Page 43 of Hello Darling
I touch the window, right about where he had me held up against it this morning, right about where I somehow managed to not grab his perfectly sculpted ass.
“Yeah, my landlord Whit is the realtor who listed this place. I saw the listing online when it first went up.”
“Is that so? What a coincidence.”
“Not really. He’s got all the best listings in town.”
“Oh really? I am very fond of this one. Red wine?”
“Please.” I startle at the small sound of the cork popping out of the bottle. I am so jealous of that wine bottle because I can’t wait much longer for the pressure that’s been building inside me to be released.
“My agent had a few bottles delivered—pinot noir from Sonoma. Hope it’s good. And to your liking.”
God, I love how he says “pinot noir.” I love how he says “good” and “your.” I can’t believe it used to make me laugh, the way he says things, because now it just turns me right on.
“We’ll let it breathe a bit.”
That voice.
That accent.
I. Get. It.
Boy, do I get why his fans like it now.
Soothing, like a cup of chamomile tea, but dirty like someone spiked it with whiskey. He could read the lyrics to Lil Wayne’s “Pussy Monster” on NPR on a Sunday morning, make it sound like he’s doing a Jane Austen reading, and there wouldn’t be a dry pair of panties in America. Maybe every actor from the UK has that superpower, but I bet not that many can back it up with the kind of lip and tongue action that Evan Hunter can.
I had every intention of letting him wine and dine me, but there is no way I will be able to eat dinner right now.
I turn to face him, lean back against the window, and slowly lift my eyes to look at him.
He places two wine glasses on the counter and regards me, tilting his head, knowing exactly what I’m thinking. He rests his hands against the counter, leaning forward, watching my hands as they pull down the hem of my sweater dress and then slowly graze my outer thighs and hips on their way behind my back, to press against the windowpane. I don’t know how I’m able to hold his gaze as he walks towards me, but as soon as he reaches me and places his hands on my hips, I exhale and close my eyes and go slightly limp because his touch makes me feel so weak. My body has absolutely no desire to resist him.
He pulls my hips up towards his as he kisses me gently and excruciatingly slowly. One hand reaches for my face, his thumb tracing my lower lip. My eyelids flutter open to find him staring down at my mouth, contemplating it. To prevent myself from whimpering, I turn my head to kiss the palm of his hand. One hand caresses my hip and ass while the other makes its way from my jaw, down my neck, my collar bone, opening up over my breast and continuing down to the hem of the dress, all the while studying my face, as I tremble from head to toe, even as his fingers slip between my legs to find that my underthings are drenched.
“Fucking hell,” he exhales, and with one swift motion he lifts the sweater dress up over my head and stares down at me in my white lace bra and panties and over-the-knee socks and boots.
I reach for his t-shirt and he lets me lift it up over his head. I drag my fingertips down his pecs and abs, and just as I am about to take hold of that bulge in his jeans, he lifts me up in his arms and carries me over to the sofa that faces the window, depositing me so that I’m seated, he says “spread your legs,” and I do. He lowers himself between them, kneeling on the rug, staring at the strips of lace around my hips and the little triangle of cotton—-a mere suggestion of underwear, really. He rips the lace on either side of my hips and before I can protest, states that he’ll buy me a new pair, pulls my hips forward, hooks his arms under my thighs, grabbing hold of my ass and just buries his face between my legs like he’s moving in.
I grab onto the back of the sofa behind myself and nearly black out because the warmth of his tongue between my folds feels better than pretty much anything I’ve ever felt…Until he flicks at my clit with the tip of his tongue and then sucks on it.
“You taste even sweeter than I imagined you would, Stella.” His hot breath on my vulva is what will surely kill me.
My back keeps arching and I keep pulling away from him, because—the swirling and the thrusting and the sucking—“It’s too much!” I find myself gasping out loud.
He yanks me in closer.
“We can do other stuff now if you want,” I whimper, as I try to wriggle away again. This feels like the first time, all of a sudden, maybe because thisisthe first time someone has put this much effort into pleasuring me.
“I’m not stopping until you come all over my face and scream my name, and then, I assure you, we will do ‘other stuff,’ my dear.”
He licks my inner thigh, all the way back up to the most girl part of me, as he lifts my legs to rest over his shoulders, the heels of my boots digging into his back, and he seems to like it, and I relax into the sofa, grab fistfuls of his hair, and let the orgasm shudder and wave and then rip through me until I do just as he said I would. I scream and whisper his name until I am nothing but a spineless mass of post-orgasmic skin and bones.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, lifts himself up to kiss me, and then lifts up one leg, then the other, as he unzips and removes my boots, then carefully pulls down my socks. Oh shit, he’s going to undress the rest of me slowly now, and we’ve only just begun.
His usually shiny blue eyes are so hooded, so bleary and clouded over with lust. Now this is something you never see on screen. Nostrils flared, every muscle of his body tense. I suddenly have just enough energy to reach for his jeans, unbutton and unzip them, and pull them down along with his boxers to release a monumental, jaunty erection that is just as tall, handsome and surprisingly naughty as he is. I wrap one hand around the shaft of it and lick the tip just once. He groans so beautifully, then drops down on the sofa beside me, lifts me up and around to straddle him, and reaches back to unhook my bra.
“At long last,” he mutters, and massages one breast while taking the nipple in his mouth.
The fingernails of his other hand drags down the skin of my back, lightly enough not to hurt, surprising enough to send a shockwave through the center. I place my hands on his knees and lean back and let him feast.
What a way to go.
Hot damn.
Evan Hunter isn’t just a movie star.
He’s a sex god.
And I am in so much trouble.
