything wrong, but I’m as sure as the hard-on below my belt that she wants this.
Whatever this is. Whatever it’s turning into.
Right now I’m just…exploring. Going by instinct. Figuring out what she will and won’t let me get away with.
Watching carefully for any sign of rejection, I continue the pathway down her body. She leans into my palm as I slide over the curve of her breast, and it’s tempting to stop and spend some time here.
But I’m still a little pissed at her.
I feasted on her tits the last time we were together, and she compared my moves to bad pizza. Like hell she’s getting that kind of attention this time.
Instead, I capture the bud of her stiff nipple between my thumb and forefinger and pinch.
Her mouth drops open in a silent gasp. Not the kind of gasp that says, No or Stop. The kind of gasp that says, More.
If I had any doubt, it’s erased when a single whisper of a word spills from her lips. “Please.”
Permission granted. Score!
Without further hesitation, my hand slides under the waistband of her pants and inside the silky material of her panties. She’s soaked.
Jesus, I thought I couldn’t get any harder. I was so goddamn wrong. I’m tempted to pull out my cock and make her play with it. I’m eager for her hands to wrap around the length of my shaft, dying for her to tug and stroke—
But there’s not enough room in here to do it the way I’d like her to, the way I need it—with her mouth on me. She’d be on her knees, and I wouldn’t be able to see her face. The slats in the door don’t go that far down. When she sucks me, I’m going to need to watch every detail.
Notice I said when, not if. Considering the current turn of events—i.e., my fingers fondling her pussy—I’m optimistic that a blowjob could be brought to the table for negotiation.
Not right now. Later.
Right now, I’m much more wrapped up in what else I can do to her. Wrapped up in what it will feel like when I do it.
She spreads her legs, granting me better access. It’s a total green light. I quit my hesitating and press the pad of my thumb to her clit. She’s so swollen—I can imagine how sensitive it must be. How hard it must be not to cry out as I touch her.
Suddenly I’m greedy to have her do just that. Never mind that we’re trying not to get caught. That fact just makes me all the more intent.
I rub against her again, increasing my pressure ever so slightly. When her eyes glaze and she bites her lip, I double my efforts, stretching my hand so that I can slide a finger inside her without breaking the contact I have with her nub.
This does the trick. She lets out the softest whimper, barely audible, but it’s enough.
With my free hand, I press her mouth into the curve of my shoulder and whisper gruffly into her ear. “If you make another sound, I’ll stop.”
She quiets instantly.
It’s fucking hot how quickly she responds. She believes me. Believes that I will stop and is desperate not to let that happen.
She’s such a good, good girl.
But now I have to torture her even more because she’s so trusting. Curving my finger, I stroke in and out of her, rubbing against her velvety walls, all the while massaging her clit. Her breath hitches. Her wetness thickens and her hips buck into my hand. Still I keep on, caressing and coaxing until she’s sweating and squirming and nipping at the fabric of my jacket.
She’s nearly there. Another nudge against her sweet spot, and I’m sure she’ll climax. I can’t decide if it’s crueler to pull away now or force her to try to come silently.
She wasn’t quiet at all that night in her hotel. I’m not sure she can even do it. I should slowly ease out of her and finish her off when our main priority is not to remain unnoticed. That would be the nice guy move.
But I don’t want to be the nice guy. Not anymore.
Wrapping her hair in my fist, I yank her head up so I can see her eyes. Then, sinking my fingers deeper inside her, I hit her where she wants it—where she needs it—and send her over the edge.
“Shh,” I mouth in warning as her face crumples into the most beautifully tormented expression I’ve ever seen. She trembles against me, her entire body shuddering with the wave of her release. It’s awesome. Not awesome like the word that’s thrown around in everyday generic vocabulary but in the true definition. Awe-some. As in, inspiring awe. As in, damn, I’m awed.
Distracted as I am watching her, I keep up the job. I’m merciless, even, stroking and coaxing her until she’s completely drained, until she’s given me every last drop of her orgasm. Until she’s limp in my arms, her breathing ragged, her skin glowing with a fine sheen of sweat. She’s spent.
And me?
Shit, I’m only getting started.
5
Genevieve clings to me, even after she can stand on her own. She keeps her gaze averted, but I can’t stop staring, can’t stop taking in every single observable detail in the thin streams of sunlight. Her mascara is slightly smudged, her hair tousled, her breathing shallow.
And she suddenly seems so slight and small.
When I first noticed her at the gala, I was drawn to her strength and confident detachment. In this moment, her beauty is in how she’s fallen, how she’s folded into my arms, how her fingers dig into the sleeve of my jacket, like it’s a lifeline. She’s not a fragile woman in the least, but there’s a delicacy about her right now. An elegance that she likes to keep private. I wonder how many people she’s let see her like this.