I should leave, I thought.
And then she laughed. Not even a laugh, really – more like a strangled giggle, ricocheting through the room at the strangest possible moment.
‘Ticklish?’ I asked, because I couldn’t imagine another reason for her to laugh at such a point. She bit down on her lip, much too hard. I wanted to object that she was injuring a part of herself I was prepared to spend the next hour adoring. I’d dreamed about her lips, her mouth, her tongue – I didn’t want her putting any of them out of play. She shook her head, no, and I stared at her lush mouth and asked, ‘You sure? Because it’s either that … or you find my seduction techniques … humorous.’
She laughed again, belatedly covering her mouth.
I wasn’t about to let her get away with hiding those lips from me. Aloud, I mulled over the idea of tickling her, just to dismiss her hysteria, and her eyes widened.
‘Please don’t,’ she begged, as if I would. Any fingers I stroked over her body would be an entirely different sort of touch, and I’d be damned if she’d laugh again, as adorable and weird as it was.
Drawing her hand away from her lips, I placed it over my heart and captured her mouth with mine – giving her no time to become anxious, giving myself no time to deliberate. She moaned softly, driving me out of my mind.
I pulled her sweater back down, but I didn’t need to see her to feel her, and my imagination filled in every visual void. Caressing the soft skin of her abdomen, moving north, lazily – two inches up and one back, my hand finally cupped one breast, full and perfect. She gasped when my thumb grazed over her nipple and I felt it harden instantly through the thin fabric of her bra. I pinched it gently, revelling in her responsiveness, before paying equal attention to her other breast.
I could draw her from touch alone, without ever seeing her naked body. She’d have areolas the size of quarters, I’d guess – rosy pink ni**les straining towards my mouth if I arched her further over my arm and licked each of them, once, blowing gently across the surface of her skin.
God. Damn.
As if she read my mind, she moaned again, opening wider, and my tongue delved deep, probing every inch of her hot little mouth, stroking her tongue rhythmically. Growling my pleasure when she sucked on mine, I tightened my arm round her, exerting every ounce of willpower I had to keep from pulling her astride my lap, tugging her sweater over her head, sliding her bra off, and sucking her into my mouth while she moulded her heated core against my rock-hard, all-too-willing erection. What exquisite torture that would be.
She hummed in my arms, giving herself over to kissing me, having no thought, I’m sure, that I was imagining so much more than these heated kisses, as powerful as they were. I stroked her throat with my fingers, like putting my hand to a train track and feeling the rumble of a train I couldn’t see yet, coming fast. Abandoning her lips momentarily, I sucked soft little kisses along the front of her neck – not forceful enough to leave marks, but hard enough to leave her dizzy. Hard enough to give her a sample of what I could make her feel.
Sliding my hand round to the base of her spine and pulling her closer, I teased my fingers into the back of her jeans while I returned my mouth to hers, kissing her slow and gentle to slow and deep, slow and deep to fast and tender, fast and tender to hard and deep – reeling her in, bit by bit.
Her hand massaged and pressed. My skin burned and my muscles leaped under her palm as if prepared to do her bidding, whatever it was. I was only in charge because she allowed me to be. My command was illusory. If she said stop, I would stop. If she leaned to my ear and said Take me, now, I would, knowing it was too soon and would be a mistake. I would do whatever she asked, however she asked it. I would be her bad boy, if that’s what she wanted. If that’s what she needed.
I wanted to make it good for her. So good. But not this time. Not yet. Stretched out on her narrow mattress, without removing a single item of her clothing, I’d driven us both to the brink of crazy. One tap and we’d go over the edge. Her languid posture and heavily lidded eyes told me she was kiss-drunk and pliant. She would follow my lead.
‘I should go,’ I whispered.
Her forehead creased. ‘You want to go?’
No, beautiful girl. I want to pin you to this mattress and please you in every goddamned way possible for the rest of the night.
‘I said I should go.’ I pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth. Her lips were swollen and wet, and if I didn’t stop looking at them I wasn’t going to make it out of here. Moving to nuzzle her ear, I said, ‘Should is different than want.’
She sighed in response. ‘Can I see the sketches, then?’
‘Mmm, sure.’ My body protested the separation as I lifted from her to sit up, taking her hand and pulling her up as well. If she’d remained lying there, her hair all round her face, her clothes askew, my shredded self-control would be thrown out the window. Forcefully.
I grabbed the sketchpad and sat next to her on the edge of the bed.
I showed her the two sketches – each undeveloped, in need of fine-tuning. Despite that, she seemed impressed. I told her I would probably redo them in charcoal and tack them to my bedroom wall. Her response was comical astonishment, especially when I added, ‘Who wouldn’t want to wake up to this?’ I bit the inside of my cheek to maintain my blank expression.
Too late, I realized I’d not washed my hands after sketching her, before touching her. If I removed that sweater, she’d undoubtedly be covered with swipes of grey, as if I’d marked her as mine. My body tightened in response to that thought. I leaned against her door and pulled her up and against me as I kissed her one last time. When she came on to her toes and pushed into me, I knew she was five seconds from being flat on her back in the middle of that bed.