I’m back against the couch as her fingers trace down my chest and the kiss deepens, my tongue in her mouth as I taste her, explore her. Rediscover her.
She undoes my belt, unbuttons me. She sits back with her weight on my knees, lips flushed pink, unzips me.
My hips are off the couch the moment her fingers wrap around my cock, still boxer-clad. She grabs the cushion behind my head to steady herself. Squeezes. Nuzzles her face against mine and grazes her teeth along my earlobe and strokes me again, tip to root and back, until I groan.
“Jesus, I want you,” I whisper. I thrust again and she squeezes even harder, the friction of the thin fabric torture and pleasure all at once.
Then she pushes herself upright. Stands. Regains her balance. I replace her hand with mine, stroking, watching as she pulls her skirt up with a teasing smile on her flushed face, hooks her thumbs under her thong, wiggles as she pulls it down.
Delilah leans in again, her long skirt falling over her as if nothing happened, but before she can straddle me again I grab her, push her onto her knees on the couch, and then I’m standing behind her. I sway, regain my balance as she does the same.
Laughing, earrings swaying as she steadies herself. I find her spine beneath her dress and run a hand up it, slow and steady, and she arches into me as I do until my fingers are at the nape of her neck and the underside of my still-boxer-clad cock is pressed against her slit, pink silk separating us.
This time she moans, and it’s not my imagination. She moans softly and pushes back against me, and before I know what I’m doing I’m taking her by the shoulder and pulling her into me, my other hand in the notch where her hip meets her thigh.
Delilah reaches back, grabs her skirt again. Pulls it up and over her hips yet again, like a pink curtain revealing the canvas of her thighs: the red bows on the backs of the garters, a shooting star, roots of a tree. One ass cheek has a tiny, delicate crescent moon on it, a tattoo she told me she got as a joke from a fellow tattoo artist.
And she’s wet. God, she’s wet, so wet that it soaks through my boxers instantly as I press the tip of my cock against her opening before sliding myself down, teasing her clit. She arches, pushes back again, draws a circle with her hips.
I unbutton one tiny, pink button, then another. A third. Delilah stops, looks over her shoulder.
“Just rip them,” she says.
I undo another, another.
“I don’t want to ruin the craftsmanship,” I tell her.
“It’s a bridesmaid dress,” she says, her voice husky, like she’s forgotten how to talk. “I’m never going to wear it again.”
“Still, I hate to ruin it,” I murmur, just to tease her, still unbuttoning.
The truth is that these tiny buttons are the purest form of torture, a test of self-control. If I can get to the end of them without tearing one off I can do anything in the world, and when the last one comes undone I pull her up and push the lace over her colorful shoulders, and then Delilah is standing and shoving the dress off but she’s still wearing some kind of bra that covers most of her torso as she leans back against me, head against my shoulder.
“Are you fucking kidding me with this?” I growl, and she laughs as I take her breasts in both hands, let her soft skin push through my fingers. She wiggles against my cock, and I find the edge of the bra, pull down.
“Better,” I say, and pinch both her nipples at once.
Delilah gasps, arches, her hands fluttering to cover mine, alighting there like hummingbirds. I pinch harder and that gets a moan, another rock back against my aching erection. She leans her head back, stands on her toes.
I capture her mouth with mine, lips and tongues and teeth at this angle as she reaches behind herself, does something, and then all at once the bra is gone and it’s just Delilah in her full glory.
“Really?” she says, turning. “Bras are what gets you?”
I push her onto the couch and she sprawls, one arm over her head, legs askew, gazing up at me from under those eyelashes practically made for fuck-me looks.
“That wasn’t a bra,” I say, planting a knee between her legs. “That was a defense system.”
She drapes one arm over my shoulder as I kneel on the couch.
“Clearly, it was no such thing,” she says.
I reach for her, run one thumb under her lips as she watches me, cocks her head slightly. I skim my hand down her jaw, along the jugular vein beating double time, over her naked, freckled collarbone, to where the blankness ends and the tattoos curl in from each shoulder. Over her chest they disappear into a cloud of flat tan, the makeup she still has over her newest tattoo, but lower down they wander onto her breasts.