Page 17 of Pining for You

On the fourth pass, he pulled from my mouth entirely and lifted me until my legs wound round his hips once again.

“Doing this backwards,” he muttered.

Then he lowered himself to his knees and gave me similar attention. His beard tickled my inner thighs while his tongue unerringly found all the right places until my knees shook and I begged him to stop.

He didn’t stop. When he finally sat back, I slumped onto the floor in front of him. Once he’d donned the condom, he gathered me in his arms, and lifted me onto his lap.

“No, I want to be underneath you.” I needed his weight on top of me, needed him to take charge. “Right here. Right now.”

Luckily my grandmother had loaned me a carpet when I’d moved in so it cushioned me when he followed me as I lay down, my legs spread apart in invitation.

“Fuck me,” I whispered, unable to take my gaze off his face and the look of sheer wonder, and heat, in his expression.

He positioned himself over me, found my entrance and thrust inside. “Fuck. Me,” he said, though it wasn’t a repetition of what I’d just said. There was a reverence in his tone, in the way he treated me, careful to keep his weight off me.

His hips slowly pulled back until I was afraid he’d withdraw completely, then thrust in once more, filling me even deeper. He dropped his head to my shoulder, his breath warm on my neck. He stopped, made an adjustment to my position so he could finger my clit.

Oh shit. The man knew what he was doing. I set aside the brief thought that flitted through my head, wondering how he had learned, who had taught, then decided I didn’t care. I gave myself to his expert technique until I was shaking, and tight around him, coming hard.

My orgasm triggered his, his shaft so large I could feel the pulses deep inside me, setting off another orgasm, or maybe it was the same one not wanting to end.

We stayed twined together, panting until the last of the tremors died down. His dick was still hard enough for another round when he finally pulled free and rolled beside me.

He rested his forehead against mine, eyes closed. “Thank you. That was incredible.”

“Right back at you.” Tony hadn’t been bad in bed, and I’d had several really good partners since, but Brad? Something inside me wasn’t willing to let him go yet. I wanted more, body and soul.

“Stay the night?” I said softly.

His eyes opened and he straightened. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I’m sure.” Holy Mother Mary I was sure, I wanted this man on top of me, underneath me, inside me any which way I could get him. Again and again and again. Until we were both tired and sweaty and couldn’t move. Then I wanted to lie in his arms and listen to him fall asleep, maybe even fall asleep too. Except for one small but important issue.

I showed Brad the bathroom so he could clean up after our quickie. While he did that, I raced into my bedroom to check the best-by date on the box of condoms I’d bought almost two years ago. Relieved that they were good for more than another year, I returned to the living room as he came out of the bathroom, zipping his jeans.

I raised an eyebrow. “What are you doing zipping them up again? Take ’em off, big guy. Your shirt too.”

A smile slowly creased his face, caught in the streetlights streaming in through the living room window. “Right back at you,” he said, parroting the words I’d used moments before.

He undid his zipper, put his thumbs beneath his waist band and pushed down both his jeans and underwear in one smooth move. His shirt was over his head and tossed on the chair in the corner before I got the buttons on my shirt undone.

Holy crap, the man had a chest to rival a superhero.

Good thing I’d worn my best bra and good thing I’d given myself a quick trim of my nether regions. I hadn’t planned to have sex tonight, but a girl can never be too careful.

A man who wants to take me on a date to an afternoon tea was definitely worth the effort.

My shirt joined his, and my bra moments later. My pants and underwear were already on the floor over by the front door, so I didn’t have to worry about them.

BRAD

I hadn’t expected to be invited in, much less invited to her bedroom. But I was not about to turn her down, especially after the sex we’d just had. When she caught my hand and let me into her bedroom, I willingly followed.

I’d expected to find her bed covered in bright coloured sheets, and bold prints hung on the wall to rival her strong personality. Instead, her bedroom, like the rest of her apartment, could only be described as spartan. A full bed, with no headboard, not the queen or king that might fit my height—or hers—comfortably, with muted light-gray sheets. Beside the bed was a single bedside table with a replica Victorian oil lamp that had been popular in the 1960s, both of which looked like they’d been purchased from a charity shop. Tucked in the corner was a 1950s dresser, either inherited or bought on the cheap. Not surprising, I guess, on a waitress’s wages.

While she opened the nightstand and withdrew a box of condoms—obviously I wasn’t the first man she’d invited up here, but I chose not to think on that for tonight—I continued my perusal of her bedroom. Unlike my sisters’ rooms, there were no knickknacks or photos on the dresser, no pictures on the plain beige walls. Nothing of her personality.

My perusal of her belongings was stopped when she captured my hands once more drew me down upon her bed. Upon her.

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