by Tessa Blake
And that I’ll stay the course, no matter what.
Brigitte opens her arms to welcome me as I cover her body with mine. Finally—finally!—I get to touch her like I’ve been imagining. Her skin is like silk against the rough palms of my hands. Everywhere I touch is soft and warm and yielding. She’s wearing nothing other than that tiny triangle of underwear, but that can wait a while. There’s so much else to explore.
The soft noise she makes when I take her mouth again is a bit like the one she made at dinner. I’m hard as a rock for her.
Her breath catches as I skim my mouth down the side of her neck, across her shoulder. I nip at her collarbone, and her breath catches again, so I do it again. Her fingers tighten on my back when I pull first one hard, pink nipple, then the other, between my lips.
She says my name, her voice breathy and throaty at the same time. I smile against the curve of her breast and shift, moving my mouth down across the warm flesh of her stomach until it brushes across that last piece of fabric. She’s hot underneath, and I can smell her, but I keep going, trailing my lips down the inside of her thigh, exploring the sensitive skin behind her knee.
She squirms, says my name again. I turn my attention to the other knee, the other thigh, moving my mouth inexorably back up toward the apex of her thighs. Her legs spread wide; the fabric of her panties is pulled taut across the mound underneath, and I fasten my mouth over it, underwear and all.
Her hands fist in the sheets next to her hips as I lave my tongue over her, soaking the fabric. I can feel every bit of her against my tongue. I can taste her. I want more.
I lift my head and tug at the thin red straps at her hips; she tilts her ass up so I can slip the panties off.
I drop them on top of her clothes and look up at her. She’s propped up on her elbows, and those unbelievable eyes are steady on mine. Without breaking that gaze, I lean forward and stroke my tongue through her heat.
A groan tears out of her; her head falls back. I cup her ass, tilt her hips, and use my thumbs to spread her open before me.
And feast.
6
Brigitte
Oh, God.
I can’t seem to breathe properly, or form a coherent thought. All I can do is feel.
Between my legs, Miles uses his mouth on me mercilessly. It’s too much. I reach down, thinking vaguely of pushing him away for a moment, catching my breath. Something.
But he bats my hands away and drives me higher, then higher still, his tongue busily flicking, stroking, flicking again. He clamps his mouth over me and sucks, hard; my body flashes hot, like a fever.
My legs are shaking. So are my hands. Everything he does is a huge shock of pleasure, and they just keep coming at me until I feel like I’m going to fly apart from it.
I have to look. I have to see.
I lift my head back up even though it feels as heavy as granite. Miles looks up at me—his mouth glistening, his tongue flicking—and the sight undoes me. My arms start to shake, and I collapse back on the bed, unable to hold myself up on my elbows anymore.
The orgasm punches through me like a fist, exquisitely close to painful. It forces all the breath out of my lungs, leaving me gasping and feeling like I might faint.
There’s a soft keening noise, and I realize with a detached sort of wonder that it’s coming from me.
I’m making that noise. Miles pulled that noise out of me.
The bed moves as he shifts, and I force my eyes open. He settles back on his heels, still holding my thighs open with his hands, his gaze transfixed.
His breath whistles out of him. “I can see you coming,” he says. He cups me with one hand, and the rhythm of my orgasm, slowing now, pulses against his palm.
I still can’t breathe. I still feel like I’m going to faint. I reach down and lay my hand over his. “That was too much,” I say. “That was too much for me.”
“It can’t be.”
I blink at him, confused. “I don’t understand.”
“It can’t be too much,” he says, “because I’m not done yet.”
Oh, God, I think again.
His hands leave me, tug at his belt buckle. In a matter of moments, he’s naked. He could be a statue; he’s that physically perfect. Wide shoulders, perfect six-pack abs. His legs are lean but solidly muscled, his waist trim. His cock juts proudly between us. I know I just said it was all too much, but I was wrong. It wasn’t enough.
I reach up for him, and he lowers his body to mine. Our mouths meet; I can taste myself on his tongue. He’s hard against my inner thigh.
I whisper my need against his mouth. “Please. Now.”
He groans, and I feel his weight press down on me, but he keeps his hips angled away. “Christ, Brigitte.” He sucks in an unsteady breath. “I have to get my wallet. Hang on.”
It’s an excellent measure of how aroused I am right now that not even realizing I forgot to think about protection can cool me off.
I reach out and open the drawer of the nightstand. “Take your pick,” I say. “But please make it fast.”
He does indeed make it fast. A few economical movements, and then I feel his weight again. This time, there’s no hesitation, no uncertainty. He presses my thighs open and I watch him as he watches himself slowly enter me. His eyes are fixed on the sight, and it’s not until he’s fully seated in me that he looks up, holds my gaze in his. Inside me, he feels enormous.
This feels enormous.
I have one moment to realize that I might be in actual serious trouble here, and then he begins to move.
I’m 28 years old, with a healthy sexual appetite. I’ve slept with half a dozen men; some weren’t so great at it, and some were notably better.
None of them even come close to Miles.
The way he moves is a revelation—slow, languid. I can’t say he thrusts into me, because he doesn’t; he glides. I find myself trying to go faster, and he stills my hips with firm hands, continues to rock in and out of me.
“I need…” What? I’m not sure. Something. “I need—“
“I know what you need.”
He’s right. I need this, exactly this.
My heart is still racing in my chest, but a strange relaxed feeling creeps into my limbs. I feel myself going limp under him, and I reach out with one hand, seeking a connection, an anchor.
His hand is there to meet mine; he laces our fingers together and rocks, glides. So slow. Like we have all the time in the world. Moment by moment, a delicious tension builds between my legs. My senses narrow, and all I can feel is the place where we’re joined, the solid length of him stroking in and out of me.
This time, the orgasm isn’t a punch. It’s a wave, buoying me up and crashing in on itself until I’m tossed up on shore, gasping for air.
Miles’s fingers tighten on mine; his other hand is firm on my hipbone, keeping my hips tilted up so he can press even deeper. I’m full of him, completely full, pulsing around him—and then I feel him pulsing, too. I close my eyes so I can feel it better, concentrate on the way his rhythm and mine have synced up, the way we’re throbbing together.
It feels like it lasts for hours. Eventually, it slows to a stop. Our breathing evens out, the sweat on our skin cools.
I trail my fingers across his tattoos—shoulders, biceps, forearms. The tail of the dragon facing downward on his left arm curves up, around his neck and out of sight behind him. A tiny red heart, no bigger than the tip of my pinky finger, is inked right over the spot where his own heart beats. There are so many colors, so many shapes. Faces, phrases, symbols I don’t recognize. Each must mean something to him, and I want to know the stories behind them.
But I don’t ask just now, content to lie with him and wait for what happens next.
“Okay.” Miles shifts and pulls away just enough to brush his lips over mine softly. “Okay, that was worth waiting three dates for.”
I shake my head. “We didn’t have three dates, no matter how much you fudge the numbers.”
“Back the way we came in, on the left.”
He pads out of the room, and I just lie there for a moment, head spinning. What was that?
It was the best sex I’ve ever had, that’s what it was. It was everything I’ve always heard sex should be—everything I never actually thought it could be.
I told him not to make me regret it, and he hasn’t—he hasn’t done a thing—but I’m wondering now if regret isn’t the inevitable end result here, anyway. Whatever happened here tonight was more than just casual sex.
I don’t know what it was, but it was more than that.
Well, for me. And that’s the problem, isn’t it? He hasn’t promised anything other than some fun before he goes home. And home is three thousand miles away.
There’s a lump in my throat, and I realize there are tears gathering in the corners of my eyes. I knuckle them away.
“What’s this?” Miles asks quietly, from the doorway.
“I have no idea,” I say. “That was just really overwhelming, I think.”
His lips curve into a wicked smile. “Oh, sweetheart,” he says, and there’s something in his voice that makes my nerve endings start sizzling again. “That was just the beginning.”
7
Miles
I wake with Brigitte in my arms, which is surprising. Once I’m really asleep, I’m more of a sprawler than a cuddler.
But then, I don’t think either of us managed to get into anything like an actual deep sleep. I know I didn’t. Every time I would doze off, I’d wake up and want her again.
In fact, I want her now. But I’m exhausted, and I think I’m tapped out. I’m not in my twenties anymore.
I gather up her hair, lift it so I can run my lips across the back of her neck.
She shivers, sighs. “I’m so sleepy.”
“Sleep a little longer.” I kiss her there one more time before slipping out of bed.
I snag my boxers on the way out of the bedroom, make a pit stop in the bathroom to wash up, then put them on in the kitchen while I’m staring into the fridge. A big tub of yogurt, a couple of small cardboard takeout boxes, and a vast array of condiments. Not exactly the breakfast of champions.
I run through my options, which are: Stay here and be hungry until she wakes up, or go out to get food and not be able to get back in. Neither of them really appeals.
A quick examination of her apartment door establishes that I can leave it unlocked and get back in. So far, I’ve had good luck with the building door; but I’ve always been here in the evening when maybe people are more likely to be going in and out. No guarantee there will be someone to let me in at this time of day.
Fuck it, I’m hungry.
I sneak back into the bedroom. Brigitte’s sound asleep, wrapped around the pillow I slept on, with one leg stretched out on top of the covers. I resist the urge to climb back in with her, instead grabbing my clothes and sneaking back out. Leaving the apartment door unlatched, I take the elevator down and use someone’s Amazon delivery box to prop open the outer door. I won’t be gone long.
The grocery store on the opposite corner has a bunch of hot options, and I consider them for a few minutes. Based on dinner last night, she’s not an egg white and spinach on gluten free whatever kind of girl—thank God—so I go with traditional. In a matter of minutes, I’m back upstairs with a bag full of warm food and a drink tray with two coffees, which I drop on the little table just outside the kitchen.
In the bedroom again, I sit on the edge of the bed and let my hand run along the length of that exposed leg. “Hey. You hungry?”
She murmurs something, wraps a little tighter around the pillow.
I stroke her leg again and discover that I’m not as tapped out as I thought I was. But the food is getting cold—and honestly, give the woman a break, for fuck’s sake. It was a long night.
“Wake up,” I say, and brush a kiss on her exposed shoulder. “I got breakfast.”
She stretches a little, then opens those glorious eyes. They’re a little bleary, but reasonably alert. “You got what?”
“I got breakfast. Come eat before it’s cold.”
“Can you get me my robe?” she asks. “It’s hanging behind the door.”
I’d rather watch her cross the bedroom naked to get it herself, but I oblige. She wraps herself up—there’s little opportunity for me to ogle anything good, but maybe that’s for the best—and heads for the kitchen.
“What is it?” she asks warily, eyeing the paper bag.
“Egg sandwich,” I say. In New York, this is shorthand for a very specific sandwich: bacon, egg, and cheese on a soft roll, wrapped first in wax paper then in foil, and meant to be consumed immediately.
She makes that noise again, the yum sound that I’m coming to enjoy very much. “Salt and fat, my greatest weaknesses. I’m gonna gain a hundred pounds. They’ll have to get a wide-angle lens for the four o’clock broadcast.”
“Hush. Your body is fucking perfect.”
She looks at me like I’m nuts. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“How am I being ridiculous? Look at yourself.” I turn her to face the full-length mirror on the wall outside her room and stand behind her, skimming my hands over her body as I give her the actual facts of what I see. “You know whose body this is? Marilyn fucking Monroe, that’s who.” I circle her waist with my hands; my thumbs touch at the small of her back and my fingers meet in the front. “Tits and ass that most women would kill for, and I can get my hands around your waist. Give me a break.”
“Well, you’ve got big hands.” She pushes them away and turns to face me. “You give me a break. Marilyn Monroe, I’m so sure.”
“Don’t argue with me.” He lifts his right arm and turns so I can see his side. There’s Marilyn herself, in glorious color, in the white dress from The Seven Year Itch, forever emblazoned just under his ribcage with her skirt caught in the subway updraft. “I’m an expert,” he says. “Eat your damn sandwich.”
“I’m going to eat it, you fool. I’m not anorexic—obviously. But I can’t afford to never think about this stuff.”
“Stop that. You’re gorgeous.”
“You stop that. I’m pretty enough—I’m on TV, so I’m not going to be all coy and modest about that. But I wear clothes on TV, and I look considerably better in clothes than out of them.”
“I beg to differ, and I should know. With clothes or without, you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in person, so you need to shut up now.” I give her a little shove toward the table. “Save the worrying about your body for wine night with the girls. That’s not gonna fly with me.”
She makes a disgruntled sound, but she also sits and pulls our sandwiches out of the bag.
I sit with her and unwrap mine. “Do you work on Saturdays?”
“Every other,” she says. “Not today.” She takes a bite of her sandwich and closes her eyes. “Hot damn, that’s good.”
I take a bite; she’s right. Ridiculous as it might sound, this is a uniquely New York sandwich; any idiot can slap breakfast food on a roll, but it’s somehow different here. Better.
I realize that I’ve sort of missed it.
We eat in silence for a little while, and when I’ve polished off the last of mine, I realize I desperately want a change of clothes. But I don’t want to say goodbye just yet.
“So,” I say, “what should we do today?”
“What?”
“I know that you know the meaning of every word in that sentence.”
“I mean… I didn’t realize we were doing anything.”
“Do you have something you’d rather do? Someone you’d rather do it with?” That last part comes out a little more clipped than I’d intended, and I realize that if she says yes, it’s going to be a real problem.
“No to both,” she says, “but I don’t want you to feel obligated.”
“Do I seem the type?”
Sh
e laughs. I didn’t know I was craving that laugh, but apparently I was, because it lifts something in me. “I guess not,” she says. “But just so you know, if you decide to go your own way, I’m not going to cling.”
“The only place I’m going is back to my hotel to get some fresh clothes.” I stand. “Come with me.”
“Okay,” she says. “Then what?”
“Whatever you want. Anywhere, anything.”
“Anything?”
“Well, yeah… I mean, it’s not like money is any object.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. I never say things like that. It’s the sort of thing my brother could say very smoothly; when I say it, I sound like an asshole bragging about his trust fund.
It doesn’t seem to bother her, but neither does it seem to impress her, which is not generally the reaction I expect to Money is no object. She just swallows her last bite and gives me a little side-eye. “Like you need money to do something cool in this city?” she says. “I’m sure we can come up with something that won’t break into the Garrett fortune.”
I don’t have anything to say to that, so I don’t. She gets up and heads to the bathroom, and I just sit there like an idiot, thinking that this woman is not like any other woman I’ve known—and that I like her more than any of them, as well. A good deal more, actually.
And I’m not entirely sure what to think about that.
8
Brigitte
I’ve never been inside the Baccarat. I’ve walked by and vaguely noticed the elegant entrance, but as our Uber pulls up, I really look at it, and I’m blown away. A two-hundred-foot wall of dangling crystals, lit from behind and uninterrupted save for three imposing doorways, shines a warm golden glow out onto 53rd Street. A uniformed doorman hurries to open the car door for me, holding out one white-gloved hand to guide me safely out onto the sidewalk, where I stand in my jeans and Hamilton t-shirt, feeling distinctly outclassed.
