Sweet Filthy Boy - Lauren Christina - Страница 66

• Предыдущая
• 66/68
• Следующая

“I’m so proud of you,” he whispers. He rests his forehead against mine before pulling back, meeting my eyes. “You just implied you’re banging me tonight.” His grin gets bigger as his hands snake around my waist.

“Play your cards right.”

“I forgot my cards.” His smile wilts dramatically. “But I did bring my penis.”

“I’ll try not to break it this time.”

“In fact, I think you should try your hardest.”

The bass shakes up through the floor and we’ve been semi-yelling this playful banter, but the mood slides away, cooling between us, and the moment grows a little heavy. We’ve always been best at flirting, best at fucking, but we’ve had to pretend to be someone else for us to open up sincerely.

“Talk to me,” he says, bending to whisper the words into my ear. “Tell me what happened that morning you left.”

“I sort of felt like I had to step up and face what comes next,” I say quietly, but he’s still bent close, and I know he’s heard me. “It was shitty of you not to tell me about Perry, but really it just gave me the shove I needed.”

“I’m sorry, Cerise.”

My chest tightens when he calls me this pet name and I run my hands up and down his chest. “If we’re going to try to do this, I need to know you’ll talk to me about things.”

“I promise. I will.”

“I’m sorry I left the way I did.”

His dimple flashes for the tiniest second. “Show me you’re still wearing my ring and you’re forgiven.”

I hold up my left hand and he stares for a beat before bending to kiss the thin gold band.

We sway a little, not moving much, while all around us people bounce and shake and dance on the floor. I lean my head into his chest and close my eyes, breathing in every part of him. “Anyway, we’re done with all of that. It’s your turn to babble tonight.”

With a little smile, he bends close, kissing first my right cheek, and then my left. And then he touches his lips to mine for several long, perfect seconds. “My favorite color is green,” he says against my mouth, and I giggle. His hands slide down my sides, arms wrap together around my waist as he bends close, kissing his way up my neck. “I broke my arm when I was seven, trying to ride a skateboard. I love spring, hate winter. My childhood best friend’s name was Auguste and his older sister was Catherine. She was my first kiss, when I was eleven and she was twelve, in the pantry at my father’s house.”

My fingers glide over his chest, up his throat, and link at the back of his neck.

“My greatest trauma was my mother leaving for the States, but otherwise—and even though my father is a tyrant—my childhood was quite nice. I was terrible at math in school. I lost my virginity to a girl named Noemi when I was fourteen.” He kisses my cheek. “The last woman I had sex with was my wife, Mia Rose Guillaume.” He kisses the tip of my nose. “My favorite food is bread—I know it sounds horribly boring. And I don’t like dried fruit.”

I laugh, pulling him in for a real kiss—finally—and Oh. My. God. His mouth is warm, already accustomed to mine. His lips are both soft and commanding. I feel his need to touch, to taste and fuck barely restrained, and his hands slide down over my ass, pulling my hips into him. His tongue barely touches mine and we both groan, pulling apart and breathing heavily.

“I’m not sure I ever made a woman come with my mouth before I met you,” he admits. “I love kissing you there. And I love your ass, it’s perfect.” With this, I feel his length stir against my stomach as his hands squeeze me. “I like any kind of sex with you, but I prefer being on top of you . . . You make missionary feel dirty the way you grab and move under me.”

Holy shit. I squirm in his arms. “Ansel.”

“I know the exact sound you make when you come; you could never fake it with me.” He smiles, adding, “Again.”

“Tell me everyday things,” I beg him. “This is killing me.”

“I hate killing spiders, because I think they’re amazing, but I’ll do it for you if you’re afraid of them. I hate being a passenger in a car because I prefer to drive.” He kisses his way to my ear, whispering, “We can live in San Diego, but I want to at least spend summers in France. And maybe we will move my mother here when she is older.”

My chest almost aches with the force of each heartbeat. “Okay.”

He smiles and I touch his dimple with the tip of my finger. “And you really are moving here?”

“I think in February,” he says with a little shrug. As if it’s so easy. As if it’s a done deal.

I’m relieved, and I’m torn. It makes me giddy to have it so easily settled, but it’s only July. February is so far away. “That seems really far away.”

“I’ll visit in September. October. November. December. January . . .”

“How long are you staying?” Why haven’t I asked this yet? I’m suddenly dreading his answer.

“Only until tomorrow.” My stomach drops and I feel suddenly hollow. “I can miss Monday,” he says, “but need to be in to work on Tuesday for the first phase of the hearing.”

There’s not enough time. I’m already pulling him through the crowd, back to the table.

“You guys—”

“I know, Sugarcube,” Harlow says, already nodding. “You have twelve hours. I have no idea what you’re doing in this place. Go.”

So not only did they know he was coming, they knew when he was leaving. They’ve talked through all of it. Holy hell I love my friends.

I kiss Harlow, I kiss Lola, and shove our way to the front exit.

SOMEHOW WE MANAGE to make it back to my apartment with our clothes still on. I pray we don’t wake Julianne as we trip, kissing, up the driveway, and then bang into the side of the garage, where Ansel slides his hands up under my dress and beneath my underwear, begging me to let him feel me. His fingers are warm and demanding, pushing aside the flimsy lace and sliding back and forth over my skin.

“You feel unreal,” he whispers. “I need you bare. I need to see you.”

“Then get me upstairs.”

We trip and crash our way up the wooden stairs to my apartment, slamming against the door as he kisses down my neck, his hungry hands grabbing my ass, pulling me into him.

“Ansel,” I laugh, weakly pushing at his chest so I can dig my keys from my bag.

Once inside, I don’t bother to reach for the lights, unwilling to drag my hands away from his body even long enough to find the switch. I hear my keys drop, followed by my bag and his coat, and then it’s just the two of us in the dark. He has to bend to me, wrapping his arms around my waist to lift me to his mouth.

“I like your place,” Ansel says, smiling into the kiss.

I nod against him, tugging his shirt from the waist of his pants. “Would you like the tour?”

He laughs when I grow frustrated as my fingers fumble with his dress shirt in the dark. Why are there so many damn buttons?

“This tour includes the bed, yes?” he says, and swats my hands away, making quick work of the last few and finally shrugging out of his shirt.

“And the table. And the couch,” I say, distracted by the miles of smooth, perfect skin suddenly in front of me. “Maybe the floor. And the shower.”

It’s only been a few days since I touched him but it feels like a year, and my palms slip down his chest, nails curving along the toned lines of his stomach. The sound he makes when I lean forward and kiss his breastbone is something between a growl and a needful moan.

He slips my leotard from my shoulders, pushing it down my arms until my hands are trapped at my sides. “Let’s start with the bedroom. We can make the circuit later.”

“We do have twelve hours to kill,” I say. He takes my bottom lip between his teeth and I whimper, having missed him so much it’s like the band around my chest has been broken and I can breathe, deep and full.

• Предыдущая
• 66/68
• Следующая