He could feel her wavering, feel her trembling beneath his touch. ‘Please let me be your escape.’
It was what he wanted—so much it scared him—and he dropped his head, pulling at her lower lip with his teeth, taking it back to the sexual, back to the comfortable.
‘Let me drive you wild...let me make you wet.’
She gasped, her back hitting the shielded recess of a fire escape. ‘Marcus, we’re outside. There are people.’
‘No one can see us here,’ he whispered against her parted lips, getting off on knowing the busy bustle of the street was within earshot and feeling her imminent surrender. ‘And I can’t wait any longer. I need to know—are you wet for me?’
She shook her head, clamping her eyes shut.
‘Liar.’
‘Please,’ she whispered, her eyes lifting to his, and he paused.
She wanted him—he could see it burning in her gaze, in the hand that grasped his chest, pulling him closer. Damn it, she probably didn’t even know she was doing it.
‘Tell me, you don’t want me right now and I will stop.’
His cock pressed painfully against his fly, against her, but he would back away—it would kill him, but he’d do it.
‘I... I—’
She broke off, shaking her head as though she couldn’t believe her own mind, her tongue brushing nervously across her lower lip. ‘I can’t.’
‘Can’t?’ he pressed, hope surging.
‘I want you.’
It was hushed, it was uncertain, but it was there. A groan ripped through his restraint, and his lips crushed hers with every possessive ounce of his being.
Coffee and lip gloss invaded his tastebuds, its effect like a drug. Her mouth relented to the force of his, her blissful whimper singing through him as heat coursed through his blood.
He heard the sound of her cup hitting the ground, felt heat against his leg as the liquid seeped into his trousers but he didn’t care.
‘Marcus...’ she moaned, raking a hand through his hair as her other hand clawed at him through his jacket.
‘This kind of fun is worth fighting for,’ he rasped.
Their mouths collided, their kiss spiralling out of control, their tongues exploring one another with invasive delight; twisting, probing, desperate for more. His cock was practically bursting on that alone, and then she buried her head in his neck.
‘I’m losing it.’
‘Not yet, you’re not.’
His hands dropped to her waist and he yanked the tie of her trench coat undone. He reached for her thighs, coaxing her skirt up, desperate to seek her out.
He slipped a hand between her legs, felt the wet fabric of her knickers greeting him. ‘Fuck, Jennifer.’
She clung to his shoulders, her body arching to grant him access, and he slid inside. She was so warm, so inviting, and he buried his fingers in her, pulling back to slide them over her clit. She bucked against him, her teeth biting into his skin as she suppressed a cry, their public location clearly not lost on her.
He circled over her, gently at first, loving the way she undulated against his touch, and then faster, harder, in time with her breathing. Her tension mounted—he could feel it in every rigid line of her body as he pressed against her. And as she rocked against him forcefully, her climax claiming her, he covered her mouth with his own, drowning out her cry, swallowing it as her entire body shattered against him.
It was swift, it was brief, it was soul-crushing. And the shift in the atmosphere from mind-obliterating lust to heavy regret was sudden and disorientating.
Quietly she buried her head in his shoulder, normalising her breathing, and he extracted his hand, careful not to leave a trace on the fabric of her suit.
He planted his hands either side of her as she straightened, her eyes downcast, her fingers trembling as she smoothed her clothing back into place and re-tied her coat.