satiated, then pay for it afterward. “And you want to.”
“Because I want
you
.”
He said it like it meant something. Her face must have changed, because he turned north and held out his elbow. She slid her hand into the crook and set off beside him. They walked slowly up West Broadway, through Washington Square Park.
“I went to school here,” he offered in the park.
“As did I.”
“I had my ten-year reunion last year. You?”
“Six.”
“You’re making your mark on the world for six years out of college.”
She shrugged. “One keeps busy,” she said.
They stopped in the shadowy space between lights on the path. He slid his palms along her jaw, such an old-fashioned gesture, then bent his head and kissed her, almost tentatively at first until his lips urged hers to part and admit his tongue. Then heat flared between them. Tilda found herself gripping his belt, felt the shift of muscle and bone under her palm. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him.
“It’s as bad as I remember,” he breathed.
She drew in a shuddering breath, then captured his mouth for one last kiss. His arm slid around her shoulders as they set off again, turning west along Waverly Place to Perry Street. In the dark doorway to a thrift shop he backed her into the wall and ground against her, hiking her skirt up to get his hand to the curve of her bottom. His fingertips found lace and silk, then he pushed forward, hips tipping and sliding against hers in a delicious parody of sex. He broke off the kiss to bury his face in the curve of her neck and groan.
“I would take you right here,” he said.
His old-fashioned language charmed her, and she doubted that swearing was a vice he often permitted himself. “I’d let you. I’d let you have me right here.” It wouldn’t be the first time she’d picked shards of brick from the skin of her back. Sometimes the pain made the pleasure that much more exquisite.
One arm braced beside her head, he drew back to look at her. “Is there anything you won’t let me do?”
“Do I seem like I have boundaries?” she countered.
“Everyone has boundaries,” he said. Her eyes were adjusting to the darkness in the doorway. She saw pale flashes of blue as he searched her face. She could have told him it was pointless, but she didn’t. Instead she turned her wrist and slid her palm over his erection straining against his jeans.
His eyes closed as he ground against her palm. His teeth caught her lower lip. She delicately licked his upper lip, rubbing his balls with the tips of her fingers in time to the strokes. He groaned, the sound low, tight, helpless, and released her lip.
“This is going to be so good.”
This time his hand rested on her waist as they crossed Bleecker and transitioned into the angled, tree-lined streets of the West Village. When they had to stop for a short line of traffic, he pulled her close and kissed her like no one was watching. One hand on her jaw, the other wrapped all the way around the small of her back while his tongue rubbed against hers. She hooked her elbow behind his neck and pressed in close, luxuriating in the heat coursing through her body, in the sheer abandon of kissing someone who loved to kiss.
He stood at her back, hot and breathing deeply while she fumbled with her keys, then dropped them entirely when he palmed the back of her head, tipped it forward, and set his teeth to her nape. “Let me . . . let me open the door,” she half chided, half laughed.
He crouched, picked up her keys, unerringly jammed the right one in the lock, and opened one half of the narrow double door. She stepped inside, and he slammed her up against the wall.
“Third floor . . . two flights of stairs . . . that’s a long way.” His voice was like the purr of the big cat, coming from his chest as much as from his throat.
She shoved his jacket to the floor. “The wall?”
“No,” he said, and dragged her halfway up the first flight of stairs. She
“Because I want
you
.”
He said it like it meant something. Her face must have changed, because he turned north and held out his elbow. She slid her hand into the crook and set off beside him. They walked slowly up West Broadway, through Washington Square Park.
“I went to school here,” he offered in the park.
“As did I.”
“I had my ten-year reunion last year. You?”
“Six.”
“You’re making your mark on the world for six years out of college.”
She shrugged. “One keeps busy,” she said.
They stopped in the shadowy space between lights on the path. He slid his palms along her jaw, such an old-fashioned gesture, then bent his head and kissed her, almost tentatively at first until his lips urged hers to part and admit his tongue. Then heat flared between them. Tilda found herself gripping his belt, felt the shift of muscle and bone under her palm. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him.
“It’s as bad as I remember,” he breathed.
She drew in a shuddering breath, then captured his mouth for one last kiss. His arm slid around her shoulders as they set off again, turning west along Waverly Place to Perry Street. In the dark doorway to a thrift shop he backed her into the wall and ground against her, hiking her skirt up to get his hand to the curve of her bottom. His fingertips found lace and silk, then he pushed forward, hips tipping and sliding against hers in a delicious parody of sex. He broke off the kiss to bury his face in the curve of her neck and groan.
“I would take you right here,” he said.
His old-fashioned language charmed her, and she doubted that swearing was a vice he often permitted himself. “I’d let you. I’d let you have me right here.” It wouldn’t be the first time she’d picked shards of brick from the skin of her back. Sometimes the pain made the pleasure that much more exquisite.
One arm braced beside her head, he drew back to look at her. “Is there anything you won’t let me do?”
“Do I seem like I have boundaries?” she countered.
“Everyone has boundaries,” he said. Her eyes were adjusting to the darkness in the doorway. She saw pale flashes of blue as he searched her face. She could have told him it was pointless, but she didn’t. Instead she turned her wrist and slid her palm over his erection straining against his jeans.
His eyes closed as he ground against her palm. His teeth caught her lower lip. She delicately licked his upper lip, rubbing his balls with the tips of her fingers in time to the strokes. He groaned, the sound low, tight, helpless, and released her lip.
“This is going to be so good.”
This time his hand rested on her waist as they crossed Bleecker and transitioned into the angled, tree-lined streets of the West Village. When they had to stop for a short line of traffic, he pulled her close and kissed her like no one was watching. One hand on her jaw, the other wrapped all the way around the small of her back while his tongue rubbed against hers. She hooked her elbow behind his neck and pressed in close, luxuriating in the heat coursing through her body, in the sheer abandon of kissing someone who loved to kiss.
He stood at her back, hot and breathing deeply while she fumbled with her keys, then dropped them entirely when he palmed the back of her head, tipped it forward, and set his teeth to her nape. “Let me . . . let me open the door,” she half chided, half laughed.
He crouched, picked up her keys, unerringly jammed the right one in the lock, and opened one half of the narrow double door. She stepped inside, and he slammed her up against the wall.
“Third floor . . . two flights of stairs . . . that’s a long way.” His voice was like the purr of the big cat, coming from his chest as much as from his throat.
She shoved his jacket to the floor. “The wall?”
“No,” he said, and dragged her halfway up the first flight of stairs. She
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