My arms flopped to my sides under the sensual onslaught and I simply felt.
But when his lips closed over one of my nipples, I gasped again and reached for him, to feel his skin under my hands, to say something about how right it was when, with my own mouth, it was all I could do to breathe.
And his hands . . . they were moving everywhere his mouth was not, down my waist, to my hips, tugging on my underwear, until he finally moved away for the briefest moment to pull them off completely.
Then his body was back between my legs, his mouth on the planes of my abdomen, and anticipation for the inevitable goal of his methodical progress down my body had me oversensitized and trembling at every touch.
I wanted his mouth on me, and suddenly it was there, at the center of sensation, gentle and exploring. I heard myself moaning unconsciously, as if it weren’t me. He found the right rhythm, the right everything.
“Yes. There,” I said on a breath, as the swirl of sensation started rising on the path that was so familiar yet, at the same time, always new.
I was close, so close, and my whole body tensed. I fell over the peak, opening up, my hips moving, as I cried out, reaching for him.
But he made his way back up my body slowly, and every place his mouth touched made me shudder again. Too much, but not enough. I wanted him inside me. I reached for him and found he’d shed the barrier of his boxer shorts. I sighed as my hand closed around the hard length of him, learning for the first time his shape and texture.
When his lips reached my neck, he leaned over to his left, to the side table, and slid open a drawer. Then he was back, tearing the condom wrapper. He paused as I stroked him, eyes closing.
I watched his face, trying to learn what he liked best. Clearly, he enjoyed what I was doing, but he opened his eyes and moved away from me. I looked on hungrily as he rolled the condom down his penis, which was thick and straight and ridiculously gorgeous.
He leaned over me again, mouth against my ear. I parted my legs farther, urging him inward. When his hips pressed forward, I held my breath at the first touch of him against me. He slid forward easily, deliciously, stretching me, and I wrapped my legs around his hips, bringing him deeper.
He pulled out slowly, and then, just as slowly, thrust back in, and then again. And again. Each stroke teased my sensitive flesh and brought me higher and higher in that spiraling up of sensation. We both grew more desperate—hands and mouths sliding down skin, massaging, pulling, faster and faster until he wasn’t slow and gentle anymore. Until I climaxed in a rush of movement, gasping, “Oh my God.”
My body floated around his as he moved faster, seeking his pleasure. He stiffened over me, his lips drawn back, neck arched, and he cried out, too, his cry deeper, more guttural, like it had been drawn out from the deepest part of his body. He fell forward. With him heavy on my body, his lips open against my neck, I clung to him still, my legs tight, my hands stroking down the now-relaxed muscles of his back.
“I FIGURED YOU’D be good in bed, experienced,” I said, after he’d rolled to the side and my mind had gathered any sense of clarity. Either he was simply skilled at sex, or the attraction between us was like nothing I’d ever felt with anyone else. Maybe both.
“I’ll take good. As for the rest . . .” He laughed. “I suppose you’d think that, considering, but really, I haven’t had time to do much of anything the last two years, including date. I work for an American firm, which means longer American hours, but it’s higher pay and a position closer to the action.”
I didn’t understand the specifics of that.
“To the money,” he clarified. “In this field, if you’re ambitious, if you can take the stress, you want to be as close to the money as possible.”
I could have asked him to explain, and once I would have, would have wanted to understand every minute detail of the work Sebastian did. I probably would have gone home and searched “quantitative analysis” just so I could understand the jargon, could have educated conversations with him about something that so obviously was of interest. In fact, I’d done a bit of that when we’d first met, which was the only reason I had any idea what investment banks and hedge funds did, what quantitative analysis entailed.
But no more. In another few minutes, I’d slink out of this bed and back into my clothes. As much as I’d enjoyed these last hours, I’d leave this night and Sebastian behind. I had no need to fill my brain with details that didn’t matter.
What did matter? I reached out and rested a fingertip on his hip, stroked the hollow there, and then down, skimming the muscle, deliberating if I wanted another round. Good-bye sex.
“You have time for the gym,” I teased, pointing out his lean physique.
“There’s a twenty-four-hour room in the building,” he said with a slight laugh.
It wasn’t much of a deliberation. Of course, I wanted sex again. My body now knew what it was like to have his inside it, to be stretched and fitted to him, to wrap legs around hips. I wanted more. I’d accepted this one night with him as a fitting punctuation mark, a comma between my old life and my new, and I had no doubt I should make the most of it.
I closed my hand over the awakening length of his penis. I yearned to know the feel of him in my mouth, but not when he likely still tasted of sex and latex. He hardened under the movements of my hand and then shifted over me, parting my legs with his knees. His fingers eased open my flesh, searching for a readiness that was there. He paused for a new condom and then, no foreplay, no lingering touches, simply Sebastian inside me, moving, and me reveling in it.
We didn’t talk or make a sound other than the heaviness of our breaths. I arched against him, searching for the friction that I craved. He stopped, pulled out, and rolled onto his back, bringing me with him.
We still didn’t speak as I lowered myself on him, enjoying that sharp sensation anew from this different angle, and then his fingers were on me, touching me as we moved, manipulating me perfectly.
I would never have imagined I’d be here, Sebastian inside me, after everything that had happened. I’d told myself I was done with sleeping around and trying to prove to myself that I was worldly and unafraid. But apparently this, this finale, was what I needed to set my life back on track. Except there would be no finale if I kept thinking.
I focused on Sebastian instead, on the texture of his skin under my fingertips, on the smooth thrusting, the sounds of growing pleasure, the echo of that inside my body. He leaned up, mouth closing over one of my nipples, and I gasped. Electric. Sharp.
Chapter Three
DARKNESS. WARMTH OF covers and lingering dreams that I didn’t want to leave. But something niggled at me, a sense that I had to be awake, that I had things to do. I stretched my body in luxurious denial. And hit a leg. A warm, hairy . . .
Sebastian.
The previous night came back to me in a rush. I was wide-awake with no idea what time it was. With the window shades tightly drawn, I could only tell that there was a hint of light beyond, filtering through. Had I slept away one of my few precious days here in England? Disgust prompted me out of the bed despite the niggling desire to see if what had been so amazing at night, after several drinks, was equally powerful in the sober day.
I searched in the dim light for my clothes. Found my jeans. I was fairly certain my sweater, tank, and bra would be in the living room. What I couldn’t find was my underwear. I needed more light. Instead, I stole from the room and went to the bathroom to put myself in some semblance of order.
In the bright light of the bathroom, I stared at myself in the mirror. I looked . . . not just bed rumpled from the night, brown hair hopelessly tangled, but fucked. No, not just fucked . . . since I’d had more than my fair share of sexual encounters over the last two years, but satisfied, my nude body a bit lusher than the day before.
Yeah. Sebastian Graham rocked in bed. Moist heat gathered between my legs at the mere thought.
Twelve days, I reminded myself. I could fantasize abou
t the sex tonight in my own bed. Not that the thin walls of the flat were conducive to masturbation (I could always hear my flatmates when they had girls over). But I didn’t need to waste time.
I also didn’t need to pass up the chance to shower in an immaculate and spacious bathroom. He had a stack of what I assumed were clean towels inside a cabinet in the corner, so I pulled one out. I wasn’t the sort to root around in a guy’s home in order to know more about him—I completely believe in privacy—but co-opting items to clean up the morning after? Totally fair game.
I helped myself to his toiletries: shampoo, conditioner, a rather nice facial cleaner, some toothpaste on my finger. My hair creamy with conditioner, I stood in the bathtub and let the hot water flow over my body. It felt so good.
Normally, the morning after a one-night stand—and by then, I’d had my fair share—I would have run away as fast as possible, and not because of the guilt over wasting my precious work time. No, what had made me flee was having to look at myself, was knowing that I was deliberately making myself into Sebastian and Tanya, people for whom casual sex was preferred over any sort of real relationship. Not that I’d realized it on those mornings with any conscious thought. Rather, it had been months later, when I’d struggled to put my life back on track, that I’d psychoanalyzed myself, realized I’d been reshaping myself in the image of someone who had hurt me, as if that could protect me against further hurt.
But today I didn’t feel guilty about the sex. Which unsettled me even more.
Through the glass shower doors, I saw him watching me. He was naked and completely, unmistakably turned on. He offered me a crooked little smile and reached for the handle of the door.
“I thought for a moment you’d left. Then I found your underwear by the bed and heard the shower,” he said. “Mind if I join you?” He actually waited for an answer, letting the cooler air from outside the shower breeze in.
“It’s getting late, isn’t it?”
“Just after eight.” Not nearly as late as I’d feared. “Late for a workday, but it’s Sunday.”
Still a workday for me, but maybe I could spare fifteen extra minutes. Especially as the archives weren’t open today. Or tomorrow.
I lifted my chin in invitation. An instant later, the shower wasn’t nearly as spacious as it had felt. He reached for me, pulled me wet and soapy against his body. His erection was hot and firm against my stomach.
“Turn around,” he suggested. I turned obediently, as if the only thing that mattered was this moment here with him in the shower, two naked beings fairly buzzing with attraction. I closed my eyes against the spray of the shower as his hands spread through my still-conditioner-lathered hair. His expertise appeared to extend to scalp massages as well.
We washed each other’s bodies slowly, lingeringly. Then he bent his head, his lips opening mine with his own in a melting kiss. Water dripped from his hair onto my forehead as the showerhead sprayed against my backside. I leaned into him, hungry for his taste. While his hand played between my legs, his fingers sliding shallowly across the groove of my sex, I grasped him in my hand, studying the thickness, the length, the shape under my palm.
I slid down his body until I was on my knees in the tub in front of him, until his erect penis was perfectly in line with my lips. I took him again in my hand and pressed my lips softly to his skin. He sucked in a breath. The sound empowered me.
I licked the head greedily, loving the soft, velvety feel of him under my tongue, the ridge where the head of his cock met the shaft. I sucked him into my mouth, tongue swirling, enjoying the salty taste of his precum and the fullness of him inside my mouth, which sent a fresh surge of heat through my body. Sensation gathered in my nipples, between my legs.
My lips were on sensory overload, everything centered there. I relaxed my mouth a bit to slide over him, take him deeper, start the slow, regular rhythm that echoed sex. I clutched his buttocks in my hands and savored his groan as I took him in completely for just a moment before retreat. He had a beautiful, delicious cock.
I picked up my pace. I was past my own desire. All I wanted was to give him pleasure, to bring him to orgasm inside my mouth, to feel the triumph of taking him in that way, of swallowing a part of him. His hands threaded through my hair, clutching at my scalp, and I reveled in the feel of his restrained strength. Some wild part of me wanted him to take over, hold me tight and use me, but his firm touch was gentle, letting me have control.
I lost any sense of time in the motion, in the focus on tensing my lips just the right amount around him, on doing everything I could to please him. I slid one hand between his legs and stroked the warm sacs there, finding the places that seemed most sensitive.
He jerked against me, his grip tightening as he clutched me to him, emptying himself in my mouth, down my throat. I savored his strength, savored that moment of feeling powerless against his pleasure.
I slid back slightly, swallowing, before moving forward again and sucking his now-softer length inside. I licked him slowly, loving the tremors of his body, until he pulled me up.
He kissed me hot and openmouthed, and my lips were slack against his but ready for the onslaught. As he ravished my mouth, his hands roamed down over my body, lifting my breasts, then one hand lower, fingers thrusting almost roughly into me. I gasped, spreading my legs wider.
“That’s it,” he urged softly against my mouth. “Open up for me.”
Open for him. I’d take all of him, everything he had. I wanted him to fuck me and fill me up, but there was no way he’d be ready for that again so soon.
I barely registered the squeak of the plumbing as he turned off the shower, but I did feel the sudden breeze of air breaking through the steam. Then his hot mouth moving down my body, to my neck, my clavicle, my breasts. As he came lower, the thrusts of his fingers grew shallower, teasing me, until he was kneeling in front of me, thumbs spreading me open before him, stroking.
I was shivering uncontrollably, from his touch, from the chill, from the anticipation of knowing in just a moment more—
His mouth closed on me, hot and perfect. I could have died then and there from the exquisite pleasure of that touch. He knew how to use his lips and his tongue. He knew what to do to me. Then his fingers were back, three of them filling me where I was wet and hungry. I clutched at his shoulders, my knees weak.
I looked down at him, at his head buried in the junction of my legs, mouth on my sex. Sebastian.
The sensation kept rising, rising, until I bucked against him, waves overtaking me. I shook in his arms as explosions rocked through my body, and inside I pulsed around his fingers. Still, he sucked on me, his tongue lapping at my inner folds, lingeringly, soothingly.
Finally, he lifted his head away, and I slid down. He pulled me to him, until we were both lying in the tub, side by side, legs entangled.
I shuddered again with a final release and was still, head against his chest.
“I need to work,” I said after a long silence, although my body felt boneless and I didn’t want to move. But it was important to get going. I’d indulged a little bit more, but this was, for all intents and purposes, a one-night stand. Lingering had no purpose.
“Mmm.” He lifted his hand to my breast and ran a finger around the nipple. Even sated as I was, I wanted more of that touch. “Can you work from here?” he asked, as if there were no question that his plan, so boldly stated, would be undertaken. “There’s a great cafe down the street for breakfast, then maybe,”—he pulled on my nipple gently—“I can convince you to take a midafternoon break.”
Inwardly, I froze. Was he expecting that this would go on? That I’d spend more precious minutes of my research trip having sex with him? Having dinners and breakfasts and . . .
That might have sounded good to me in the past, but now I was far more realistic. I understood what this was between us and I knew my priorities.
“Listen, Seb,” I said, closing my legs finally and sitting up. “This was fun, but I don�
��t really have time for a repeat performance.”
He closed his eyes. I wondered for a moment at the thoughts hidden behind his still features. Then those pale blue eyes focused on me, and he smirked. “Yes, it was fun, and as much as I would love a repeat, and very much regret that we didn’t run into each other a few months ago, I have something else I want to talk about.”
I was curious what he wanted to discuss if not sex. After all, pretty much the entirety of our relationship, at least the part that had any lasting relevance, revolved around sex in some way. Him propositioning me or me propositioning him.
“I was wondering, actually, if you’d be willing to help me with some of my research. I’ve never undertaken anything of the like, and I rather suspect you’d have a bit more success than I. I’ve come up against some dead ends.”
“Your genealogy research?” I prodded, looking at him skeptically. Not that I was actually considering it. With less than two weeks left to conduct my own research, I could hardly take on another project. Especially a project that would require me to be in continual contact with Sebastian. All I’d ever think about would be sex, which was already at the forefront of my mind, lying here naked, wanting him again.
He reached out and stroked the hair between my legs with the back of his hand, as if it were natural that he would touch me so familiarly, in the middle of a conversation that was supposedly not about sex. He tugged lightly on the hair, and I had to force myself not to close my eyes and give in.
I didn’t make him move his hand.
“It involves genealogy,” he amended. “It’s a bit more complicated than that. I’m trying to hunt down the history of a private club to which my grandfather belonged.”
Brooks’s, White’s, Boodle’s—names of old, established gentleman’s clubs instantly filled my mind. But the history of most of those was well documented, so that was unlikely. Maybe it was something closer to the Lunar Society, the group of late-eighteenth-century intellectuals who had met on the full moon of every month to exchange information about their research. Something casual, only mentioned in letters and journal entries.
Private Research: An Erotic Novella Page 3
