I reach up to him, fumbling for his hand. When I find it, I curl my fingers around his. It’s a sweet connection that is way more dangerous than primal Hugo or playacting Hugo.
I go up on my knees and straddle his lap. I don’t have a plan anymore. I just want to kiss him. I don’t have the strength to be lurid and tawdry for the both of us.
He splays his fingers over the sides of my hips. I’m kissing him, moving slowly against him.
He urges me on. I shouldn’t have come here. And I don’t want it to stop. I’m pulling up his shirt trying to get him to take it off. He does a quick assist; fabric brushes my bare skin and then I hear the soft plop of clothing landing somewhere.
I’m in his bed that smells like him. He’s under me, shirtless, whispering things that I’m trying not to make sense of but that contain the wordbeautiful, and I’m losing sight of why I was ever resisting his love. I’m trying to remember, but I can’t.
“Fuck it.” I pull off the blindfold.
There he is, serious, surly Hugo, brows drawn in over gray eyes, like he’s perplexed by the intensity of his cherishing me.
My heart thunders. We’re watching each other, naked on every level. It’s intimate in a nearly unbearable way that I would normally avoid, but this is Hugo. Everything is different with Hugo. I’m hungry for every last molecule of Hugo.
“Come here.” I reach down and make contact with his condom-clad cock and urge him onto me.
His gaze burns into my soul.
He rumbles his utter pleasure.
“Right now,” I whisper.
He doesn’t need more urging than that. He pushes into me, and I gasp. The pleasure is intense. Exquisite.
“Too much?” he asks.
“Too perfect.” I tilt my hips, moving over him, and we’re in a zone of perfect sex ESP, working in the free flow that we do so well together, like a song we both know, and we’ve made it ours. He reaches up and traces my lips and I suck in his finger, keeping it in my mouth while I fuck him.
It’s curiously hot. I make a sound to show I think it’s hot.
“Keep it, then,” he rumbles.
Yes, my guardrails for myself are twisted and wrecked, and I don’t seem to care. I take his wrist and remove his finger from my mouth and urge him down to my clit.
“Right here,” I say, positioning three fingers just so on my clit. “Make a triangle.”
He makes a triangle for me to rub onto. He likes when I find ways for him to help me get off. I like that he likes it. We’re looking into each other’s eyes. I’m so connected to him. I’m glorying my brains out—emotionally, physically.
My orgasm shatters over me. I’m clutching him, hanging on, nose to his sweaty chest as I come. It’s outrageous how hard I come, and I don’t care.
Sometime after—ten seconds? ten minutes?—he comes with his orgasm bear growl. I want to kiss his very serious, pleasure-addled face, but I don’t want to break his mojo, so I just watch him and adore him.
We collapse next to each other, puppy-pile-style, panting happily. It’s so good, and I’m so into him. It’s a little while until the fear creeps up—but creep up it does.
I head to his bathroom and clean up, trying to feel okay. I pause in the doorway on the way back and just look at him there in the bed.
“Is it shower time yet?” I ask.
He gets up and comes over and kisses me. “I do believe it is.”
We shower together in a nonchaste way, because I can’t resist him. We dry each other off and he goes into his closet to find me a shirt to wear. It’s right there, while I’m waiting, that I spot the familiar black bottle of Obsidian Valor for men by Jack Hermann.
Noooo!
I tell myself it’s not significant that he likes the same cologne as Jonathan. It’s on a shelf with two other colognes, none of which he seems to wear.
He hands me a shirt and I put it on. “I have a new favorite three-dimensional shape,” he announces, buttoning it up for me. “The fingertip triangle.”