Again and again, the soft wool, straining to cover him, rolling against my tender flesh.
He pulls me into a deep kiss. Cups my breasts with his palms. Runs his thumbs over my nipples.
Slow circles, again and again.
The perfect friction, again and again.
Winding me tighter and tighter.
Almost too much to take.
I sigh when he releases me.
This is heaven.
This is torture.
The sweetest fucking torture.
His lips find my neck. He kisses a line down my skin. Wraps his lips around my nipple. Sucks softly.
A moan falls from my lips.
"Fuck." My nails dig into his skin. His bare neck. The only part of him I have. But I like it this way.
Like being undressed for him.
He toys with my nipple. That soft suction, again and again.
Then he moves to the other and teases it just as mercilessly.
I rock against him, feeling as much as I can, again and again.
So close to what I want.
But not close enough.
I shift back. Bring my hands to his belt. "Here?"
"Here." He presses his lips to my neck as he pulls something from his pocket. A condom.
We're going to fuck right here, on the balcony.
What he asked.
What I want.
"We could get caught." I undo his belt buckle. Unbutton his slacks.
"We could." He looks up at me, soft and giving. A Simon I don't know. A chance to back out. Say no. Insist on privacy.
I don't. I kiss him hard as I unzip his slacks. Rub him over his boxers.
Fuck, he feels good. Hard and thick.
It's been a long time since I've felt someone. Since I've wanted to feel someone. I'm not sure I've ever wanted to feel someone like this.
With other guys, I was curious.
With Simon, I'm insatiable.
One fucking time and I'm already insatiable.
I run my palm over him one last time, then I shift my hips, so he has room to slide his boxers out of the way.
He rolls the condom over his cock.
Then he brings his hands to my hips. Brings our bodies together.
His tip strains against me.
I dig my nails into his skin, savoring the feel, soaking in every sweet inch.
I lower my body onto his slowly, taking him deeper and deeper.
He looks up at me like I'm heaven-sent.
Then he brings his lips to my chest. He sucks on my nipple as I take him again and again.
He feels good. Too fucking good.
I have to put my hand over my mouth to stifle my groans.
He moans against my chest as he rocks with me.
We stay like that, locked together, moving in time.
Again and again.
Every rock of my hips winds me tighter.
Tighter.
But it's not enough.
I take his wrist. Guide his hand under my dress, so his thumb is against my clit.
And I rock against him.
A little left.
A little up.
There.
The perfect pressure.
My eyes close.
My nails dig into his skin.
My body fills with pleasure.
More and more and more.
Tighter and tighter.
With the next rock of my hips, I come. I groan his name, rocking through my orgasm, one hand tugging at his skin, the other digging into his hair.
I'm too loud.
But he doesn't do anything to muffle me.
We're outside, in the summer air, fucking in front of the entire city.
And every part of me feels so fucking good.
I work through my orgasm, then I bring my hands to his shoulders, use them for leverage.
He keeps his hands on my hips, guiding my body over his.
Again and again.
His groans blur together. A perfect friction against my skin.
Again and again.
Louder and deeper.
Until he's there.
He guides me faster, harder, scraping his teeth against my nipple as he pulses inside me.
It doesn't pull me over the edge.
But it still feels so fucking good.
I work him through his orgasm, then I shift back, off him, into my dress.
He takes care of the condom. Slips into his clothes. Adjusts his belt, tie, watch.
The Simon Pierce I know.
Smooth composure.
Except for the lipstick on his collar.
The satisfaction in his eyes.
The claw marks on his neck.
He catches me staring. "Don't apologize."
"I wasn't going to."
"Good." He motions to our still full drinks shall we? "I want more upstairs."
My nails, marking his chest, thighs, back.
The two of us, fucking again upstairs.
Spending the entire night in his hotel room.
How the fuck am I going to survive that?
Chapter Thirteen
VANESSA
Simon Pierce is sitting at the tiny dining table; sleeves rolled to his elbows.
And he's eating Thai food.
Greasy Thai food.
Not a fancy, modern restaurant.
A hole in the wall.
He scoops noodles from a takeout container. Sips his orange-red Thai iced tea.
Sure, it's not the usual beverage—he ordered an off menu version with coconut milk—but it's still as bright as a neon sign.
Surreal.
Almost impossible to believe.
He catches me staring—not that I'm trying to hide it—and looks me over. Studies my barely touched sparkling water and basil eggplant and chicken. Raises a brow.
I'm sitting and staring.
He's eating and drinking, like a normal person.
Only that's abnormal. Because he's Simon Pierce.