him—he gives a tug on my braid and asks, in a sinister, deep growl, “Was that too strong?”
“No.” I breathe the word more than I say it. It escapes from my lungs like a sigh of relief. “I can totally handle you.”
That intense look flashes in his eyes again, but it’s gone just as quickly, and then he’s smiling and we’re saying good-bye to the lady at the back and leaving.
And then we are suddenly back at the brightly lit hotel, in the shiny lobby with all of its sparkling chandeliers and brass accents, and I barely remember walking from the restaurant on that narrow street near the university and hustling back across the bridge.
Then we are in his room, and, well, I don’t really know how to describe what is happening, because it is fast and bewildering. As soon as the door to the room closes behind us, Rome whips off his suede jacket, and then his white button-down shirt is gone a second later. I am walking backward, not really knowing what to do with my hands. I drop my bag on the floor near the coffee table in the seating area of the suite and look around for the bed. His room is huge, much bigger than mine, and I feel disoriented. The bed must be in another room.
He kicks off his shoes and bends down to pull off first one sock and then the other, sort of hopping as he does, to keep his balance. And then he walks toward me—in nothing but those damnably perfect blue jeans—and he starts to unbutton his fly, and I whimper or make some desperate sound that throws him off, and he freezes.
“What?” I cry. “Don’t stop now!”
He closes the distance between us and starts to undress me. He pulls the rubber band from the end of my braid and rakes his eager fingers through my hair. He is touching me everywhere, helping me get my jacket off, and then my gray sweater is up and off, then I am bending over to take off my boots and kissing his hard stomach on my way down, and he’s stroking my bare back and the bumps of my spine as I stretch to get the other boot off. Then I shimmy out of my jeans, and all of a sudden I am standing there in a silvery-gray lace bra and panties and nothing else.
I feel like I’ve run a marathon, and all we’ve done is get undressed. Nearly.
“Oh, Jesus, Miki, you’re so gorgeous.” He rakes both of his hands through his hair and looks almost angry.
“You say it like it’s a problem,” I quip, but I feel all sultry and tempting when he looks at me like that, so I just go with my instincts, reach for his jeans, and finish unbuttoning his fly. Bless the man for not wearing anything underneath.
I kneel down to get his jeans off faster. And then slow. Way. Down.
Holy hell.
He steps out of his jeans, then stands perfectly still. I am on my knees and then lean back onto my heels. Pretty much stunned.
“You’re gorgeous,” I whisper.
Here’s the thing I failed to mention when I was spewing all that talk about living vicariously through my sexually ambitious friends: I love cock. I think I love going down on a guy because it’s one of the few times—maybe the only time—that I don’t think about anything else. When I am totally in the zone, my brain kind of flies off, free.
I get a little shiver just thinking about it. Well, thinking about it and having my face about six inches from the best view imaginable.
“You’re killing me,” he says, his French accent thick.
“Just let me admire it for a few seconds more,” I say, keeping my chin low but lifting my gaze slightly to see into his smoky blue-gray-yellow eyes from my perch, right where I want to be, on my knees, about to devour him.
His hand reaches around to the scruff of my neck and yanks hard, pulling my neck taut so I am forced to look up at him full in the face. I lick my lips and stare into his eyes, the tension in my neck causing a straining, laughing moan of pleasure to escape my throat.
The moment cracks like a whip between us. It’s incredibly intense, but I chalk it up to something
“No.” I breathe the word more than I say it. It escapes from my lungs like a sigh of relief. “I can totally handle you.”
That intense look flashes in his eyes again, but it’s gone just as quickly, and then he’s smiling and we’re saying good-bye to the lady at the back and leaving.
And then we are suddenly back at the brightly lit hotel, in the shiny lobby with all of its sparkling chandeliers and brass accents, and I barely remember walking from the restaurant on that narrow street near the university and hustling back across the bridge.
Then we are in his room, and, well, I don’t really know how to describe what is happening, because it is fast and bewildering. As soon as the door to the room closes behind us, Rome whips off his suede jacket, and then his white button-down shirt is gone a second later. I am walking backward, not really knowing what to do with my hands. I drop my bag on the floor near the coffee table in the seating area of the suite and look around for the bed. His room is huge, much bigger than mine, and I feel disoriented. The bed must be in another room.
He kicks off his shoes and bends down to pull off first one sock and then the other, sort of hopping as he does, to keep his balance. And then he walks toward me—in nothing but those damnably perfect blue jeans—and he starts to unbutton his fly, and I whimper or make some desperate sound that throws him off, and he freezes.
“What?” I cry. “Don’t stop now!”
He closes the distance between us and starts to undress me. He pulls the rubber band from the end of my braid and rakes his eager fingers through my hair. He is touching me everywhere, helping me get my jacket off, and then my gray sweater is up and off, then I am bending over to take off my boots and kissing his hard stomach on my way down, and he’s stroking my bare back and the bumps of my spine as I stretch to get the other boot off. Then I shimmy out of my jeans, and all of a sudden I am standing there in a silvery-gray lace bra and panties and nothing else.
I feel like I’ve run a marathon, and all we’ve done is get undressed. Nearly.
“Oh, Jesus, Miki, you’re so gorgeous.” He rakes both of his hands through his hair and looks almost angry.
“You say it like it’s a problem,” I quip, but I feel all sultry and tempting when he looks at me like that, so I just go with my instincts, reach for his jeans, and finish unbuttoning his fly. Bless the man for not wearing anything underneath.
I kneel down to get his jeans off faster. And then slow. Way. Down.
Holy hell.
He steps out of his jeans, then stands perfectly still. I am on my knees and then lean back onto my heels. Pretty much stunned.
“You’re gorgeous,” I whisper.
Here’s the thing I failed to mention when I was spewing all that talk about living vicariously through my sexually ambitious friends: I love cock. I think I love going down on a guy because it’s one of the few times—maybe the only time—that I don’t think about anything else. When I am totally in the zone, my brain kind of flies off, free.
I get a little shiver just thinking about it. Well, thinking about it and having my face about six inches from the best view imaginable.
“You’re killing me,” he says, his French accent thick.
“Just let me admire it for a few seconds more,” I say, keeping my chin low but lifting my gaze slightly to see into his smoky blue-gray-yellow eyes from my perch, right where I want to be, on my knees, about to devour him.
His hand reaches around to the scruff of my neck and yanks hard, pulling my neck taut so I am forced to look up at him full in the face. I lick my lips and stare into his eyes, the tension in my neck causing a straining, laughing moan of pleasure to escape my throat.
The moment cracks like a whip between us. It’s incredibly intense, but I chalk it up to something
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