by Liora Blake
“I made the cookies. My mom is actually a terrible baker.”
A little grin crosses his face. “You mean this whole time I’ve been eating your cookies, Dev?”
Nodding, I roll my eyes. I knew that was coming. Looking somewhere, anywhere, else, my eyes land on the far edge of the island, where a fishbowl sits, with one goldfish swimming around in it. Wandering around the island, I stop in front of it and bend down to peer in. Inside, the goldfish flits around, darting in and about a little plastic shipwreck that sits nose-down in the rust-colored gravel lining the bottom.
“That’s Scully.”
“Scully?”
“As in Scully and Mulder. X-Files?”
Jesus H. Christ, the guy is a complete geek. A geek wrapped in the body of a male porn star. The good kind. I can’t decide if that makes it all better or worse.
The movement of the little fish seems to calm my brain. Straightening up, I squint down into the bowl from the top, where the fish works its tail through the water and I can feel Simon’s eyes on me, the weight of his stare. From the top of my sightline, I see him start to move around toward me, leaving his hand gently on the countertop, dragging it along behind him as he does. Landing behind me, he nestles the length of his body against my back and pushes gently so my hips meet the edge of the counter.
I know why he was shirtless now; he smells clean, just the scent of soap and shampoo on him, so fresh out of the shower his skin still has the sensation of dampness about it. His arms stretch out to the counter on either side of my body, and he nudges into my hair with his nose, coming to rest with his lips against my ear.
“Do you want your present?”
I have to swallow consciously before answering. If I don’t, nothing will come out of my dry airway.
“Yes, please.”
“Hmm. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say ‘please,’ Devon.”
A shiver runs through me. Even though I don’t want to admit it, I’m thinking it won’t be the last time he hears that word tonight. But I’ll be damned if he gets to have all the power.
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Hey, I’m a polite guy. Definitely not opposed to saying thank you when it’s called for. If I like something enough, if it’s so damn good I can’t stop thinking about it, I may even write a little thank-you note.”
There it is. Our banter, the taunting way we talk to each other. God, I really needed that. I needed to feel like it was still us standing here. Always willing to give each other a little crap, even when tension riddles my skin and I can’t breathe steadily.
“Come on, cover your eyes. Your present is in the bedroom.”
I lift my hands up and over my eyes. “Of course it is. How convenient.”
Wrapping his arms around my waist, he has to stoop a little to account for our height difference, but he kicks our legs forward together, stepping us through the kitchen and then turning our entwined bodies down a long hallway. Around another corner, he stops and tells me to keep my eyes covered. I hear the noise of a lamp switch under his fingers.
I feel his hands at my hipbones, cradling tenderly. I step back the tiniest bit, just to be sure I’m fully in his grip, because there is a strong possibility I’m going to need something sturdy to lean against.
“OK. You can open your eyes now.”
Instead of dropping my hands immediately, I slide them down slowly, letting my eyelids open gradually, the light of the room drifting into focus. Once my hands are lowered enough to rest against my cheeks, I steady my gaze ahead.
Resting on top of a low dresser, leaning back against the wall, is a large framed picture. A picture of my naked back, printed in sepia tone, with every inch of my tattoo visible. After Stacia finished the Orion piece last time, she asked to take an updated picture for her portfolio. I didn’t think anything of it, but now I know why she was hounding me with such a skeptical interrogation about Simon. He asked her to do it. He asked so that he could give me . . . this.
Encased in a heavy, thick-burl wood frame, the rich earthen brown tones of the photo soften it, yet the details of every little embellishment Stacia created still remain distinct. I can see each small blossom, every tiny bird, and all the minute facets of the knotted trunk. The curve of my hip melts into the dark, almost-black background, and the sides of my breasts tease into the frame with just the hint of rounded flesh easing out from my side. I’ve never seen myself so exposed, and in such a sensual way, before this moment. In the dim room, with Simon’s hands on me, the image of me so erotically on display before us, I’ve never felt so powerfully wanted in my life.
My lips part to say something, to put words to what is rattling around in my brain. If I don’t break the spell, I think I might start to cry.
Best. Present. Ever.
Simon moves to put his chin against my shoulder and I can feel him breathing, his chest rising and falling against my back.
“You said you regret having it on your back because you can’t see it much. I thought you might be able to enjoy it this way.”
Upon those first words, his voice is husky, crackling in expectation. With a moment’s pause, he lifts one hand from my hip and then moves his arm over my shoulder to point at the photo.
“This is my favorite part.” He gestures to the lowest section, where my hips arc into my backside. “I love the base, where the trunk is this mass of tangled roots and the edges wrap around your curves.”
With his forearm resting against my shoulder, lazily gesturing at the photo, I reach out with both of my hands and grasp his hand in mine. Pulling it to my mouth, I start to kiss the back of his hand, and, with just a few movements of my lips, he wraps his other arm around my waist and tugs me even closer. He bites the delicate skin of my neck, and his tongue follows to soothe every little spot he nips. The sheer heat of his mouth against my neck forces me to stop kissing his hand and loll my head over so he can continue his work there.
With a quiet moan, I stutter out what I can. “I love it. Congrats. You found my ultimate weakness.”
Pulling away, he mumbles into my hair while moving his hands around my body, roaming until his fingers tease the sides of my breasts. “What’s that? Giving you a gift?”
I slur out an affirmation and he lets out a small laugh. “Fuck. If I’d known that was all it took, I would have gotten you a fruit basket or something the first day I met you. Maybe an Applebee’s gift card. Whatever.”
A laugh tumbles out of my chest, deep yet light, and his lips twist into a smile against my skin. It lasts only moments before he grabs me roughly and spins me to face him. Guiding us over a few inches, he shoves me against the wall and nestles his body as close as possible, drawing his hand down the side of my face.
“I hope you brought that doctor’s note I mentioned, sunshine.”
Shaking my head, I shrug my shoulders. “Sorry, slipped my mind. I guess I should go.” I make a small move to duck out from under his grasp, but he laughs ruefully and thrusts his hips into me.
“Let’s not get hasty. How about I do my own examination? I’ll decide if you’re ready for me or not.”
My head drops back against the wall with a thud. Holy freaking hell, every damn word out of his mouth tonight is enough to drive me over the edge, and he hasn’t even kissed me yet.
Shoving one of his thighs between my legs, he moves my legs wider to rub against my core, and the targeted pressure is enough to draw a vaguely humiliating moan from my throat. His hands move around my sides, high enough to wrap his fingers around my ribs, before starting to grip with ever-increasing pressure.
“If I touch you here, around your waist, against your ribs . . . does that hurt?”
I shake my head no, my lips pursed to keep at bay whatever new embarrassing noise that wants to escape. Pulling one hand up, he moves it around the back of my head, where the giant knot once was, then massages and digs his fingernails gently into my scalp.
“What about this? If you go down on me
tonight, I might need to wrap my fingers in your hair, nice and tight. Does that sting?”
Oh hell. I let one little word escape. “No.”
“Good.” Using his other hand, he cups one breast and begins to fondle lightly, then slips my tight nipple into his fingers, toying until I let out a quiet whimper. “It seems your reflexes are in order.”
Then finally, finally, he drops his head and lets his lips shift across mine. My hands immediately grasp against his neck, because I’m tired of waiting. I want him to kiss me, hard and tender, using his tongue and lips until I can’t breathe. He yields instantly, impatiently moving his mouth over mine, roughly, every move full of torment and want.
Around our mingled moans, he lets out a few curses and grinds himself into me so hard that it shoves my tank top up a few inches. The bare skin of my belly leaves room for what I know is the tip of his cock to rub against my skin. I shove my hands down and feverishly try to work his zipper open with just one hand, using the other to dive in and grasp him.
“Ah, fuck, Dev.” He grumbles through another frenzied kiss, then jerks his hips back to give me room.
Once his zipper is down, my hands become demanding, diving down until the length of him is in my grip. So hard, he fills my hands completely, and when I slow to let my thumb tease over the head, he lets out a small grunt. “Holy hell, your hands are so goddam soft.”
His entire body tenses, arms bracing against the wall around my head. He lets his head fall forward, and I can hear him breathing deeper and slower. With stuttered movements, his hips start to thrust a little into my hands and as my thumb sweeps over the tip again, the smallest bit of want seeps from it. Just a drop, but it drives me wild, forcing my fingers into a firmer grip and swifter strokes to encourage him. There isn’t a thing I want more than to have him unleash everything, abandon every bit of control he thinks he has and give in to my hands on him.
“Oh, shit, you have to stop.” Even as he says it, his thrusts into my hands grow more pronounced. If he wants to stop, his body doesn’t seem to agree. Mine, either, because my hands refuse to cooperate with his plea, enjoying the smooth feel of him on my palms too much.
“Why? Don’t you like me touching you?”
He grumbles out a soft chuckle. “I love it, but if you don’t stop, I’ll come all over your hands in the next ten seconds. Not exactly what I had in mind for tonight.”
He manages to pull back from my grasp, and then shoves back against me, leaving no room for my hands to weasel in between us. Even with his body against mine like this, I feel suddenly deprived, forced to wait because his body has immobilized mine. In that move, his cock becomes forbidden fruit that I’m craving so intensely I can’t think about anything but getting it back.
“Please, Simon.” My voice comes out whiny, almost as if I might stomp my foot if he doesn’t give me back what I want.
Another quiet laugh comes from his mouth, where he’s pressed his lips to my temple.
“Already begging me? Already saying, ‘Please, Simon’? We just got started, you’re gonna have to pace yourself.”
The snarky response I had ready dies on my lips when he shoves his hands up to my breasts and starts in aggressively, pressing and grabbing roughly. I want to shout that we’ve done enough of the foreplay—I’m ready, he’s ready, and there is a bed sitting three feet away from us right now. Let’s do this, rip our clothes off, and go for it. Because I need him so badly my head is starting to throb.
“I want you to do something for me, Devon.”
Flailing my head to the side so he can claim the skin of neck again, I have to stop myself from shouting the word “anything” at the top of my lungs.
“What? If I do it, will you stop teasing me?”
“I want you to strip for me.”
My body freezes in place and my eyes snap open. “Like a lap dance? Not really my thing.”
Stepping away, he takes my hands and walks to the edge of the bed to sit down. “No, that isn’t what I meant. But let’s keep the lap dance on the list for another time.”
Standing in front of him, my body starts to go rigid in awkward discomfort. I’m not really the kind of girl who is good at involved seduction, making doe eyes and shit. I take more of a get-to-the-point, we-don’t-even-need-to-take-all-our-clothes-off-necessarily approach.
A little devilish smile plays around his mouth and I think he can see every hesitance in my eyes. Dropping his gaze for a moment, he tugs on my hand to move me closer into the space between his legs.
“Ever since the morning you unbuttoned your shirt for me, I’ve obsessed about you finishing the job. I want to sit right here and watch you strip every stitch of clothing off your beautiful body. Just for me. It’s pretty high on my Devon wish list.”
I cock my head to the side and narrow my eyes a little.
“Your Devon wish list? What the hell is that?”
Shaking his head, he looks down at the floor while running his hands up the backs of my legs. “That’s cute.”
“What?”
“You. Standing there all confused, like you’re surprised to find out that I’ve spent endless hours considering all the ways I want you.”
Despite the way those words make me feel, knowing he’s thought enough about what he wants to do to me to have a full-blown list, my legs quake in response, but I still manage to find my innate sarcasm.
“God, you are such a perv. I think you should provide a copy of this list so I can review it in full.”
Turning around to save myself from his decided focus, my eyes fall to the framed picture still propped up on the dresser. My mind wanders for a moment, wondering if he got off looking at it. That idea and the photo of my body so seductively on display give me the jolt of bravado I need.
When I turn back again, he is lying on the bed, propped onto his hinged forearms. Running his tongue over his bottom lip, he juts his chin out at me a little, goading me to get started before a glint of heated mischief covers his dark eyes.
Anticipation at revealing myself to him suddenly surges through me. The sensation, both anxious and thrilling, settles in my hands until I draw them up my sides and take a second to run my index finger slowly across my chest.
“What first?”
“Shirt. Pull that tight tank top off.”
I shimmy the fabric up a few inches over my belly, then let one hand tug up the center until it sits just under my breasts. Stopping there, I run my hands slowly over my still-covered breasts, cupping and pressing them together gently, letting my thumbs drift over my nipples slightly. His lips drop open a bit, his eyes glaze over, and I swear I might be able to see his pulse moving in his throat. Grasping the bunched-up hem, I slide the shirt off and shake my hair out as I toss it on the floor near his feet. I raise one eyebrow at him.
“Bra. Do it slow.”
If I weren’t so completely turned on, his little orders might piss me off. But, for once in my life, I don’t care that a man is telling me what to do. Not just any man, though. Only this one. Because Simon’s words aren’t about control. Every syllable is only him conveying what he wants, but if I said no to this, he wouldn’t turn angry or hateful. The man would just let it go in favor of some other wicked fantasy on that wish list he’s apparently been compiling.
Reaching to the front clasp of my bra, I slip it open and watch his eyes hood even more. When the lacy cups fall to the sides, I stop short of baring it all, pressing the fabric in place for a moment before sliding it back on both sides. The electrified air of the room puckers my nipples so intensely, there is an agonizing need for someone’s touch, his or mine. I take the opportunity to toy with them, to ease the ache until his hands are on me again.
Simon shifts on the mattress, then shoves his pants down to free his cock and slides one hand down to stroke himself. My hands fall from my nipples immediately because watching him stroke and tug his length, all I want to do is drop to my knees in front of him and drag his hand away in favor of my own
. I pull my shoulder blades together, the bra straps slip from my body, and, with a few adjustments of my arms, it drops to the floor behind me.
I don’t need his guidance anymore. Hooking my thumbs into the waist of my yoga pants, I begin the descent down my legs, as slow as I can possibly manage. Bending at the waist, I lock my eyes on his, never wavering as the snug fabric works over my hips, thighs, knees, before slipping down my calves and pooling at my ankles. One step over and I stand upright again, letting one hand drift down my belly and slipping my fingers into the front of my panties. If he just wants to watch me and stroke himself for now, fine, but I’m not going to just stand here while he does.
Before I can make any sort of worthwhile contact between my fingers and the parts of my body that ache uncomfortably, he leaps to his feet, towering over me and pulling his pants off in a rush, pointing behind him with a growl.
“On the bed. Leave those on; I’ll handle the rest.”
Oh, thank God. As much as I was actually enjoying my striptease for him, I want the main event even more. Darting under his arm, I bound onto the bed. From behind me, I can hear him laughing.
“Slow down, sweetheart. Don’t pull a muscle with all that diving into my sheets.”
“Hurry up, Simon. Enough with the seduction. Just get over here.”
I’ve barely settled on the mattress when his body comes into view over mine. Hovering with his strong arms on either side of my head, he gives up a huge grin.
“You’re fucking perfect, you know that?”
There is a quick second of panic on my part, registering his words and all the sweetness evident in the broad smile he hasn’t let up on one bit. Instead of allowing that flustered feeling to take hold, I grab his neck and pull him forward into a forceful kiss that threatens to smother the breath from both of us. Ripping his mouth from mine, he dives down and takes one nipple in his mouth, tugging and biting it into a painful peak.
Now we’re talking. The rough actions cause my back to arch and push into the heat of his mouth. As a long tortured moan leaves me, he releases my nipple from his mouth and rises up to his knees to grab at my panties. Tugging them down, he tosses them to the floor and then stops to slide the pad of his thumb between my legs. His eyes close with the very first trace. When he makes a second pass, his head falls back to face the ceiling with a guttural groan and he easily slips his thumb deeper, where every bit of the wet want he’s created begs for more pressure.
